Dark Matter

The storm eases with the collapsing of the portal. Turbulent winds and crackling thunder give way to Gotham’s natural rain and chill air, as if the city is wrenching control of its weather back from some unseen interloper. A few clouds thin out enough to allow the moon to shine through, but only for a moment before the steady rain resumes.

Peter is only aware of it because of the water seeping into his ruined suit, which crackles and rolls with every movement he makes. It reeks of blood--alien and human--the rotting lavender stink of the fear toxin, and the chemical, bleach-like smell of the cure Red Robin sprayed into his face. Through the shock, horror, and the echoes of Ebony Maw’s final words, he can only think: I probably need a shower.

He’s standing towards the edge of the spire, near the black jet, surrounded by the Bats, each working on...something. He’s not sure. Clean up, probably. Something he would normally help with if he wasn’t so utterly drained. Red Hood stands nearby, not quite hovering, shifting restlessly, as if trying to determine what to do. Every inch of him is tense, and he sticks out among the Bats. Peter gets the idea the man doesn’t often stick around near the others when the action is done. He’s either staying out of genuine concern for Peter or because Nightwing asked him to stay close.

Finally, after several awkward moments, Red Hood asks, “How bad are the burns?”

“What?” Peter asks, frowning at him. There’s no real emotion to his voice beyond a base level confusion, the type of tone one would use if a stranger tried to get his attention to tell him his shoes were untied.

“Your arms were practically roasted off of you between the cell they had me and Nightwing in and that machine,” Red Hood says, eyeing Peter warily through the ruins of his helmet.

He steps a bit closer, not crowding Peter, but moving in to get a closer look. Peter glances down at his arms, half holding them out for Red Hood. His hands and arms itch terribly; between the kryptonite, the mild electrocution, and the explosion of the machine, he has quite a few burns and bruises to contend with. He can feel himself start to heal, now that he’s not in direct contact with the kryptonite, and he’s grateful for that. At least the effect of that stuff is limited if he isn’t directly on top of a massive amount of it. He watches his hands and arms start to stitch themselves back together, and shrugs.

“They’ll heal. Kinda hurts, though.”

“You’ll get patched up back at the Cave,” Nightwing says, walking over. He still has Cap’s shield slung over his uninjured arm. It looks good there, though the new dent at the center of it reflects the city lights oddly. Peter idly wonders if Cap would be mad about that. “And you might have to answer a few questions from the rest of us while it happens. Medical care might as well equal ‘debrief’ time in our house.”

Red Hood stiffens at that. “He’s gone through enough.”

“And we’re lucky Batman isn’t demanding a report from Spidey where we stand,” Nightwing retorts, matching Red Hood’s tone perfectly. Red Hood grumbles, muttering something that sounds like a curse. Nightwing turns back to Peter just as a sleek black jet steadies itself from the dark storm clouds above to hover near the edge of the spire. “Come on.”

Peter doesn’t remember entering the sleek black jet. It’s a blur of motion and chatter he can’t find it in himself to pay attention to. Batman gruffly directing Oracle to contact emergency services, Signal holding the door open for him, Black Bat and Nightwing ushering him into a seat in the middle of the surprisingly spacious machine. He simply stares out of the front of the jet, aware that’s changed in some fundamental way, and equally aware that he won’t know the full extent of it for some time to come. Years, possibly.

Red Hood hesitates a few steps outside of the jet.

Nightwing walks past him, murmuring just loud enough for Red Hood to hear. “Come with us. We need all hands on deck for this one, and you know how he gets whenever we have to debrief a new person.”

Red Hood’s shoulders tense, but after a few moments, he stiffly enters the jet and sits down behind Peter. He says nothing, but his presence isn’t entirely unwanted; at least someone else is as uncomfortable about this plane ride as Peter.

Robin climbs in. He gives Peter a long, thoughtful look before taking his seat. The jet is cramped now, and Peter wonders how often it plays host to the whole crew at once. Judging by the cupholder placement (which he has questions about, personally) and the cramped quarters, he doesn’t think it happens very often.

The flight is mostly silent, each Bat more or less withdrawing into themselves or, in Batman’s case, flying. Black Bat watches him closely. Robin glances at him from the corner of his eye. Signal keeps looking around Peter, frowning in confusion, and visibly worried. Red Hood is a hovering aura behind him; the rest of the Bats glance at him from the corner of their eyes or keep him in view, their expressions both curious and wary.

After awhile, Nightwing breaks the silence.

“How did you figure it out?” Nightwing asks Batman quietly. “You sent out that warning before the spire rose.”

“My emotions began to overpower my logic while I was inside Gotham, but I could think clearly once I was outside of it. I noticed it especially after Spider-Man’s ‘death’ when we spoke, and again outside of Peter’s room. I normally wouldn’t allow myself to be so...” Here he pauses, searching for a word. After a moment, he continues, “Unusually emotional.”

An odd expression passes over Nightwing’s face after that. A mix of disappointment, annoyance, and frustration that evens out back to something like fond neutrality. Peter wonders about that as the jet makes its final approach, focused on the tingling itch running along his hands and arms. He doesn’t look up until the jet has slowed and landed, moving as smoothly as a quinjet to land gently on a raised cement pad.

“You suspected,” Batman says. It’s phrased as a question, but not quite. Whatever conversation is happening between them seems to have just as much emphasis on what’s unspoken as what is.

“Red Hood tracked me down to talk,” Nightwing replies. “He figured it out first.”

“And you were both taken by surprise?” Beneath the accusation lies a deeper thread of tension, something Peter almost mistakes as fear. It’s similar to the tone he heard from Tony after sneaking on board the ship what feels like years ago.

Nightwing scoffs. “Don’t start.”

Batman drops it, but does aim a look at Nightwing, one that seems to promise a lengthier discussion another time. Red Hood simply scoffs. Peter listens in a half interested sort of way, observing but not reacting, idly testing his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. The movement stings and burns, and trickles of blood slip through the ruined nanite gloves covering his hands. Eventually, Black Bat reaches over and gently places a hand on his arm, stopping the movement.

Another brief silence fills the jet, broken during its final approach by Friday.

“Suit integrity falling below ten percent,” FRIDAY announces, her tone much more robotic than he’s ever heard before. “Emergency shutdown engaged. Please report to the Boss for maintenance and repair immediately.”

The suit becomes heavier in an instant, and then rolls itself back to the chestplate, the nanites sluggishly pulling themselves back towards the spider emblem in the center of his chest. They coalesce there, then fall from his body, resuming their pod like form. It looks scorched, battered and smaller than it did back at the spire. The sound earns him a fascinated look from Black Bat and a worried glance from Nightwing.

Peter sighs, rolling his shoulders before grabbing the pod, just as the jet begins to lower itself down. A quick glance out of the front window past Batman and Nightwing’s heads shows Peter a thick layer of rock, opening up into a massive cave system that opens up into complex series of rooms. The jet lands with a muffled clunk, stirring the bats. They leave quickly, eager to put distance between themselves, and Peter is positive the bats being together in one place is a rare event.

He’s eager for his own distance from the others, of course, but he has something important to handle first. He marches up to Red Robin reaches up to grab the hero’s shoulder--and pauses, wincing for a moment before settling for weakly pointing at him. His arms are heavier than they should be, exhaustion dragging at him harder than it should due to the pain. Regardless, Red Robin looks up at him when he approaches.

“Where is Tim?” Peter asks. “You said he was safe.”

In answer, Red Robin pulls off his mask. Tim frowns at him, his expression unreadable, almost distant. Peter stares at him, at a loss for words, until he stops to think about the implications. His thoughts move freely now, despite the exhaustion and pain.

“Are you fucking kidding me,” he says.

“That’s how I feel,” Tim replies dryly, a shadow of amusement in his tone. He nods to the others behind Peter. “We should get this out of the way. It’s only fair after his identity got outed to us.”

A murmur of half silent replies follows that, and the sound of masks being removed. Peter turns around to face the others. They’re already in motion: Signal pulls off his helmet to reveal Duke’s face, his expression open and concerned. Red Hood pulls off the remains of his helmet and the mask underneath. Jason irritably swipes at the blood trailing down his jaw, leaving a tacky streak across his cheek. Black Bat pulls off her mask, never quite taking her eyes off of him; he’s not surprised to see the same sharp gaze carried over from behind the mask to her own face. Robin pulls off his own mask with an irritated sigh, too disciplined to fidget, too uncomfortable with the strange emotions in the cave to tolerate the tension.

Nightwing pulls off his mask with a sigh, rubbing his eyes and pinching his nose.

“Dick?” Peter asks.

“Yeah. I was debating on how to tell you,” Dick replies, half shrugging. He doesn’t quite wince when the movement jostles one of his own wounds, and Peter is alarmed to see how much blood is covering his suit. “It was going to happen sooner rather than later, for the record.”

Peter isn’t sure what to say to that.

Batman stares at Peter hard for a long moment before reaching up to pull the cowl back.

To reveal Bruce Wayne.

He’s too stunned to speak.

“Peter, we have a lot to talk about,” Tim says. “But we need to handle those wounds first.”

“Alfred’s already on his way,” Dick says.

“Alfred?” Peter blurts out, his voice stuck somewhere between strident disbelief and exhaustion. “The butler? If you tell me he’s got some weird bat themed outfit and mask, I’m going to fucking lose it--”

“He doesn’t do that anymore,” Bruce says, matter of factly, pulling a first aid kit out of the jet and handing it to Nightwing.

“Too bad, I’d like to see him swing through buildings with a shotgun,” Peter replies numbly.

“It’s pretty easy if you keep the safety on,” Jason adds. Peter isn’t sure if he’s trying to be helpful or an asshole. Probably both.

Spoiler pulls off her hood and mask, and Steph walks towards him. She takes in his suit, his wounds, the general state of him and says, “You know, when I said you needed to up your tantrum game to compete with the rest of us, it wasn’t a challenge.”

That startles a laugh out of him. It’s too high, too tense to be true laughter, but it works as a release valve for the tension in the cave.

“Like he’s capable of competing with Todd’s dramatics,” Damian remarks from somewhere in the shadows. He’s moved off to a separate part of the cave, apparently uninterested or unwilling to remain seen.

“Fuck off,” Jason retorts, half paying attention as he examines his broken helmet. The response is so quick and automatic that Peter isn’t sure he actually heard Damian’s remark.

He was living with, talking to, and interacting with the same group of people in both of his personalities. He boggles at his own stupidity, and idly wonders how he missed it. He stops to think over every interaction he’s had with the Bats in both of their identities since coming to Gotham. For a moment, he’s blinded by his own stupidity. Looking back now, it’s all too obvious who all of these people were from the start. The Avengers from the soul stone all but told him outright a few times, too.

Except he...what? Forgot? Ignored it? That isn’t right. He misses fine details sometimes, but barring an actual head wound--which, granted, he’s had his fair few lately--he should’ve realized it.

And then he wonders exactly how much power even a sliver of the Mind Stone has (how much is a piece of infinity, exactly?), and what it could do to a population that’s consistently exposed to hallucinogens, fear toxins, and mind altering gasses the way everyone in Gotham is. Even if they had some kind of tolerance--and Peter could bet good money that isn’t his that the Bats number among that subset--something like the Mind Stone could really wreak havoc on even a planet’s best minds. He wonders if there’s a way to counter that and decides to shelve that particular thought for now. He has too much else to focus on. Like the fact that he’s still wounded. And tired. And more than a little hungry, though he’s not sure he’s capable of eating any time soon.

And he’s stranded, the world he knew is gone forever, and everyone in this room watched the worst hours of his life play out in real time. He even tried to murder them during it.

His emotions whipsaw from confusion, to shame, to horror, to a bone deep anxiety that marks the precursor to a full blown panic attack, and he reacts the only way he can: he skitters up the nearest wall, not bothering to hide his enhanced speed and strength around the Waynes, the remnants of the Iron Spider tucked protectively under one of his arms. His arms hate him for it, but he endures the flash of burning pain across his arms and fingers. It helps ground him. As does sitting high enough to see the whole cave and all of the Bats. For the others, it must have looked like he teleported; one moment he’s standing next to Tim and Dick, the next, he’s spider crawling up a wall to hide near the rock roof of the cave.

To their credit, the others don’t seem too upset by his sudden movements. They glance up at him, some more startled than others, but appear content to give him a moment to gather his thoughts. Nightwing and Batman are deep in conversation. Their tones are terse, blunt. He could listen in if he wanted, but between his exhaustion from the fight, the pain of his wounds, and the surprisingly loud ambient noise of the cave, it isn’t worth it. He instead focuses on the cave itself, looking around.

The cave is a massive underground facility, easily equal to the Avengers Compound, if not quite as luxurious. The cave lightning is intermittent; parts are brightly lit beneath massive overhead lights, others are left in shadow or left dim, either to save on the effort of lighting such a massive space, or evoke a somber, brooding mood. Peter suspects it’s the latter.

The landing pad is tucked against one of the far walls, with a path leading directly to a small infirmary outfitted with well maintained and very expensive medical equipment lined up along a smooth wall beneath bright lights. It's one of the most well lit places in the cave.

In the distance, he can see other things: various motorcycles, super suits, massive monitors and databases, even a giant penny and dinosaur.

He sits there for a time, withdrawing into himself while the others see to their post patrol duties: cleaning and storing weapons, seeing their own wounds, checking suits for damage that needs to be repaired, or (and this shouldn't surprise him but it does) writing reports or notes about the past night's activities.

A voice calls out to him from below, gently breaking him out of his whirlwind stupor.

“I am a man of many talents, Master Peter, but even I would struggle to climb up a sheer wall in my current attire,” Alfred says, his tone as even and pleasant as usual. If he’s shocked to find his latest charge clinging to the wall in the ruins of his tailored suit, he’s certainly not showing it. “Could you please climb down here so I can see to your wounds? I’d like to see what we’re dealing with.”

“It’s just some burns,” Peter says, reluctantly climbing down from the ceiling. Dick tracks his progress down the wall, clearly ready to move in and help if he falls, though there’s no danger of that. “Kryptonite.”

“I’m quite familiar with treating kryptonite related wounds. I dare say I’d qualify for an expert license in it at this point, second to Master Bruce,” Alfred says pleasantly. He steps away from the wall as Peter hops down and examines of Peter’s arms, humming slightly to himself. “It seems you are well on your way to healing without any outside intervention. Still, we should clean and bandage this, just to be safe. It will limit the use of your hands for a bit.”

“They’ll be better after I sleep,” Peter says. Maybe. He’s not sure; the burns aren’t healing the way they should. He can see traces of scar tissue start to form. That’s happened before, of course, with the scars themselves fading after a few days or weeks. These feel more permanent. Between the Lazarus machine, the soul stone, and the potential scars, he bitterly wonders if it matters that he’s cut himself off from home. No one would recognize him at this point. “At least, that’s how it usually works.”

“People sensitive to kryptonite tend to recover quickly when they’re not directly exposed to it,” Alfred says. “I’m hopeful that remains true in your case.

Peter shrugs off the ruins of his shirt and sits on one of the gurneys. Alfred wraps his forearms and hands snugly, and with the same brisk, professional movements he's used in all of his tasks. Cleaning and bandaging Peter’s wounds is no different than cooking dinner. Once he finishes, he steps aways, giving Peter space but staying somewhat close, providing silent support. His presence brings a sense of calm, and it isn’t just affecting Peter; the rest of the Bats subconsciously shift their behavior when they glance at Alfred. Even Bruce.

“There,” Alfred says, tying off the last bandage. He produces a clean shirt from one of the cabinets and hands it to Peter. “Better. We’ll examine them again tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Alfred,” Peter mutters, pulling on the shirt. Alfred offers him a small smile and steps back.

Bruce looks to Dick, another silent communication passing between them before Bruce takes a step back, giving him a small nod. Dick rubs the back of his neck, frowning in thought as he walks over to Peter and gently sets the shield down so that it leans against the gurney. He sits down beside him.

“We need to talk about what just happened,” he says. “I know you're tired, and hurt, but the more we know, the better we can prepare if there are any stragglers out there.”

Peter frowns. He’s right, of course. “I'm not sure where to start.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Dick says. After a moment, he adds, “When you got to Gotham, I mean. We’ve all got the gist of what happened before.”

No shit they do. Ebony Maw broadcasting his death like that to play with his head is still raw. He’s not sure how to handle knowing the whole crew witnessed it. The thought of it makes him sick.

“I didn’t get to Gotham first,” Peter says after a moment, glancing away from the others. “I was somewhere else, with a lot of those pod things and monsters. Wonder Woman and Superman found me after I crawled out of the pod.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that before?” Dick asks.

Peter shrugs. “I had a lot on my mind? Kind of literally. My head was messed up after dying and coming back and then getting blasted into Gotham. And the Avengers were haunting me, but I didn’t realize it yet.”

“That would be pretty disorienting,” Dick says evenly. “What happened after that?”

Slowly, gradually, Peter tells them everything. The Bats listen, sometimes interrupting to ask a probing question, some more relevant than others:

“You hacked into Bruce’s bank account?” Steph asks, grinning.

“I only took five hundred dollars,” Peter says, with a shrug.

“You should’ve stolen four times as much,” Jason retorts.

“I mean, five hundred is a lot for someone like me.”

Jason rolls his eyes, but concedes the point. Bruce’s expression is as impassive as ever; he’s no more offended by the theft now than he was back when Peter admitted to stealing from him back at the hospital. When he notices Peter’s furtive glance (because of course he did, he’s Batman), he quirks an eyebrow.

“Jason is right,” he says. Jason shoots him a look, which he ignores. “What happened after that?”

He keeps going. The Bats drift in and out with their questions, most of them putting the pieces together in silence while Dick takes the lead with the questions.

“What’s an Infinity Stone?” Dick asks.

“Kinda exactly what it sounds like: a stone that controls the fundamental force it’s named after,” Peter says, shifting uncomfortably. “Ebony Maw used the Mind Stone on me after he doused me with that fear toxin. Which is why I attacked you.”

“And he used a different stone in his hand to create that portal,” Dick says.

“The Space Stone. There are six of them. Space, Reality, Power, Soul, Mind, and Time. The stones are supposed to control what they represent. I don’t know all of the details. I just knew we had to keep Thanos from using them to kill half of our universe,” Peter says. He goes quiet and scoffs. “Didn’t work. Obviously.”

“And you have one of these stones?” Bruce asks. His tone is even and calm, but his eyes are bright with questions, and the intensity of his stare is unnerving. Not threatening, exactly, but intense to the point of unease.

Peter fidgets, suddenly wishing he could crawl back up to the ceiling for this, and stopping himself before he does. He blows out a breath and says, “I guess I do, but I don’t know where or how I’m hiding it. And I don’t know how to use it, really, it’s mostly by accident if I manage it--”

“The parent teacher conference,” Tim says suddenly, cutting Peter off. “You used it there, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I can manifest the ghosts in my head sometimes, if I think a certain way,” Peter says. He pauses, thinks of how insane that sounds and adds, “It took a lot out of me and gave me the worst headache of my life.”

“Yeah, you looked like hot trash during the conference,” Duke adds.

“More than you usually did during that time, anyway,” Tim says.

“Thanks for the compliment, pal,” Peter says.

“I’ve seen you summon your ghosts,” Alfred says idly. “The man with the metal arm who attacked Bane when he had you cornered in the manor.”

“You did?” Peter asks, blinking up at him.

“Yes. The gentleman with the metal arm attacked Bane after he struck you. We searched the manor for him afterward.”

“Huh. I didn't think anyone else could see them. Except for Duke, I guess.”

“I hear them,” Jason says. That draws everyone's attention. He tenses when the others look at him, and ignores them, focusing on Peter. “The first time was when we sparred. You got angry and some guy with an African accent shouted at us to stop. And then back at the spire, when I had you in that chokehold and then on the roof, another guy shouted at me that you were back. Thought I inhaled fear gas or something.”

“Why can you hear them?” Tim asks.

Jason shrugs in reply, apparently not interested in answering any questions.

“I can’t see them now,” Duke says, cutting into the slightly tense silence following Jason’s comment. “Usually I can see a kind of blur around you that gets sharper when one of them wants to talk, but there’s nothing right now.”

It’s Peter’s turn to shrug. He has his suspicions, but doesn’t feel eager to voice them just yet. “They’re just as tired as I am, I guess.

Duke frowns at him, but doesn’t press the issue. He doesn’t look like he's dropping the topic either, however.

“Somewhat related to that,” Dick says. “Your suit isn’t just a suit, is it?”

It’s the softest of softball questions. Peter sighs, nodding, setting the pod down on a metal table beneath one of the huge overhead lights above. The nanobots swirl around inside the pod, moving sluggishly or jittering in place. Even in this state, it’s clear the suit is in dire need of repair.

“It’s mostly that, but yeah, it’s also got FRIDAY in there. Like an AI assistant, but much smarter,” Peter says. “She’s Tony’s assistant. Kinda. Right now she’s shut down, or gone into a power save mode.”

“His Girl Friday,” Dick says. “I’m guessing he was a movie fan?”

“He liked to quote random movies at people sometimes,” Peter says. He frowns, idly rotating the pod between his newly bandaged hands. “It’s running low on power. I’ll need to fix it. You don’t have Stark tech, so that’s going to take awhile.”

“Tony made that?”

“For me, yeah. He likes to build suits.” He pauses, says, “Well. He liked to. He was kind of obsessed with it.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Dick says evenly. Bruce’s unblinking gaze flickers briefly towards Dick in vague disapproval. Dick fully ignores it. “Exactly how smart is this AI?”

“Smart enough to alert Oracle, all emergency services in the city, and recognize when Peter was out of control,” Tim says idly. “She even got into Oracle’s systems to try and reach some satellite network.”

Peter winces. “Yeah. She’s basically a person. Or as close to one as Tony wanted to get. But that was with a lot of server farms backing her up. I’m not sure how smart she is when she’s just limited to a suit, let alone one that’s broken.” He pauses for a moment. “I should check that, actually, plug her into a power source and let her run a diagnostic--”

“Plug the in the suit, but fix it later,” Dick says. “You’re not in any shape for it now. In fact, I think we’ve pressed you enough for one night. You should rest, and the rest of us should get ourselves cleaned up and bandaged. We can pick this up again later.”

He says this while glancing at Bruce from the corner of his eye. Bruce lets out a small noise of acknowledgement--something like hn--and looks at Peter.

“You can keep the suit here,” Bruce says. “The workshop is deep enough and safe enough to keep it from showing up on any scans, in case the Order is tracking it.”

Reasonable enough, though Peter wonders if there are other reasons why Bruce would keep the suit in view like that. He stands up from the gurney, taking the pod awkwardly in his bandaged hands before giving up and just pressing his forearm against it and using his sticky powers to keep it in place.

“You don’t want to mess with this when I’m not around,” he warns them. “Just...let me handle it. Okay?”

“We won’t touch it without you around,” Tim promises. “I’d rather not get a haircut from those spider legs, personally.”

Peter winces. “Yeah, exactly.”

Dick leads him over to the workshop, another half cavern lined with stainless steel tables, lights, and various tools and equipment meant laid out across them. Some items are scattered across the surface of the tables, half finished repairs or half started inventions, Peter isn’t sure. He finds a spot to set the pod down on, taps a small spider symbol along the back to reveal power port, and plugs it in. His old Stark Suit has the same power supply, and he’s not surprised to see that carried over to the Iron Spider. The pod lights begin to pulse, slow rising and fading of light that bathes a corner of the workshop. The sight is comforting, and Peter thinks the suit might recover if given enough time.

Dick waits for him and then leads him out of the cave and over to an elevator. The ride is short, quiet, and ends with the doors opening up to reveal the kitchen of Wayne Manor. Sandwiches, drinks, and various foods have been laid out across the counters and table, clearly set out by Alfred for the Bats. Peter stops and stares at it, idly wondering how often the Bats took a post patrol meal while he slept upstairs, oblivious it to it happening. At Peter’s questioning look, Dick gives him a slightly guilty look before shrugging.

“I should be surprised by this, but I’m too tired,” Peter says. He eyes the feast laid out for the others, debates on stealing some for himself, and then shakes his head. “I think I can handle it from here, Dick.”

Dick gives him a steady look, but eventually nods. “If you need anything--”

“I know,” Peter says, leaving the kitchen behind and heading straight for his room.

The manor feels different now. Strange what a few hours of kidnapping, trauma, and fighting your life does to a person’s perspective. He sits inside his room, listening to the rain hitting his window, and looks over the few keepsakes he’s managed to gather. He thinks he should be crying, or breaking down, or...something.

Mostly, he just feels a hollow kind of exhaustion. A strangely distant sense of grief that’s both similar to and different from the grief he felt during Ben’s funeral.

At least it’s a familiar exhaustion. He lays down and falls asleep almost immediately.

* * *

Days pass. His arms ache a bit less and itch a lot more. The skin heals almost overnight, but leaves behind lichtenberg scars along his hands and forearms that have already faded from pink to white. He thinks, given enough time, those will fade too, but he’s not entirely sure.

His mood evens out from the emotional rollercoaster of the fight in the spire, and into a kind of hollow, everyday grief he’s familiar with. He makes sure to smother whatever connection he has with the Soul stone, uninterested in hearing from the others, even in his dreams. He isn’t interested in being manipulated by them more than he already has.

The others drift away. He quickly learns that the Bats are a less of a cohesive group and more a group of loners who link up to combine resources when necessary--or, at least, that’s what happens after a huge battle in the heart of Gotham City. Maybe they all have their own angles of investigation or, more likely, they need time and space to process their thoughts on their own. Peter idly wonders if they subconsciously grouped together when he entered the city because they could sense something was ‘off’ about their home, or if they’ve simply returned to form after he smothered the soul stone’s influence inside himself and, by extension, whatever the stone was doing to them.

He’s not sure; Alfred and Bruce have made passing references to movie nights and post patrol meals together whenever he makes a comment about how quiet the manor is, so maybe it isn’t as rare as he thinks.

He starts to adjust to life inside a much quieter manor, more or less avoiding anyone but Alfred and Bruce to sort through his own emotions and strangely silent mind.

One dreary spring day, during one of his meandering walks through the halls, Dick appears.

“Hey, come with me,” Dick says, passing him in the opposite direction. He claps Peter’s shoulder as he walks by, not forcing the issue, but making his intentions more than clear. “I could use some fresh air, and you probably need it, too.”

Peter debates ignoring him, but ultimately decides against it. He doesn’t have much else to do, and if nothing else, he’ll get out of the too silent manor and potentially do something interesting. He follows Dick out of the manor and into his car.

A few minutes later, he regrets that decision.

“Seriously, how do you still have a license if you drive like this?” Peter asks, bracing himself against the passenger seat and door.

“You know, normally I don’t drive at all. If I have to go far, I just borrow the jet or hitch a ride with someone who can carry me where I need to go. You haven’t met him yet, but Wally’s great for that sort of thing,” Dick says, weaving through traffic like an utter maniac and with complete calm confidence. “I drove here from Blüdhaven while you were in the hospital so you wouldn’t get overwhelmed with the whole billionaire-butler-limo thing.”

“You managed to drive like a normal person when I got out of the hospital,” Peter points out.

“Yeah, but I’m not undercover anymore, so I can drive like normal,” Dick says.

Eventually, Peter gets used to Dick’s driving. At least, he figures out that not looking at the road means he won’t be terrified for the rest of the ride. He’s not really in danger--his spider sense isn’t going off, at least--but that’s hard to reconcile with Dick’s more adventurous turns.

After a moment, he glances at Dick. “I’m kind of surprised by this, you know.”

Dick seems amused by that more than anything else. “That I want to hang out with you?”

“You literally saw me rip one guy’s arms off and another guy’s face,” Peter says flatly. “Normal people find that disturbing, even if they’re on the same side. They don’t typically sit inside a small enclosed area with someone like that and then drive like a maniac. It’s like you’re trying to prove a point.”

Dick grins.

“If you were going to hurt any of us, you would’ve done it already,” Dick points out. “And you aren’t the first super powered person gone off the deep end that we’ve dealt with, you know. The moment Bruce realized you were compromised, we were safe. And I’m including you in that statement.”

Peter gives him a doubtful look. “Look, I know he’s great and the best Gotham has, but he can’t be that good. If FRIDAY hadn’t--”

“He’s Batman,” Dick counters, with a tone that’s exhausted and fond and somehow disappointed all in one. “You’re still new to the family, but trust me on this.”

Peter tilts his head, but eventually shrugs and lets the conversation drop. Or so he thinks.

“Do you want to talk about what happened in the spire?” Dick asks after a little while. “The visions Ebony Maw broadcast for everyone to see were pretty intense.”

Peter scowls, shifting uncomfortably in the car seat. “Would you?”

Dick blows out a breath and tilts his head towards Peter. “Touché. And I figured you wouldn’t be interested in talking about it. If you change your mind, find me. I’ll listen. All right?”

Peter wonders how utterly insane that conversation would be, imagines it, and all but flings himself out of the car to avoid the bare thought of it. There are some things he can open up to people about--Ben, May, maybe even his parents--but his own death isn’t among them. It’s still too fresh. The memories, half smothered as they are, too overwhelming.

“Sure,” Peter says lightly. Dick glances at him from the corner of his eye, and his eyebrow rises slightly. Peter decides to change the topic. “So, where are you dragging me anyway?”

A silence hangs in the car for a moment, as if Dick is debating exactly how to proceed. Finally, he breaks the tension.

“An arcade my parents always took me to when I was a kid. Whenever we came into town, they’d take me out for pizza and a few rounds of games there. It’s sort of my ‘welcome to the family’ routine these days. The last person I brought here is Duke,” Dick says, finally pulling into a parking spot and shutting off the car. “You needed to get out of the manor, and I needed to keep up the tradition. So, here we are.”

Amused, Peter pulls off his seatbelt. “You wanted me out of the manor? It’s the safest place in the city.”

“It’s not good to stay inside that place all the time,” Dick says evenly. “Everyone needs their space away from it eventually. When you hit that point, call me. Okay? Day or night. We’ll work something out.”

“Fine, I will,” Peter says, unbuckling his seat belt and pushing the door open. The car is beginning to stifle him. “You promised me pizza, so let’s hit that place first,” Peter says. “I’m starving.”

Dick grins, stepping out of the car. “First, Cheese Viking, and then pizza.”

“Deal.”

The rest of the day is spent with nonsense conversation, Dick reminiscing about his family, and more pizza than Peter’s ever eaten in his life. The day goes by quickly, and Peter is surprised to find that his mood actually improves after leaving the manor. By the time they leave, the sky goes from overcast to dark, though the rain and thunder remain. Peter and Dick walk towards his car.

“Pretty decent slice,” Peter says. “I’d even call it acceptable.”

“Didn’t realize I was eating pizza with a connoisseur,” Dick replies dryly, unlocking the car.

“Yeah, well, second place to New York pizza is the best you can hope for,” Peter says.

Dick laughs. “Fair enough. Come on, let’s go home.”

* * *

A couple of days after the trip to the arcade, Bruce finds him in the kitchen. He doesn’t walk in so much as appear near Peter, startling him as he closes the door to one of the fridges in the massive kitchen. He sputters, chokes on the carton of orange juice he started to drink from, and covers it with a cough, both annoyed impressed by Bruce’s ability to sneak up on him.

“I was going to get a glass, I swear--”

Bruce doesn’t seem to notice or care. “We need to talk. Find me in the cave when you’re done with breakfast.”

And then he leaves, as quickly and quietly as he came. Peter, curious and unnerved by how intense Bruce is without the facade of his foolish rich man persona, drains the carton of orange juice and tosses it into the trash before following him down to the cave.

He finds Bruce in the workshop, an area separated from the rest of the cave that’s set up almost like one of Tony’s labs. DUM-E isn’t trundling along in the background knocking things over and there’s no cheesy classic rock blaring out of the speakers, but the layout is the same. Bruce is hard at work fixing one of his devices, but he’s left both a chair and the Iron Spider’s pod resting on the table across from him.

He hasn’t been here in a few days, so he takes a moment to really look over the cave. He can see rows of suits behind the workshop that he missed before. Most are in shadow, the interior lights shut off, though he can see the outlines of various bat suits, a few variations of Nightwing’s suits, and so on for every member of the Bats. The massive penny and dinosaur are still backlit, and cast shadows in the cavern.

“Your suit has been beeping for the past hour,” Bruce says, his back to him. “I couldn’t discern the nature of the alert and didn’t want to risk triggering any security protocols.”

“Right,” Peter says. He crosses the cave and sits down across from Bruce, briefly glancing at whatever the man’s working. “I’ll take a look.”

Bruce has a soldering iron in hand and his gauntlet laid out in front of him. He focused on the electronics lining the interior of the gauntlet, but Peter knows he has most, if not all, of the man’s attention. He’s not sure what to make of that. Bruce has been more than kind towards him, but Batman carries a reputation for a reason.

He looks at the Stark pod and taps the spider symbol. A dozen holo screens project out of the pod at his touch, spreading out in front of him in a wave of gentle blue light. He’s struck by a sudden sense of nostalgia, taking in the sight of the floating holograms for a moment before getting to work. They arc out of the pod like a blue halo, and he switches through each, scanning each one as it begins, updates, or finishes a diagnostic scan on the suit.

None of the news is particularly good, but it isn’t necessarily bad, either. FRIDAY is intact, just dormant, with most of her databases kept in compressed files that still take up most of the suit’s local storage. Peter is good at programming and computers, but he’s not Ned, and he’s definitely not Tony. He leaves her alone and focuses on the rest of the suit. His work is cut out for him in that regard, too. He can’t possibly fix it all, but he can make it easier for FRIDAY to run auto repair programs while she’s plugged in.

He gets to work, all too aware of Bruce’s presence.

"Why did you become Spider-Man?" Bruce asks him.

They’ve been in the lab for hours at this point, working mostly in silence. Peter suspects that this is how Bruce prefers to socialize with the others: stern silence working in a cold cave, surrounded by weapons, computers, and bizarre statues. Peter suddenly misses Tony’s lab just that much more. The music could be dorky and overwhelming, and DUM-E's antics could be hair-raising, but the chaos suits his methods more than Bruce’s cave.

Peter thinks over the question, focused on the suit. After a moment, he chooses honesty over anything else. "Because I killed my Uncle Ben."

Bruce looks up at him, patient and curious. There’s no judgement there, not yet. But there is a subtle stiffness to his shoulders, and Peter knows he has the man’s complete attention now.

“I got my powers during a field trip at school. A genetically altered spider bit me. I never figured out the whole deal with it--never had the chance--but I pretty much changed over night.” He stops, frowns, and tries to think of a way to put this. “Imagine being some regular dweeb one night and then waking up the next day almost as strong as Superman, I guess.”

“When was this?” Bruce asks.

“When I was fourteen, so...two years ago? Maybe?” Peter says, frowning. He rubs the back of his head. “Our universes aren’t exactly running on the same timeline.”

Bruce nods, his frown deepening. Peter’s surprised; usually he gets a comment or two about his age when he tells this story. Granted, this is the first time he’s actually told this story to a complete stranger.

"Anyway, Uncle Ben was forced to retire from work. He got sick during the Battle of New York clean up and never really got better. Aunt May works--worked--for a homeless shelter and we could afford the apartment, but with Uncle Ben’s medical bills and medicine, we weren’t sure how long that would last,” Peter says. “I had my powers then, and I don't know, it messed with my head. I wanted to quit school, get my GED, and get a job or something."

He pauses, remembering the fight, and surge of regret and grief that comes with the memory.

“He said no. We fought about it. I got angry and stormed out of the apartment and went down a nearby street. It was one of those bad ones you don't want to be caught alone in, you know? Ben chased me down."

Bruce sets his hands on the table. Peter has his full attention now.

"Earlier that day a mugger ran by me, chased by the cops. I could've stopped him, but I didn't. Figured it wasn't my business, so I stepped over and let him and the cop pass by." Peter scoffs. "Same guy came out of the dark and held us up for money that neither of us had. We didn't even have phones. He lost it. Shot Uncle Ben in the stomach and ran off. If I had just tripped him when he was running by me three hours before, my uncle would still be alive. I could've done it. Easily."

Bitterness and grief, and more than a little self loathing comes out now. "I can swing across New York City. I can hear every heartbeat within a mile. Give me a lab and some time to prepare, and I’ll build a suit that can take on the worst threats you’ve never even dreamed of. Shoot me, stab me, or burn me and I’ll be fine after a nap and some food. And all of that meant nothing at all while my uncle bled to death in the street. I heard his heart stop and his lungs deflate. I heard him die. It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t painless. He died protecting me from a bullet that wouldn’t have killed me. All because it ‘wasn't my business’ to help the cops when it would have cost me nothing to at least try."

"So that's why I became Spider-Man. I made a mistake and now Aunt May will never see her husband again. All because I couldn't be bothered to take two seconds to stop a mugger."

A lengthy silence follows that. Peter is waiting for the usual phrases--'it wasn't your fault,' 'you were just a kid,' or 'you can't keep blaming yourself, how could you have known.' When none of those are said, he chances a glance up at Bruce.

Bruce Wayne waits until they lock eyes, and says, simply, "I understand."

And he does, Peter realizes. Bruce isn’t just saying that. He really does seem to understand why Peter became Spider-Man. The first person to do so aside from Aunt May during their very awkward talk when she stumbled into Peter wearing the suit.

After hold his gaze for a moment, Bruce goes back to work on his gauntlet. A few moments pass, and the worst of Peter’s tensions drains away, before he speaks again.

“If you’d like, we can arrange to add headstones for your family here. I know it isn’t where they were buried, but...” He pauses, and adds, “I’ve found it helps to have a spot to remember them, even if they aren’t within reach anymore.”

Peter blinks at him, momentarily stunned by the offer, before thinking it over. “I...I would like that. Even if it’s something small for my aunt.”

Bruce nods, content with the offer and the answer. Peter finds he feels a tiny bit better. Less burdened, at least. He’s also strangely touched that Bruce gave that much thought to that part of his situation, especially after Peter’s confused fury in the spire.

A holoscreen pops up from Bruce’s gauntlet. It’s smaller, dimmer, and the images are projected in greyscale, but are no less sharp or clear. Peter leans in to look at it, fascinated. He can see a lot of similarities between Tony’s engineering and Bruce’s, though Tony’s favored methods edge him out for elegance. Bruce relies more on practicality, and it shows.

Peter is impressed. “Did you just make that?”

“No,” Bruce replies, sliding the gauntlet over to Peter. “I’ve had it for awhile. I use it on patrol when I need to share information with someone not connected with Oracle’s network. Otherwise, it’s wired into my helmet.”

“Smart,” Peter says, taking the gauntlet and peering over it.

“I’d like to mimic the screens your suit produced,” Bruce says. “Multiple screens at once has its place in the field. Can you show me how to wire multiple projectors into the gauntlet without sacrificing any armor?”

“You’re more than halfway there already,” Peter says. “I think you’d have it figured out in a day or two.”

“This is more efficient,” Bruce says, sliding a toolset over to him. “Humor me.”

Peter does so. As he works, Bruce pulls another project over towards himself. This one doesn’t look like anything more than a pile of electronics, whose use or purpose are entirely unknown to Peter.

“Something is bothering you,” Bruce says, not looking up from his new project. It isn’t a question.

“When I was in the spire, I was going to kill all of you,” Peter says plainly. “Do you have a way to stop me from--”

“Yes,” Bruce says evenly, cutting him off.

“You would have to kill me if it happens again,” Peter says, a little surprised by how quickly Bruce answered that.

Bruce glances up from his project. “I have other methods on hand before it comes to that. You won’t hurt anyone in this family.”

Peter nods, focuses on the work in front of him, and says, “That’s another thing. Ebony Maw said the soul stone was influencing all of you. That I was using it to control you somehow. Influence you.”

“Were you?” Bruce asks. There isn’t any judgement or accusation to the question.

“I have no idea,” Peter admits. “But why else would all of you go out of the way to find me and help me? Out of everyone else in this city, you guys kept popping up near me. Especially Dick.”

Bruce goes quiet, finishing up whatever it is he was doing to the pile of electronics in front of him. He sets down his tools, looking up and regarding Peter for a long moment before saying, simply, “It wouldn’t have taken some magical stone to influence heroes into helping one of their own. Least of all Dick.”

Peter is reassured, but not entirely convinced. He thinks on Bruce’s words for a long time, clinging to them in a futile attempt to clear his conscious.

It even works. Briefly.

“How is your suit?” Bruce asks.

Peter lets out a breath. “Not great. She needs a lot of work. A lot of time to do the work, too. FRIDAY is in a low power state while the basic repairs are being done. I can speed it along if I have the right materials, but even if I just leave her alone, she’ll do most of the work. That might be for the best. I’m not familiar with this suit. Tony gave it to me before--”

He draws up short, then finishes with, “He didn’t get the chance to show me how this suit works.”

Bruce nods, not glancing up from his project. He points to the rows upon rows of suits lined up behind them. “If you need a replacement in the meantime, you can use the one I built.”

Peter turns around to face the suits lining the cave behind them. He sees a few variations on the Bat suit and Nightwing suit, plus Signal’s-- He stops when he sees the spider suit. It rests at the end of the row, a sleek black and red suit with large, pronounced white eyes standing inside a clear glass case. A black belt is slung across the hips and matte black gauntlet web shooters are clamped around the suit’s forearms. The chest is covered by a thin, sharp angled spider emblem against a blood red chest, the black legs meshing with the black fabric of the arms and hips. It looks like a meaner, rougher version of his Stark suit, but more thickly armored and with a utility belt.

“I...I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter says, mildly shocked that Bruce went to the trouble of designing and building a suit that almost looks like an upgraded clone of the first suit Tony made for him what feels like an age ago. “Thank you.”

Bruce nods.

“Can I ask you a question now?” Peter asks after a moment.

“Yes,” Bruce says.

“What’s with the giant dinosaur?”

“I like dinosaurs,” Bruce replies matter of factly.

He doesn’t elaborate.

Maybe it’s like Tony’s obsession with cars. Rich guys have to have some kind of weird thing to keep around that normal people would never imagine having in their living space. Bruce is just as rich as Tony, and Peter’s beginning to suspect that for every additional zero you add to someone’s bank account, they gain a brand new quirk to go with it.

“Duke likes it,” Bruce adds. “And Damian approves of it.”

Which is apparently enough of a reason to keep it.

He debates asking about the giant penny and ultimately decides against it. He'll just get the same answer or something infinitely weirder.

Instead, he works alongside Bruce in the workshop until Alfred comes down and gently shoos them upstairs for dinner. Peter would hesitate to call Bruce a friend, but he doesn’t think they’re far from it after today.

His restless sleep is a bit easier that night.

* * *

An odd tension falls between Peter and Tim. A sort of silence that shifts their previously easy friendship into something more resembling a warm acquaintance than friends. It isn’t that Tim is unkind, necessarily; he simply watches Peter sharply every now and then, focusing on him intensely, as if still figuring out a particularly complex and potentially dangerous puzzle. That sort of scrutiny makes Peter grind his teeth; his senses have returned full force since he's recovered from his wounds and long term exhaustion. Every time Tim focuses on him, it feels like a physical thing, like someone lightly poking the back of his neck or between his shoulder blades. It makes him twitchy.

Logically, he knows it isn't a new thing for Tim; he focuses on people like that when he's thinking hard. Sometimes he doesn't even seem to be aware he's doing it. Bruce has a similar habit, though he’s better at masking it.

They still hang out. They still talk.

But there's still a slight distance between them.

* * *

Damian drifts in and out of his peripheral vision in the days following the battle at the spire. Often just for a moment, as if confirming Peter is still in the manor, still whole. One bright, sunny day, when the kryptonite burn scars on his arms flare up and itch painfully, Damian simply enters Peter’s room and sits beside Peter, a black and white cat smugly snuggled into his arms. His sudden appearance is enough to distract Peter from his discomfort, bypassing any potential annoyance at the sudden invasion of his room.

“This is Alfred,” Damian declares.

Alfred the cat blinks up at him, resting his chin on the crook of Damian’s elbow. He does not seem very impressed by Peter. That isn’t too surprising. Peter is pretty sure most cats aren’t that impressed by most people.

“You named your cat after Alfred?” Peter asks, amused.

“Yes,” Damian says, as if that should be obvious. “He keeps father humble. Like human Alfred.”

Peter imagines Bruce probably needs that kind of reality check every now and then, and it makes sense that regular Alfred could use some back up. He holds his hand out towards the cat. Alfred the cat blinks at his hand, leans in for a brief sniff, squints up at Peter, and then forcefully bonks his hand. He presses his fuzzy head against his hand, then settles back into Damian’s arms with a smug purr.

“He finds you acceptable.”

“My day is made,” Peter says dryly. He’s a little pleased, though.

“It should be,” Damian replies. With that, he stands up and leaves, leaving a bemused Peter behind.

Oddly, he feels a little better after that.

* * *

Two weeks after closing the portal, Peter realizes he hasn't heard from Felicia at all. They aren’t--well, friends is maybe not quite right, but she has at least checked in on him semi-regularly since they first talked at the park. She’s the closest he’ll come to home ever again, and he has a sinking feeling that closing the portal relates directly to her sudden disappearance and silence.

He sends her a quick text.

No response.

The next day he sends another, something short and friendly.

Same result.

The third time he texts her, he gets a reply from unknown number: Give her space, spider.-S

He reads that message every night for a week, idly mourning the friendship they might have had in better circumstances. Eventually, he comes to terms with it.

He’s pretty good navigating around grief these days. This is small compared to everything else he’s lost.

It still stings.

* * *

One day, Peter opens the door to his room to find Jason looming on the other side of it. After startling like a cat, Peter stares at him, at once too tired and too confused to ask anything more than a harsh, “What the fuck?”

“Get your coat. We're going on a little field trip.”

“Do I get a say in this?”

The flat look he gets in return is his only answer. Jason turns and starts down the hall without waiting.

Peter rolls his eyes, but grabs his coat and follows after him, waving at Alfred as he walks past. The butler acknowledges him with a faint nod and almost imperceptible smile. Peter walks into the circle drive outside of the manor and finds Jason standing next to a car, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly impatient.

“This isn’t your car,” Peter says, frowning.

“I don't have a car.”

Peter pauses for a beat and asks. “So, you’re borrowing Dick’s car--?”

“What are you, a cop? Get in,” Jason asks, ducking inside Dick’s car and slamming the door.

Peter stares at the car, rolls his eyes, and then gets inside. Jason turns the radio to a classical station, and then hauls ass out of Wayne Manor’s grounds and into the city. He clears the space between the Manor and Crime Alley in no time flat, utterly refusing to acknowledge Peter’s questioning looks. By the time they arrive and Jason parks the car, he’s starting to get annoyed. That annoyance grows as they step into the street and the chill spring day’s weakly shining sun. He can see the Spire in the distance, looming over Crime Alley and Gotham as a whole, a swirl of mismatched buildings, cement, light poles, and power lines wrapped up along its surface in a hodgepodge mockery of a building. He idly wonders what the city will do with that. The clean up for the Battle of New York took years, and a lot of dangerous technology went missing during the clean up--as he can very well attest to.

“So, why are you kidnapping me?” Peter asks, uncomfortable with the idea of standing in the shadow of the spire. His arms still ache. The web of scars, fading, but still healing from the burn, are oversensitive and complains about the unseasonably frigid air in a constant, low throb of pain.

“Because you need to see something. Stop whining,” Jason says.

“I think I’m allowed to whine,” Peter grumbles, his temper flaring briefly.

“Doesn’t mean I want to hear it,” Jason replies. He glances at Peter and scoffs. “Get a handle on your temper while you’re at it. We’re in public. If you wanna lose it, do it in the cave. Bruce can afford to replace anything you break.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but tamps down on his temper. He hasn’t heard his ghosts since the Spire, which means he doesn’t have anyone keeping an eye on his anger. It’s less of a thing these days, but a portion of it is still there, simmering beneath the surface.

Murals cover a few of the walls in the small section of Crime Alley that Peter patrolled as Spider-Man not too long ago. Images of Peter swinging above the playground he helped restore, of him catching stray muggers and other low level criminals, helping Batman, Nightwing and other heroes. Peter stops in front of one painted along the brick wall of the massive garage the city buses use in Crime Alley.

Jason stops beside him.

“Wait here,” he orders, before striding into the garage as if he owns the place.

A few moments later, he comes back out, with Lou in tow. The heavyset man eyes Jason warily, and comes to a stop when he sees Peter.

Lou looks startled. More than that, really. He crosses the distance between them in a three big steps and claps Peter on the shoulder with a gruff, “Good to see you, kid. Some of us were worried about you. Not me, I knew you were all right.”

The pure relief in his tone proves that's a lie. Peter grins a little, his mood lightening a bit.

“I had a busy couple of months, Lou,” Peter says. “Sorry for worrying you.”

“I'm just glad you're safe. My route wasn’t the same without you, kid,” Lou says. “But I’m glad you’re somewhere safe. The Waynes are good people, they'll take good care of you.

“They’ve been nicer than I expected,” Peter admits. “I still miss the sandwiches you made.”

Lou grins. “Swing by any time, I’ll leave some for you.” He checks his watch and sighs. “My route starts soon. Don’t be a stranger, all right? Check in with us little people now and then.”

“I will,” Peter promises. “Be safe, Lou.”

“Right back at ya,” Lou says. He glances at Jason. “You're Red Hood’s guy, right? Tell ‘em I said thanks.”

Jason makes a noncommittal noise in response. Lou rolls with it. Peter is starting to translate variations of ‘Hn.’ as Gothamite for ‘okay/will do/I acknowledge your existenceand don't find it completely annoying.’

Lou ducks back into the garage. Peter and Jason leave, with Jason leading them further into Crime Alley.

“You brought me down here to talk with Lou?” Peter asks.

“He tracked me down when I was on patrol and asked me to check on you,” Jason explains. He guides Peter towards a nearby food truck parked along one of the nicer streets, pulling a wallet out of his pocket. “Anyone that brave and stupid gets one request out of me.”

“Huh. Good to know,” Peter says, stepping into line with Jason. He squints at the wallet. “Is that Dick's wallet?”

“Yes,” Jason says. “I'll give it back. Right now, we're getting the best gyros in the city. His treat.”

This feels like a sibling thing.

Peter makes a note to keep extra watch on his things.

Alternatively, given how damn sneaky the Bats are, he makes a note to become more at peace with the idea of his things just disappearing every now and then. He mulls over various strategies for a few minutes as the line inches closer to the truck, glancing at Jason from the corner of his eye.

“Out with it, Parker,” Jason says, not looking up from his phone.

“How did you get Cap’s shield?” Peter asks.

“By accident. It fell on the ground next to me, I looked up, and some blonde guy was on the other end of a portal. It closed before I had a chance to react, and you were having something of a tantrum at the time,” Jason says. “Didn’t really have time to question it.”

“He gave it to you?” Peter asks.

Jason shrugs. “He didn’t seem very upset that I had it.”

Peter drops the topic, going thoughtful and quiet. Jason goes back to his phone.

The gyro really is one of the best he's ever had.

* * *

He's beginning to suspect a conspiracy. It seems every time he starts to brood a bit too much, isolate himself a little more than usual, one of the Bats appears outside of his bedroom door to pull him out of the manor entirely.

So when he opens the door to find Duke standing on the other side, he isn’t even surprised, just curious. He hasn't seen Duke much since he smothered the soul stone’s power inside of himself, so it’s something of a surprise to see him standing in the hallway.

“We’re going to the museum,” Duke says.

“I don’t get a choice in the matter?”

“Nope,” Duke says cheerfully. “Let’s go.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but grabs his jacket and walks with Duke out of the manor. He isn’t surprised to see the car parked in front.

“Do you guys just steal Dick’s car whenever you feel like it?”

“Yeah, if he didn’t want us to use it, he’d lock it up better,” Duke says. “And this is way easier than figuring out how to get you on my bike. That one’s basically just a one seater ride.”

“Does Dick know you guys do this?” Peter asks, ducking into the car.

“Dick is just as good as Bruce, he’s well aware of what we’re doing,” Duke says, turning on the car and switching from the car radio to his phone’s bluetooth. Heavy, grating rock starts to play from the car speakers.

Well, that’s good. At least they aren’t borrowing his car without him being aware of it. Still, it seems odd to Peter, and he’s simultaneously fascinated and alarmed by the Bats. He gets into the car, fastening his seatbelt out of habit as Duke drives off of the manor grounds.

Must be a sibling thing, he thinks. He half expects to hear something in the back of his mind confirming or denying. He doesn’t.

The spring time gloom has lessened, allowing for a rare moment of sunshine. The spire glints in the distance, and Peter determinedly ignores it as Duke drives them to the museum. He drives normally (thank god), but the music stays loud and constant. Peter idly thinks Duke and Tony would trade music recommendations--or, more likely, Duke would terrorize Tony with his heavy metal preference.

Gotham City’s Natural Museum is much larger than Peter expects. Too big to reasonably cover in one day, in fact. He’s not surprised to see Bruce’s name discretely attached to the donor’s list. Duke parks, and they go inside. If anything, Peter is even more impressed. Something does catch his eye, however:

“Does that really say ‘Artifacts from Atlantis’?” he asks, pointing at one of the wings.

“Yeah, you’re not ready for that wing yet,” Duke says, amused. “Let’s start off in the early stuff and see if your universe is different from mine.”

“I really paid more attention to chemistry and engineering,” Peter admits, following Duke towards an exhibit wing styled after an earlier period of this Earth’s life. Carvings of ancient lifeforms and plants cover the columns leading into the wing, matching the art deco style of the building perfectly.

“That’s okay, I’ll talk you through it,” Duke says, grinning.

They spend hours wandering through the museum. Duke really does talk him through it, going far more in depth with trivia, background, and history of almost every exhibit as they walk past massive skeletons, fossils, and others.

“You know a lot,” Peter says, a little charmed by how enthusiastic Duke is by the various exhibits. He idly wonders if Ned would like Duke. The thought causes a stab of pain, but he brushes it off. He’ll mourn later.

“I wanted to be a paleontologist when I was a kid,” Duke says, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck, half embarrassed. “I used to beg my mom to take me here every weekend.”

“That's cool,” Peter says, perking up at the image of Duke overseeing a dig site in some remote part of the world as they uncover a massive fossil previously unseen. “You'd be great at that.”

“What did you want to be when you grow up?” Duke asks.

Peter goes quiet, frowning. “I don’t know. I've never thought about it.”

“You should,” Duke says. “Look, at least one of us Bat adjacent heroes needs to be normal to some degree. As an example for the others, if nothing else.”

“I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me,” Peter says, amused. “It might be you.”

“Doubtful,” Duke replies. “Come on, let’s hit up the gift shop and grab some lunch. My treat.”

“Are you using Dick’s credit card for this?” Peter asks.

“No, Bruce’s. He won’t care,” Duke says.

Peter follows him amused.

The rest of the day passes quickly; they only manage to get into one more wing before being forced to leave due to the museum closing. Duke’s enthusiasm never goes away, and Peter finds it a little infectious, briefly drawn out of the worst of his brooding and grief that has, until now, always hovered in the background of his every thought.

“You're really enjoying this,” Peter notes.

“I don't get to drag people into the museums around the city very often,” Duke admits. “Dick doesn't complain, Cass comes when she can, and Damian tolerates it, but they’re all pretty busy. You're fresh meat, and also the new guy, so I'm definitely taking advantage.”

“Your honesty is refreshing,” Peter says, smiling a little. “And I guess it's pretty cool. Our worlds are a little different. I should probably figure out the fine details at some point.”

“I'm taking this as blanket permission to drag you into more field trips.”

“Deal.”

They walk towards the parking lot. The sun is still out, though its starting to set. The sky is lit in gold and red, with the ever present storm clouds hovering nearby, promising to blanket the city the moment the sun disappears. Peter’s mood almost approaching happy. Duke glances at him from the corner of his eye.

“Can I ask you something?”

He almost says no, but stops himself in time. This is Duke that’s asking; saying no now just promises further questions later down the line, hidden in an otherwise harmless conversation. Eventually, he says, “I guess.”

“Why can't I see your ghosts anymore?” Duke asks.

Peter counters with one of his own. A question that’s hovered at the back of his mind ever since the night in the cave when he learned the true identities of his friends. “You could see them all the time?”

“Sort of. They were more like golden-orange blobs that hovered around you and occasionally shifted into full detail. You have no idea how strange class got sometimes,” Duke says. “They weren't all there all the time but there was always one or two of those blobs hovering nearby.”

Peter can’t imagine how awkward that must have been for Duke. He usually sat in front of Duke in most of their classes. How the hell did he see the smart board in class?

“I haven't seen them since the fight at the spire,” Duke says idly. “I’m worried about them.”

“They’re--” He stutters, looking for the word. He has enough control of the stone to block them entirely now. He doesn’t intend to undo that for awhile. He wants his privacy. And control of his own emotions. “Resting.”

Duke glances at him from the corner of his eye. He catches the lie immediately, goes quiet, and says, “I guess they need it.”

“Yeah,” Peter says lamely.

They had home. Duke keeps the conversation light and friendly after that, but Peter has the uneasy feeling he’s strained their friendship with the lie.

* * *

Peter spends most of the next day in the cave, mostly ignoring Bruce and Tim while they work at the massive computer on the other end of the cave. He sticks to the workshop, working on FRIDAY’s pod. She’s almost back to a functional state, though the suit itself is still in terrible disrepair. That can’t be helped. He needs FRIDAY’s guidance before he can start getting into nuts and bolts of the Iron Spider.

Behind him, he hears the distant rumble of one of the garage entrances opening up in the cave. He glances up to see a purple van roll into the garage, parking near an array of motorcycles of varying colors. He goes back to work, fruitlessly peering over the pod’s holo screens to see if there is anything he can possibly do to speed up FRIDAY’s self repair.

Steph and Cass appear next to him, pulling him out of a frustration based headache.

“Hi,” Steph says. Cass waves.

“Uh, hi,” Peter replies. He stares at them for a beat of silence and adds, “Did you want something?”

It comes out harsher than he intends, and he regrets the tone immediately. Neither of them seem offended; Steph grins and Cass merely raises an eyebrow.

“Actually, we're kidnapping you,” Steph says.

“What?”

“Girls Night,” Steph clarifies. “Plus, you still need to meet part of the family.”

Cass has his arm firmly grasped in her hands and she’s gently and insistently pulling him away from the workshop and towards the van. He could break free, but he’s not sure that would be worth it. Cass seems like she’d enjoy the challenge of finding a way to wrestle him into the van. He climbs in, irritation at being interrupted in his admittedly pointless work giving way to confusion.

“I'm pretty sure I don't fit your target demographic for girls night,” Peter says.

“We're flexible,” Steph declares, starting the van and whipping it back out of the cave the moment all three of them are inside. She takes them down a long, cavernous tunnel that leads into an abandoned subway, and then--somehow--onto a back street somewhere in Gotham. “Besides, the other guys get to join us for girls night on occasion, so we’re not really breaking any rules here. Come on, we’ve got pizza and movies waiting for us.”

“Movies?” Peter asks.

“Sure. Have you seen The Gray Ghost? Does that movie exist in your universe?” Steph asks. “We have to get you up to date on the classics here. Necessary exercise for your cultural development.”

If anything, her driving is somehow worse than Dick’s. Dick at least stayed on actual streets; Steph is not above crossing parking lots, speeding down alleyways, or making turns that make the van tilt. Peter skitters up to the roof for safety. Cass seems to find this amusing and a little fascinated. Steph is equal parts fascinated and disturbed when she sees him wall crawl on to the van’s ceiling.

“No, The Gray Ghost isn’t a movie that exists in my universe.” He thinks. He’s seen a lot of movies, sure, but it’s not like he’s seen all of them. “Why are you driving like we’re being chased?”

“Is that comfortable?” Steph asks him, glancing up from the rearview mirror and utterly ignoring his question.

“Is this a hazing thing. Is this what you guys do to people who know your secret identities?” Peter asks.

“Yes,” Cass says simply. “Do you like popcorn?”

“Yes,” Peter replies, surrendering to whatever madness these two have in mind for him. “With extra butter.”

Cass nods.

He almost misses when the Bats at least pretended to be normal around him. It seems seeing their real identities has given them the idea they can just stop pretending to be normal around him at all. Or, he thinks with a sinking suspicion, they are being normal. This is just their default state that they kept hidden or he was too oblivious to notice while dealing with the ghosts and his constant pain and exhaustion.

Steph brings the van to a screeching halt and puts it in park. If Peter wasn’t already plastered to the roof of the van, he’d have been thrown into the front of the van. She cheerfully announces, “And we’re here! Come on, let’s get upstairs.”

With that, she pops open the door and ducks out of the van. Peter stares after her and then gives Cass a worried, baffled look. Cass grins at him and opens the side door for them, leading out into a rather utilitarian garage not unlike the one they left behind in the cave. This place is smaller, but just as neatly built, and it isn’t until they enter the elevator that Peter realizes they’re inside the clock tower in Old Gotham. Which is on the other side of the city from Wayne Manor.

He compares the time it took them to cross the city (granted, sometimes in a hidden tunnel or two) with the speed Steph sustained and comes to a nauseating conclusion about the speed Steph used to bring them here.

The elevator lets out a pleasant ding! as it reaches the top floor, the doors opening smoothly. He’s surprised by how modern the elevator is, and how maintained. Most elevators in older buildings like this--and the clock tower is ancient by this city’s standards--tend to have their own little quirky sounds when they function. Peter’s used to hearing harmless rattles and creaks as elevators rise or fall, but this one only has a nearly silent hum.

Other small details leap out at him as the doors open and Steph practically skips out of the elevator with a happy ‘hey, we’re back!’ shout. The interior of the clock tower is soundproofed, reinforced to an absurd degree, and has telltale slots for steel shutters to roll or slot into place. This isn’t a clock tower so much as a bunker, and Peter can see Bruce’s hand in the design.

Where the cave is utilitarian (well, more or less, depending on how you view the dinosaur, anyway), the tower is warm. Everything looks lived in and welcoming, with couches, photos, bookshelves, even a small kitchenette in the corner. Cass vaults over the counter and starts to rummage through the cabinets, pulling out bags of popcorn to put in the microwave.

“I wondered when someone would bring you by,” a familiar voice says behind him.

Peter turns around to see a redheaded woman sitting in a wheelchair near a doorway. She grins at him, coming into the room and stopping near him.

“Barbara?” Peter asks.

She smiles up at him, amused. “Hi, Peter. I’m Oracle.”

Peter pauses, thinks back to the first time he entered the library, and firmly pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are kidding me.”

“Not at all,” she says, grinning. “You could’ve skipped a few steps of this whole journey if you’d just talked to me.”

“I think I’m allergic to talking about the past six months, actually.”

“Fair, the rest of us are bad about discussing that kind of thing, too,” Barbara says, giving him a wry grin. “If it helps, you’re in good company. Just don’t turn off your headset or locator again.”

“No promises,” Peter says. Barbara doesn’t seem surprised by that answer, but also doesn’t object. “All of you are handling my freak out uncomfortably well.”

“We’re into big dramatic displays in this family, you’re fitting right in,” Barbara assures him. She glances at Cass cheerfully dumping a ton of butter (the correct amount in Peter’s mind) into a massive bowl of popcorn. “Movie night, huh?”

“Steph claims it’s important for my cultural development.”

“She’s right. This is one of Bruce’s favorites,” Barbara says.

Steph skips back into the room, a battered DVD case in hand. “Found it!”

She vaults over the back of the couch and leans down to put the DVD in, just as Cass walks in with three massive bowls of popcorn. She hands one to Peter and nods towards the couch. Barbara is given a second bowl of popcorn.

“Okay!” Steph says, dropping onto the couch. “First movie’s in. We have two more to get through before patrol, so let’s get going.”

Barabara grins at him. “Welcome to the family.”

The movies aren’t bad. The popcorn is inexpertly made.

The company is fantastic. Not a bad night.

* * *

Bruce tracks him down a week after his movie night with the Batgirls, right around midnight. He knocks on the doorframe of Peter’s bedroom before peering inside the room. He pauses for a moment to gather himself when he finds Peter sitting upside down on the ceiling of his bedroom. It isn’t the first time he’s found the newest member of the manor crawling across the walls and ceilings, but it takes him a second or two to get used to used it. The fact that it’s night time and Peter hasn’t bothered to turn on the lights probably doesn’t help. He knows his eyes flash in the dark now.

“Your suit finished repairing itself,” Bruce says after a moment. “You should come to the cave.”

With that, he turns around and leaves. Peter freezes, momentarily shocked, and then hurries after the man, crawling first across the ceiling, then along the wall, before dropping down onto his feet to jog after Bruce. The trip down into the cave is a blur, and his breath catches when he sees the Iron Spider standing upright next to the workbench he and Bruce sat at weeks ago.

The eyes of the suit flash when he comes into view, the head twitching over to face Peter directly.

“Security check,” FRIDAY says. “Are you safe, Peter?”

“Yes,” Peter says.

There's a subtle shift along the skin of the suit. Weapons and defense protocols disabling themselves, most likely. Peter thinks of the pod somehow relaxing out of a fighting posture, and idly wonders how much of FRIDAY’s security is programmed for his safety.

Bruce takes a step into view of the suit. The Iron Spider's eyes dim, and become rimmed in red.

Peter notices. "It's okay, FRIDAY! This is Bruce Wayne. He's on our side. Um, give him the standard permissions? And the rest of the Bat crew, too. You can ask Bruce for their names.”

"Understood, Peter,” FRIDAY says. “Updating security protocols now.”

“What’s your current status, FRIDAY?” Peter asks. The suit looks solid enough, but there are bare spots along the arms where he took the brunt of the damage from shattering the kryptonite crystals. Whatever repairs happened there were basic, at best.

“Internal computation and storage is intact. Web fluid has been depleted, web shooters are currently functional. Overall suit integrity rests at twenty-five percent and is not recommended for use on patrol until the boss has repaired it. I am unable to make a connection with the Avengers Compound or the Stark network satellites," FRIDAY reports.

"There aren't any for you to connect to. The Avengers are gone and Stark Industries doesn’t exist here," Peter says, an uneasy twisting feeling filling his chest. "It's-it's just you and me, FRIDAY. Everyone else is gone.”

The suit falls silent, the blue white on the helmet focused on Peter. After a minute, FRIDAY's tone changes, actually becomes gentle. "I see. The boss thought this might happen."

"He what?" Peter asks. “He planned for this?”

“He planned for everything,” FRIDAY replies. “The boss has more plans and protocols than you know. This is one of his worst case scenarios. He prepared a message for you in case it happened. Would you like to see it?"

Peter hesitates, unsure if he’s ready to hear this, before saying, "Yes. Please."

A hologram projects from the Iron Spider's chest, and a lifelike image of Tony Stark appears in the workshop, illuminated by a faint blue light the fills the cave with a gentle glow. He's wearing one of his tailored suits, his hair is press perfect and his goatee groomed. He looks real enough to touch, and the sharp difference between this man and the pale shadow doomed to starvation in space makes Peter's heart clench.

"Peter, if you're seeing this, then a lot went wrong,” Tony says. The hologram catches all of his mannerisms perfectly. His shifting stance, his deep frown, distant look, all of it. “By which I mean, everything went wrong. This is a nightmare scenario. Actually this is the nightmare scenario."

"I'm dead, obviously, or you wouldn't see this at all, but this particular message is only supposed to play if all of us are gone. By all of us, I mean the Avengers. Every last one of them. It also means that everyone else I’ve made suits for is gone, too. May, Happy, and Pepper. Hell, it means even Nick Fury is gone, and that’s mildly terrifying to think about." He pauses, staring off for a moment, then adds, "This is the Sole Survivor protocol, and it'll grant you a lot of permissions in FRIDAY's database and my tech. You can ask FRIDAY what that means after this."

Access that means absolutely nothing in a universe without Stark tech, Peter thinks darkly. All he has now is the suit, and given its current state, he’s not sure how long that will last. FRIDAY herself needs servers and upkeep that might be out of his skill range; he’s good at software and computers, but he doesn’t have Tony’s genius or Ned’s brilliance when it comes to them.

The thought of Ned adds another pang of grief.

Tony paces the length of the workshop, a grim look on his face. "If this protocol is activated, then it means that the war I worried would happen back in 2012 finally found us. And if you’re seeing this, we lost. And you, probably against my orders, took part, even after I told you to stay out of it. I know you well enough to know that sidelining you doesn’t work. I've already tried that."

Peter winces. Yeah, that's one way of putting it.

"So with that in mind, I want you to pay very close attention to what I'm about to say," Tony says. He turns and faces Peter directly, focusing on him, the movement startling him. "What happened wasn't your fault. I knew going into this whole superhero thing what the endgame would be, and that goes for every other Avenger. We all knew the potential cost. At least, I hope we all did.”

He paces again. "If it was strong enough to kill the Hulk, stubborn enough to hunt down Cap, and quick enough to kill Thor, we were never strong enough to fight it. If it was smart enough to kill me, then I never stood a chance. If it was sneaky enough to get Nat and Clint, and clever enough to kill T'Challa, then none of us stood a chance at all. I want you to remember that." Tony stops, sighs. “Make sure you play this part back. I know it might take awhile before you really believe it. I’m tempted to set it as a repeating message for FRIDAY to hit you over the head with, but I’m also afraid that would have the opposite effect.”

Tony pauses, letting Peter mull over that for a few moments before continuing.

"Basically, you're all the world has from this moment forward. The last Avenger alive--and you've been an Avenger this whole time, even if it never became official. What's important is that you survived. That makes it a victory in itself, whether you believe it or not.” He sighs again, rubbing his chin, and adds, a bit ruefully, “Knowing you, you probably won't believe that for a long time. We’re a little too much alike in that way, kid."

"Having said all that, here's your marching orders--God, I sound like Cap, scratch that. Here's your heavy suggestion: get help. Restart the Avengers Initiative. Hell, restart SHIELD if you feel like it or get some ‘spider squad’ thing together. Just find a way to get others to help you piece this world back together. You're good, and you'll be the best of us someday, but you can't fight something like this one-to-one. And you can't isolate yourself either. That's another trait we share, and it's dangerous. Find others to help you. Prepare them. End the threat when it comes back. Because it will. It will always come back."

He pauses, frowns and sighs again. "I'm sorry that you're going through this alone. It isn’t fair, or right, but I think you know how fair and right life can be. I know you'll pull through. I believe in you, Peter. Always have. Good luck."

Tony's image blinks out of existence. Peter barely acknowledges it. He stares past the suit, lost in his own thoughts, thinking of the man he left to die painfully and slowly in the void of their home universe.

He isn't sure how long he stays like that. Eventually, he hears measured footsteps walk towards him.

A gentle hand on his shoulder pulls his attention away from Tony's message. When Peter looks up, he's surprised to find himself staring up at Bruce Wayne.

"You should get some food and some rest," he says. "Alfred's waiting for you upstairs."

Peter sighs, rubbing his eyes. "Yeah. Okay. FRIDAY, I’m going to go to bed. Keep working on the repairs.”

“Understood, Peter,” FRIDAY replies. “Good night.”

Peter stares at the suit for a moment longer, thoughtful and feeling vaguely homesick. Eventually, he heads back upstairs into the manor, leaving Bruce behind. He uses one of the other exits, avoiding the kitchen and Alfred entirely. He needs time alone to think. To adjust to this new life.

He leaves the cave unsure of if or when he’ll be able to stand seeing that hologram again.

* * *

Bruce Wayne stares at the suit standing inside his workshop, his mind turning over every word Tony Stark’s hologram said, idly associating the suit, its inventor, Peter, and the circumstances surrounding all of those pieces into their own neat little lists and components.

“Computer,” he says, testing out a theory. “Do I have permission to access the information stored within your archives?”

"Yes, Peter has granted you full access to that portion of my function.”

Helpful, but not entirely wise for Peter to offhandedly grant access to what is essentially a super weapon to someone like that. Even though Bruce has good intentions, that sort of thoughtless gesture could lead to dangerous outcomes. Something to talk to Dick about. Peter’s training is half done at best; he’ll likely handle correction and instruction from Dick better than he would from Bruce. Or maybe not. They’re too alike in some respects.

He mulls over the problem in the back of his mind as he considers the suit in front of him. The design is sleek, well made, a bit too heavy on technology for his tastes, but he judges that’s more due to Tony Stark’s reliance on his own inventions than anything else. The man is an engineer, and engineers often find solutions in want of a problem. Tony’s solutions appear to be high tech super suits with minds of their own. Odd. Dangerous if the wrong mind takes over the wrong suit, but the suits also appear to have countermeasures in play, otherwise the battle in the Spire would have gone in a different and disastrous direction.

"Computer," Bruce says, then corrects himself. Tony gave her a name and the intelligence to recognize it. He should at least follow that direction. "FRIDAY."

The suit’s eyes flare. "Yes, Mr. Wayne?"

Eerie. Too personal, too human. Bruce idly wonders about the man who created this suit, why he felt the need to turn his tools into people.

"Tell me about the Avengers. And then show me what happened to them."

"Of course.” A hologram projects from the Iron Spider, an image of a man as large and strong as Clark. He almost looks like Diana’s Steve Trevor, and the resemblance throws him for a moment. The similarities are stark and obvious.

“The first Avenger is Captain Steve Rogers, better known as Captain America--" FRIDAY begins.

Bruce sits, and watches, and learns.

When FRIDAY finishes, he begins to plan.

He doesn’t know Tony Stark, but he agrees with him on one subject at least.

The threat always comes back.