Chapter Text
The sound of thunder cracked ominously above the warehouse, each bolt of lightning momentarily blinding the shattered windows with its searing intensity. Rain lashed against the rusted metal walls, the storm’s fury a fitting backdrop for the confrontation taking place within. Two men faced each other in the dim, flickering light. On one side stood Peter Parker— Spider-Man —his torn suit a testament to the brutal battle he had barely survived. Otto Octavius’s mechanical arms had left their mark, and the wounds on Peter’s body were hastily patched with makeshift web bandages, sticky with blood. Opposite him, blocking the only exit, loomed the imposing figure of the Red Hood.
The helmeted vigilante’s presence filled the space, his broad frame seeming to crowd the very air. Peter’s mind was a chaotic swirl of exhaustion, grief, and a flickering, desperate instinct to survive. Then came the words that froze him in place:
“Peter,”
The Red Hood had said his name.
Peter’s blood ran cold. The sound of his name, spoken aloud by one of Gotham’s most brutal vigilantes, shattered any illusion of control he had left. The Red Hood was infamous, a dark legend among the threads of forums and wikis Peter had scoured months ago. He was not the sort of man you wanted knowing your identity, especially not when you were standing over the corpse of someone you had once called a mentor.
Peter’s body felt like it might give out. His muscles burned, his wounds throbbed, and his mind reeled. He had just killed a man.
Not just any man.
A man he had once admired. Trusted. Loved—in the way a lost son loves the surrogate father who shows him a glimpse of stability. A man who had known him in ways no one else had, who had seen through every mask, every layer of deflection, and still called him brilliant. A man who had betrayed him so deeply that Peter didn’t even know where the betrayal ended and the anger began.
A man who had known his secret.
Known he didn’t belong here, in this universe.
And now that man was dead, lying lifeless on the cold, oil-stained floor behind him. The necrotic bite wound on his neck, Peter’s own doing, was already turning the air rancid as the flesh dissolved into a putrid sludge. The smell clawed at Peter’s senses, bile rising in his throat as the image burned itself into his mind.
Peter’s breaths came in ragged gasps, each one harder to draw than the last. His hands trembled, the fingers sticky with blood—not all of it his. His knees buckled, and he staggered, leaning heavily against the wall.
I killed him.
The thought repeated like a broken record, echoing over and over again in the hollow chamber of his mind. He didn’t know how much more he could take. He didn’t know how much more he wanted to take. His healing factor dulled the sharp edges of his physical pain, but it did nothing to silence the screams in his head.
Maybe this was it.
Maybe he had finally hit his limit.
Maybe—just fucking maybe—he was ready to stop fighting.
“Peter, hey,” the Red Hood’s voice cut through the cacophony in his head, distorted by the modulation of his helmet. Each word grated on Peter’s frayed nerves, the sound hitting like a hammer against a cracked glass pane. Red Hood had his hands up, the universal gesture of someone approaching a wounded animal.
“Hey, I need you to stay there. Don’t—”
But Peter wasn’t hearing him.
The voices in his head were louder, screaming over everything else. One begged him to give in, to fall to his knees and let the world finally finish the job it had started when he was fourteen. Another raged, a feral beast clawing at his sanity, cranking every one of his senses to a searing maximum.
His skin burned .
It felt like a million tiny creatures crawled under his flesh, trying to violently erupt, trying to spill out the same raw agony that had been eating him alive every second of every day for years.
The grief of losing.
The pain of being the reason everything he cared about was dead or gone.
The agony of knowing that no matter how many bones he broke or wounds he bled from, he would never be enough. Never strong enough, never smart enough, never fast enough to save the ones who needed him most.
Peter’s head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the man before him. The flickering light in the room cast eerie shadows across the Red Hood’s helmet, but Peter didn’t care.
He was so goddamn tired .
Tired of the grief.
Tired of the fucking moral high ground that left him bloody, broken, and alone every time.
He had bled for New York until there was nothing left of him but scraps.
And then he had been ripped apart.
Torn at the subatomic level, every cell, every particle of his being scattered into the void. He had been forced to feel it. Forced to be aware of it as the universe itself unraveled him.
The last fucking thing he needed right now was this vigilante—this man who thought he could step in and fix things—saying his name like that. Like it was an anchor . Like the Red fucking Hood had any right to steady him.
Peter’s fists clenched, his knuckles white with the strain. “Don’t,” he rasped, his voice raw and broken.
“Don’t what?” Jason asked cautiously, his voice softer now, but it only pissed Peter off more.
“Don’t say my name like that.”
Rdd Hood tilted his head slightly, his stance still non-threatening but ready to act if needed. “Like what?”
“Like it fucking means something,” Peter spat, his voice shaking with anger, with pain, with everything he had been holding back for years. “Like you can fix this. Like you can fix me. You don’t fucking know me.”
Peter didn’t flinch when the Red Hood didn’t back down. If anything, it made his blood boil hotter. His breathing was sharp and erratic, his heightened senses tearing at his frayed nerves. Every distant car horn, every creak of metal in the rafters, every fucking sound clawed at his mind like a thousand needles stabbing into his skull. Without his mask to filter it all, the world was an unbearable cacophony. He let out another growl of frustration, the sound grating on his throat and making him violently aware of how his very skin stretched and moved , his attention snapping suddenly as the crunch of glass echoed like the screams of millions against his warring senses with the steps Red Hood took to approach him.
To his credit, the Red Hood didn’t flinch at his words. Peter was almost hoping that he would, that he could see Peter was just fucking fine without whatever fucking help he thought he could be. “Maybe not,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “But I’m not gonna let you fall apart right now, Pete. Not here. Not like this.”
The words hit harder than they should have, lodging somewhere deep in Peter’s chest where his rage and pain churned like a storm. He hated how much he wanted to believe them, hated the flicker of warmth they sparked in him. But another monster reared its head, fanged and snarling, snapping against that comfort with a violence that made Peter’s blood sing .
No one else was allowed to fucking call him Pete.
That name belonged to Jason .
Jason, with his teasing grin and the way his voice dipped when he said it, like it was something precious. Jason, who could make his stupid heart flutter with a single smirk. Jason, who could call him Pete and make it sound like it was his name to say.
“You don’t get to fucking call me that,” Peter snarled, his voice raw and vibrating unnaturally deep in his chest. He took a step forward, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white, he could feel his jaw ache with his new fangs, but not a drop of venom left to coat his tongue. “No one else gets to fucking call me that.”
The Red Hood stilled, his hands raised slightly in a gesture of peace. “Alright,” he said slowly, his tone maddeningly calm, stupid fucking modulator making his words hiss and crackle in Peter’s ears to the point he almost wanted to break down and sob. “I won’t call you that again.”
Peter’s laugh was sharp and humorless, cutting through the air like broken glass. “How fucking generous of you,” he spat, the bitterness dripping from his words. His skin felt like it was on fire, overstimulated by every molecule of air brushing against him, by the nanites of his suit sticking to his blood-soaked skin and humming with their own individual frequencies. His hands were twitching, the skin on his knuckles tearing from how hard he was clenching them.
“Look,” the Red Hood began, his voice steady but firmer now, “I’m not here to fight you. You’re bleeding out, you’re shaking like a goddamn leaf, and you’re two seconds from collapsing. Let me help.”
The audacity of the statement ignited a fresh wave of anger. Peter surged forward, grabbing the front of the Red Hood’s jacket and yanking him so close their faces– well, face and helmet– nearly touched. The movement sent sharp jolts of pain through his injured body, but he didn’t care. His rage overpowered everything else.
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Peter hissed, his voice trembling with fury. His grip tightened, and he shook the Red Hood slightly for emphasis. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve fucking been through. So don’t stand there and pretend to give a shit like you’re some goddamn savior .”
The Red Hood didn’t resist. His hands remained up, his body language cautious but unwavering. “You’re right,” he said evenly, his voice softer now but still firm. “I don’t know what you’ve been through. But I know what it’s like to feel like this—to feel like the world has chewed you up, ripped you apart, and still demands more.”
Peter’s breath hitched, but his grip didn’t falter. The fury was still there, but it tangled with the deep, gut-wrenching ache of grief and despair.
“You don’t know shit,” Peter snarled, his voice breaking on the last word. His heightened senses roared louder, the overload threatening to drown him completely. His head felt like it might split open from the pressure of it all.
“I don’t have to know,” the Red Hood replied, his tone soft but unyielding. “What I do know is that you’re standing here, fighting with everything you’ve got left, and it’s tearing you apart.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “I’m not here to judge you, Pete—”
“ Don’t call me that! ” Peter bellowed, shoving the Red Hood back with all the strength he had left. A bitter satisfaction sank into his very bone marrow as the action sent the man stumbling back into the doorframe. The hollow victory deepened as Red Hood reflexively drew one of his handguns, the faint metallic click of the safety disengaging sharp against Peter’s heightened senses.
For a moment, the tension was electric, a razor-thin line between chaos and control. But the Red Hood didn’t escalate. He didn’t bark or retaliate. Instead, he took a steadying breath, lowering the weapon slightly, though his grip remained firm.
“Fine,” he said, his voice calm but firm, the modulator giving it an edge of distortion. “I won’t call you that. But you need to let me help, or you’re going to bleed out—and I don’t think either of us wants that.”
Peter’s body wavered, swaying like a tree about to snap under the weight of a storm. Every nerve screamed at him to collapse, to let the darkness take over, but his mind clung stubbornly to his anger, his grief, the unbearable pressure of everything he had been carrying for so long.
His hands trembled violently as he forced them to flex from the fists they had once again curled into, fingers curling weakly at his sides. His chest rose and fell in jagged, unsteady breaths, and his legs felt like they might give out at any moment.
“I don’t need your fucking help,” Peter spat, though the venom in his words was blunted by exhaustion, his voice cracking under the strain.
“You might not think so,” Red Hood replied evenly, holstering his gun with deliberate care. “But your body clearly disagrees.”
Peter’s glare was sharp, his fiery defiance battling against the undeniable truth in the other man’s words. His legs wavered, a subtle buckle that made his knees threaten to give way, but sheer force of will kept him upright.
The Red Hood didn’t advance, didn’t press his advantage. He simply held his ground, his gaze steady and unyielding, waiting for Peter’s next move.
“I didn’t fucking ask you for help,” Peter growled again, though the edge in his voice was dulled, his earlier venom reduced to a simmer. It was his only response to everything that was going on right now, the one thing he could fucking control amidst the storm of emotion and over stimulation that was haunting him like the storm that had rolled into Gotham from out at sea.
“No,” the Red Hood said quietly, his tone calm but firm as he had to repeat himself. “But you damn well need it.”
A tense silence settled between them, broken only by Peter’s ragged, uneven breathing. The weight of the moment pressed down hard, neither man willing to fully relent. Finally, Peter turned his head away, his jaw tightening, the muscles in his neck straining with the effort to keep upright. It was a small, reluctant gesture of acknowledgment, but it came laced with shame. The feeling only deepened when Peter found himself leaning back against some metal cargo containers to stay upright, only to soon be sitting when his legs finally gave out.
“Come on,” Red Hood said, his voice a mix of exasperation and concern as he crouched down beside Peter. “You’re not staying here. My safe house is closer, and I’ve got what I need to patch you up properly.”
Peter scowled, forcing himself to stay upright despite his body screaming in protest. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Red Hood sighed, pinching the bridge of his helmet like Peter was an annoying younger brother instead of a bleeding wreck. “Look, you don’t have to trust me, but if we stick around here, someone’s going to find us—cops, thugs, or worse. You’re in no condition to deal with any of them. So you can either keep arguing, or you can let me help you before you keel over and make this decision for both of us.”
Peter clenched his jaw, torn between pride and the undeniable truth of Red Hood’s words. His legs wobbled as he tried to push himself off the cargo container, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning.
“Fine,” he bit out, his voice sharp with reluctance. Belatedly, he muttered a command under his breath for the nanites in the suit to reactivate his mask, ignoring the look Red Hood shot at him about it. “But this doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Red Hood muttered, slinging Peter’s arm over his shoulder and hauling him upright with surprising care. “Save the heartfelt speeches for later.”
The walk to Red Hood’s safe house was mercifully short, though it felt like an eternity to Peter. Every step sent fresh waves of pain through his battered body, and by the time they reached the nondescript building, he was barely holding himself together.
The safe house was surprisingly clean and well-equipped, with a medkit laid out on a sturdy metal table and a cot pushed against one wall. Red Hood guided Peter to the cot, easing him down with more care than Peter expected.
“Stay put,” Red Hood ordered, rummaging through the medkit. “You’re not dying on my watch.”
Peter’s head lolled back against the wall as he struggled to catch his breath. His senses were still raw and overstimulated, every sound and smell amplified to an unbearable degree. He didn’t even have the energy to snap at Red Hood when he returned with antiseptic and bandages.
“Suit off,” Red Hood said, setting the supplies down beside him.
Peter glared, his exhaustion warring with his pride. “I can handle it myself.”
“Yeah, no offense, but you look like you’re about to pass out,” Red Hood replied, his tone flat. “If you can’t even stand without help, I’m not betting on your ability to clean a wound.”
Peter hesitated, the flicker of defiance in his eyes dimming beneath the weight of exhaustion and pain. With a sharp, pained groan, he shifted upright, the movement clearly costing him more than he cared to admit. His voice came rough, strained through gritted teeth.
“Retract... just leave the pants and boots.”
Before Red Hood could ask what the hell he was talking about, the suit began to shift. The nanites melted away like liquid metal, cascading down Peter’s body in smooth, shimmering waves before pooling at his boots and stabilizing. In a matter of seconds, the advanced material had vanished entirely from his torso, leaving him shirtless but still clad in the pants and boots of the suit.
Red Hood froze, watching the display with a mix of surprise and unease. “What the—”
Peter cut him off, glaring with the last scraps of energy he could muster. His exposed skin was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, a vivid testament to the beating he’d endured, but the fire in his eyes burned undimmed.
“Happy now?” he snapped, his voice biting despite its weariness.
Red Hood recovered quickly, leaning back slightly as if to give Peter space—but his tone remained sharp. “Fucking ecstatic, actually,” he quipped, though his hands betrayed a flicker of concern as they trembled lightly at the more severe injuries marring Peter’s skin.
Peter huffed, annoyed but too drained to argue further, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The air between them felt heavy, the tension laced with unspoken questions and grudging acceptance. Red Hood didn’t react in any other way to the sight of Peter’s bruised and bloodied torso, his movements steadying as he grabbed a bottle of antiseptic. “This is gonna sting,” he said, not waiting for Peter’s response before dabbing the liquid onto the worst of the gashes.
Peter hissed, his hands curling into fists against the pain.
“Take it easy,” Red Hood said, his tone almost... gentle. “You’ve been through worse, right?”
Red Hood worked in focused silence, his hands precise as he cleaned Peter’s wounds. Each dab of antiseptic felt like fire on raw skin, and Peter bit down on his anger, glaring daggers at the vigilante who had forced him into this vulnerable position.
“Shut the hell up,” Peter growled when Red Hood made a passing comment about him “having survived worse.”
“ Touchy ,” Red Hood muttered, smirking faintly beneath his helmet, though his voice was calm. He moved onto the next wound, unbothered by Peter’s ire. The tension in the room was palpable, each breath from Peter shallow and labored, the weight of the day crushing down on him. But then he stopped. He set the antiseptic aside, the clink of the bottle against the metal tray sharp in the quiet space.
“What the hell are you doing?” Peter’s voice cut through the silence as his hands moved toward the helmet, even as Peter was in his currently wounded state it was almost like he was looking for an exit.
Red Hood didn’t answer immediately. Instead, with a quiet hiss of released pressure, he removed the sleek red helmet, revealing his face to Peter. Strong, sharp features framed by the streak of white in his dark hair. Piercing blue eyes that now looked at Peter not with judgment or irritation, but with something softer— understanding .
“Jason?” Peter’s voice broke, the name slipping out before he could stop it, it felt like his heart was in his throat.
Jason nodded, setting the helmet aside with deliberate care. “Yeah, it’s me.” His voice, free of modulation, was quieter, softer than Peter had ever heard it, even counting some of their dates.
Peter’s chest heaved, his emotions crashing over him in relentless waves. The anger, the grief, the guilt—it all surged forward, unstoppable and overwhelming. “Jason, I...” His voice cracked, and he looked away, as though ashamed to meet Jason’s gaze. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was you.”
Jason moved closer, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “I know you didn’t,” he said evenly, no anger in his tone. “You didn’t know. And yeah, you were rough on me, but it’s not like I haven’t heard worse.”
Peter shook his head violently, his fists clenching against his thighs. “No, you don’t get it. I was awful to you. God, I’ve been so fucking awful.” His breath hitched, and his voice broke as the tears he’d been holding back for hours finally started to fall. “You didn’t deserve that, Jason. None of it.”
Jason crouched down in front of him, his piercing gaze steady. “Pete— Peter —listen to me,” he said, his voice calm but firm, anchoring Peter in the storm of his own emotions. “You’ve been through hell. I can see it. I don’t know all the details, but I don’t need to. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’ve done—it’s okay. I’m not here to judge you. Not for the warehouse, not for not talking about this, I promise you that.”
Peter looked up at him, his face crumpling as more tears slipped free. “You should be. You should hate me–” The part he wanted to add about ‘everyone else did’ died on his tongue.
Jason reached out, his hand settling on Peter’s shoulder, then tenderly shifting it to the back of his neck to grip there instead. His grip was firm, grounding, and yet gentle enough to let Peter pull away if he wanted to. “Hate you? For what? Being human? Being overwhelmed ? You’re allowed to break down, Peter. You’re not some invincible force of nature, no matter how much you might want to be.”
“I said horrible things to you,” Peter whispered, his voice hoarse and thick with emotion. “I pushed you. You didn’t deserve that.”
Jason’s lips quirked into a faint, almost sad smile. “Maybe not. But I’ve been through worse. And I know what it’s like to lash out because you’re hurting.”
Peter stared at him, his breath trembling as he struggled to process Jason’s words. For the first time, he let himself feel the crushing weight of his guilt and grief without trying to push it away. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry.”
Jason’s grip on him tightened just slightly, a reassuring pressure. “I know,” he said softly. “And it’s okay.”
The words, simple as they were, hit Peter harder than he’d expected. They cut through the anger, the pain, and the relentless tide of grief that had been threatening to drown him for so long. His body sagged forward, as if the weight of it all was finally too much to bear. The tension that had kept him upright, that had kept him fighting even when he had nothing left, melted away in an instant.
For a moment, Peter sat there, trembling and silent, the room heavy with the sound of his labored breathing. His chest heaved as he tried to keep it all in, tried to hold on to the fragile walls he’d built to protect himself, but they were crumbling faster than he could patch them. The tears came before he could stop them, hot and unstoppable, streaking down his face in silent surrender.
Jason didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to offer meaningless reassurances or tell Peter it was going to be okay, because they both knew it wasn’t. Instead, he stayed close, steady and unwavering, a presence Peter hadn’t realized he needed until now.
Finally, Peter let himself lean on someone else. His head found its place against Jason’s shoulder, his breaths shuddering as the sobs began to break free. They started small, quiet and stifled, but quickly grew into something raw and uncontrollable. He clung to Jason’s leather jacket, his hands curling into the fabric with a desperation that mirrored the storm raging inside him.
These weren’t just tears of exhaustion or physical pain—they were the tears of someone who had been holding everything in for far too long. The weight of failure, loss, and guilt poured out of him, each sob tearing its way from his chest like a jagged wound reopening.
Jason remained still, his body a solid anchor against the chaos threatening to pull Peter apart. He didn’t flinch or pull away, even as Peter’s grip on his jacket tightened to the point of bruising. His hand hovered for a moment before settling gently on Peter’s back, offering silent comfort without overstepping.
Peter’s sobs came in waves, loud and ragged, echoing through the room like the sound of something breaking—and perhaps, in a way, it was. The walls he’d built around himself, the weight he carried alone, the endless fight to stay strong when everything inside him was screaming to let go—it all cracked and shattered under the force of his grief.
He sobbed until his throat was raw, until his body felt hollow and spent. And through it all, Jason stayed, his quiet presence saying everything Peter needed to hear without a single word being spoken.
When the storm finally began to subside, Peter’s breaths evened out into something softer, though his body still trembled with the aftershocks. He didn’t move right away, too drained to do anything but stay where he was, his forehead pressed against Jason’s shoulder, his fists still clutching the leather like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Peter allowed himself to just be. To feel his pain, his exhaustion, and his vulnerability without the crushing expectation to push through it. It was messy and uncomfortable, but it was also necessary.
And Jason, steady as ever, didn’t let go.
The room was silent except for Peter’s exhausted breaths, the storm of emotions having run its course. His body was spent, his mind raw, but there was a strange kind of clarity in the aftermath. He pulled back slightly, enough to meet Jason’s gaze, his red-rimmed eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“I told you not to call me Pete,” Peter began, his voice hoarse from crying.
Jason’s lips quirked in a faint smile, his hand still resting on Peter’s back. “Yeah, you were pretty clear about that,” he said, his tone light but cautious, like he was testing the waters.
Peter hesitated, his gaze dropping to where his hands still clung to Jason’s jacket. Slowly, he let go, his fingers trembling as he smoothed the fabric down. “I only said that because…” He trailed off, his voice catching as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Because Pete was something I just wanted you to call me. It—it felt like mine. Like ours… Didn’t want Red Hood saying it because it was for you… just… only you…”
Jason blinked, his usually sharp demeanor softening at the quiet admission. “Pete, huh?” he said, his voice gentler now.
Peter nodded, swallowing hard as he forced himself to look Jason in the eye. “Yeah. It’s… stupid, I know, but I didn’t want anyone else to call me that. Just you.”
Jason tilted his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he smiled—small, genuine, and surprisingly kind. “It’s not stupid,” he said, his voice low but firm. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me.”
Peter’s lips twitched, a faint ghost of a smile trying to form but failing under the weight of his exhaustion. “So… you can call me Pete,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “If you want to.”
Jason let the quiet between them stretch for a moment longer, allowing Peter to breathe, to settle into the fragile calm that had finally taken hold. His hand lingered briefly on Peter’s back before withdrawing, his movements uncharacteristically gentle.
“Thanks for the permission,” Jason said, his voice lighter than Peter expected, though it carried no mockery, only warmth. “Pete.”
The name rolled off Jason’s tongue in a way that felt different from anyone else’s. It wasn’t casual or dismissive—it was careful, deliberate, and carried an intimacy that Peter wasn’t sure he deserved. The way Jason said it settled something inside him. It didn’t fix everything, didn’t erase the pain or the guilt or the unbearable weight of loss that still pressed down on him. But it was something.
And right now, something was enough.
Jason leaned back slightly, just enough to meet Peter’s gaze without breaking the sense of closeness between them. His brow furrowed, concern etched into every line of his face. “Pete... what the hell happened back there?” he asked, his voice steady but tinged with the kind of softness that was rare for him to hear whenever anyone asked him that.
Peter blinked, his exhaustion battling with the sharp stab of memory. His shoulders tensed instinctively, but Jason didn’t push—he simply waited, his expression open and patient in a way that somehow made Peter’s chest ache.
“I... I was tracking someone,” Peter admitted finally, his voice hoarse from crying. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out as if they weighed more than he could bear. “Tim got taken. He’s my student, Jason. He’s... he’s a kid. He’s brilliant, and they took him.”
Jason’s eyes darkened, a flash of anger sparking in his expression, but he stayed silent, letting Peter continue.
Peter’s voice trembled as he tried to steady it, but the words spilled out in a rush, raw and uneven. “I found out the Riddler had him, but it wasn’t just him. It was Otto. Doctor Octavius. ” He paused, his hands flexing into tight fists at his sides. “I’d run into Otto earlier that day—I didn’t know he was here. I didn’t know, and I fucking hesitated on the street. I pretended not to know him, tried to act like someone I’m not, someone I can’t be.”
Jason didn’t interrupt, his expression darkening as Peter continued, his words becoming sharper, edged with regret.
“I thought I could get away with it,” Peter said, his voice cracking. “I thought he wouldn’t see past me, wouldn’t recognize me But he talked to me. I should’ve fucking known better. I went home after that, and I just... I sat there, staring at the suit, fighting with myself. You know?” He let out a hollow laugh, shaking his head. “I’d finally found normal. I was just a professor. Sure, I’m still enhanced, still got abilities, but I’d carved out a life where I didn’t have to almost fucking die every day just to get through it.”
Jason’s gaze softened slightly, but he stayed quiet, letting Peter vent.
“The suit was just sitting there,” Peter continued, his voice dropping, as if the memory itself was suffocating. “It was like it was fucking taunting me. Reminding me that I can’t leave it behind, not really. And then... you texted.”
Peter’s voice wavered, the guilt threading through every word. “I looked at my phone, ready to reply, but then the emergency shelter-in-place notification popped up. I looked at it, and then I saw him. ” He paused, his breath hitching. “The grainy photo they had of an ‘unknown’ partner working with the Riddler. But I knew. I fucking knew. It was Otto.”
He clenched his jaw, his eyes glistening with unspoken pain. “And I just... I felt something inside me snap. ”
Jason tilted his head, the name clearly unfamiliar to him. “Otto? Who’s that?”
Peter’s laugh was bitter and hollow, a sound that didn’t belong in the quiet safety of the room. “Otto used to be... everything I wanted to be. A scientist. A visionary. Someone who could change the world. He was my mentor, Jason. My friend. ”
Jason stayed quiet, his gaze unwavering as Peter’s words grew heavier.
“But that wasn’t enough for him,” Peter said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, his knuckles whitening with the effort to contain his frustration. “He wanted more. Power. Control. He had this feud with another tech company back home—because the CEO, who also happened to be the Mayor, cut our funding. ” Peter’s voice grew sharper, the bitterness cutting through. “And he just... snapped. ”
He paused, his chest heaving slightly as he tried to rein in the torrent of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. “He used the tech we built together—tech we designed to help people —and twisted it. Turned himself into a monster. Literally.”
Peter’s voice cracked, and he glanced away, his jaw tightening as he tried to keep himself from breaking down again. “And the things he’s done... The people he’s hurt…” He exhaled shakily, his head dropping slightly. “I spent a year trying to stop him. Trying to undo the damage he caused. But no matter what I did—no matter how many times I got him locked up in the RAFT—it didn’t matter.”
His voice grew harsher, frustration seeping through every word. “They always broke out. He always broke out. And the cycle just kept repeating. Over and over and over again...”
Peter’s hands trembled, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And every time I thought I had a handle on it, he’d come back. He’d come back and remind me just how much damage one man could do. Remind me how powerless I really was to stop him.”
Jason’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “And he was here. In Gotham.”
Peter nodded, his throat tightening. “When I found out Tim was involved—when I realized Otto had gotten his claws into him, took him I mean—I... I lost it, Jason. I wasn’t thinking. I just—” He broke off, his breath hitching as the memory of the warehouse loomed large in his mind.
“You went to save him,” Jason said, filling in the blank.
Peter nodded again, a shaky exhale escaping him, his voice raw with emotion. “And I did. I got Tim out. But Otto was there, taunting me, and I...” His eyes closed as the weight of his actions came crashing down on him all over again. “I killed him, Jason. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”
His breath hitched, and his words came faster, tumbling out as if he couldn’t stop them now. “It was like... like I was watching myself fight him. Like I wasn’t really there, doing anything. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t control it. I just—” He broke off, his hands shaking as he ran them through his hair.
“And then I sank my teeth into his neck.” His voice cracked, the disgust mingling with something darker. “It felt so good, Jason. So fucking good. I’ve never felt anything like that before. And when something—something inside me—told me to stop, I didn’t. I just kept going. Like I wasn’t me anymore.”
Peter’s fists clenched tightly at his sides, his knuckles pale as his voice dropped to a haunted whisper. “I found out after I dropped his corpse that I had venom. Venom. I never had venom before. I didn’t even know it was possible for me to have it. And then you came in, and I didn’t have my mask, and you said my name. ”
He looked up at Jason, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Everything crashed down around me all at once. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My mind was going a million miles an hour, and I could hear everything in Gotham—all at the same time. The noise, the chaos, the grief, the guilt—it was all pounding in my head, and I just... I kept breaking, Jason. Over and over.”
His shoulders sagged under the weight of his confession, his voice barely a whisper now. “I don’t even know who I am anymore. I don’t know if I ever did.”
Jason reached out, his hand settling on Peter’s arm, grounding him. “Now you’re here,” he said firmly. “And you got Tim out. That’s what matters, Pete.”
Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line, his chest heaving as he fought to keep his emotions at bay. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, the weight of everything he’d been carrying threatening to crush him. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “It’s too much. It’s always too much. Every time I put on the suit, someone dies. Every. Fucking. Time.”
Jason’s brow furrowed, his grip on Peter’s arm tightening. He didn’t interrupt, letting Peter find his words.
Peter’s voice cracked, trembling as he continued. “Last time, it was me.” He laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Now, it’s Otto. Again. Because of me.”
Jason blinked, the words catching him off guard. “You?” he asked, his tone sharp but not unkind. “What do you mean, you? Are you saying you died?”
Peter nodded slowly, his gaze distant, as if staring into the abyss of a memory too vast and harrowing to fully comprehend. “Yeah. I died,” he murmured, his voice thick with disbelief and resignation. The weight of those words lingered, heavier than anything Jason had expected to hear.
Jason’s hand faltered slightly where it rested on Peter’s arm, but he steadied it quickly, his voice low and cautious. “Thanos? Your world? What the hell happened, Pete?”
Peter let out a shaky exhale, his fists curling in his lap. “He wanted power—ultimate power. The Infinity Stones. They weren’t just rumors or myths, Jason—they were real. All six of them, scattered across the universe. Thanos wanted to gather them, to wipe out half of all life with a snap of his fingers, all in the name of ‘balance.’”
Jason’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he absorbed the information. “That’s insane. And you fought him?”
Peter’s bitter laugh was devoid of humor. “Yeah, we fought him. The Avengers, the Guardians of the Galaxy, every fighter we could muster—hell, I was just a kid from Queens with a suit, but I was there too. We gave it everything we had, Jason. And it wasn’t enough. We lost.”
Jason stayed silent, his expression grim, as Peter continued, his voice trembling under the weight of his words.
“When he snapped his fingers…” Peter’s voice faltered, and he squeezed his fists tighter, the memory overwhelming him. “I felt myself disappear. Not like getting hit or knocked out—nothing like that. I felt it all, Jason. My body disintegrating, molecule by molecule. My legs went first, then my arms, my torso. By the time it reached my head, I was in so much pain I couldn’t even scream, couldn’t even beg for it to stop, and it didn’t. And then... nothing. Just nothing. ”
Jason’s hand instinctively tightened on Peter’s arm, grounding him. “You’re serious.”
“You ever feel your body get torn apart, Jason? Not just broken or beaten— torn apart, at the subatomic level? It was like I was being pulled in a million different directions, but I was still aware. Still me. I didn’t stop feeling until there was nothing left of me to feel with.”
Jason’s jaw clenched, but his hand lifted to softly caress through Peter’s hair, causing the other to slowly lean into his touch, a broken whimper leaving him from the sheer tenderness of the action. “Fuck… Pete, you’re serious…”
Peter met Jason’s gaze, his eyes glassy but unwavering. “I wish I wasn’t. I was gone, Jason. Erased from existence. And I was aware. I didn’t know where I was or how long I’d been there—just this void, this absence of everything.”
Jason’s voice was low, barely above a whisper. “How the hell did you come back?”
Peter shrugged, the motion weak and hollow. “I don’t know. One second, I was nothing. The next, I was feeling everything reform atom by atom, some parts of it felt wrong but I couldn’t fucking think, falling headfirst into Gotham. No explanation, no warning—just me, in free-fall, over a city I didn’t recognize.”
Jason’s brow furrowed deeper. “Wait, you woke up falling ?”
“Yeah,” Peter said, his tone sharp with a bitterness that masked lingering confusion. “I opened my eyes, and I was in the middle of the air, no idea where I was, or even when I was. I barely got my bearings in time to stop myself from splattering on some rooftop. It took me an afternoon of blindly exploring… that’s when I realized—I wasn’t in New York anymore. I wasn’t even in my own world. I was here, in Gotham. No Avengers, no Aunt May, no... anyone.”
Jason’s voice softened, his gaze fixed on Peter. “And you’ve been here ever since?”
Peter nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Trying to figure out what the hell happened, why I ended up here. Trying to make sense of it all. But I never found an answer. I just... kept going, kept fighting. Because what else could I do?”
Jason’s grip on his arm tightened just slightly, enough to draw Peter’s attention. “You’re here now. You survived all of that. And yeah, maybe there aren’t any answers, but that doesn’t mean you’re doing this alone anymore, Pete.”
Peter’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a broken smile. “Thanks, Jason. But... it’s hard to believe that sometimes. That it’s not all just some sick joke.”
Jason shook his head, his voice resolute. “It’s not a joke. You’re still here. You’re still fighting. That means something, Pete.”
The words settled between them, fragile yet steady, a lifeline in the storm Peter had been drowning in for far too long. They hung in the air, wrapping around him like a blanket he hadn’t realized he needed. For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself lean into that lifeline—just a little. His body, stiff from exhaustion and the weight of everything he’d been holding inside, finally seemed to relent. The ache in his chest, the endless, gnawing grief, seemed a little more manageable in the quiet space between them.
“I’m so fucking tired, Jason…” he mumbled, the words barely more than a breath. It was an admission he didn’t make often, if ever. His shoulders, which had been taut with anger and self-imposed responsibility, sagged slightly as he allowed himself to sink deeper into the moment. He shifted away from Jason’s hand, his chest tight, and allowed his body to stretch out. Slowly, cautiously, he laid back, his head finding the familiar roughness of Jason’s leather jacket again. His nose tucked instinctively into the crook of Jason’s armor, the closeness—however strained—providing the smallest, quietest comfort.
The world seemed a little quieter here, even if only for a moment. His breathing, sharp and jagged before, began to even out, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest blending with the quiet stillness of the room. Peter’s eyes closed, though the shadows of his past, of all he had lost, still lingered behind his eyelids. But here, with Jason’s presence anchoring him, he could almost forget, if only for a few fleeting moments, that the weight of the world was pressing down on him, threatening to crush him.
Jason’s voice cut through the quiet, low and steady. “You don’t have to keep fighting alone, Pete. Not anymore.”
Peter let out a soft, broken laugh, his chest tightening again. “I don’t know how to stop fighting, Jason.” The words came out raw, the honesty in them stinging more than anything else he’d said in a long time. “I’ve been fighting my whole life… but I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up. I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore…”
Jason’s hand, tentative at first, rested on Peter’s arm again, his grip gentle, as if trying to offer some semblance of stability. “You don’t have to know, Pete. You just have to keep going, one step at a time.”
Peter didn’t answer right away. His mind raced with fragments of thoughts, of memories, of doubts that had plagued him for so long. But in this moment, the idea of just existing —of not having to carry the entire world on his shoulders for a while—felt like a small relief. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
With a deep breath, he allowed his body to relax further, the tension finally melting away. There was no solution to everything that haunted him. No quick fix to all the broken pieces of his life. But for now, leaning against Jason, he could allow himself the rare gift of not having to carry the weight alone. And that, for once, felt like enough.
– + –
Tim was panicking. No, scratch that—he was spiraling . The three empty Zesty cans crumpled on his desk told the story, and the unopened Zesty sitting next to his laptop loomed like a silent dare. His laptop screen displayed a mosaic of encrypted files, search results, and blurred satellite footage, all feeding into the storm brewing in his brain.
It wasn’t just the hostage situation—it was everything . Otto Octavius and the Riddler teaming up was bad enough. But Otto’s grandstanding had taken it to a new level of bizarre. The man had paced the room with an unsettling confidence, his mechanical arms whirring ominously as he spouted cryptic nonsense about “waiting for him.”
Tim hadn’t known who him was until Peter Parker had shown up.
Correction: until Spider-Man had shown up.
Tim could still feel the cold steel of the restraints that had pinned him to the chair, could still hear the mocking tone of Octavius’s voice as he’d talked down to the Riddler, claiming Gotham’s villain was “a small mind in a small world.” He’d bragged about his own brilliance, hinting at dimensions, universes, and a multiverse theory that made Tim’s skin crawl.
“Do you even know who you’ve allied yourself with?” Otto had sneered at Nygma, his arms gesturing wildly. “This city is a wasteland, a petty distraction. But me? I’ve stood against gods. Against titans. And now, I’ve crossed the fabric of reality to end the one who humiliated me. ”
It had sounded ridiculous, like the ramblings of every delusional villain Tim had ever encountered. But then Peter had arrived.
Tim hadn’t known what to think at first. The figure who swung into the warehouse was fast, precise—a red-and-blue blur moving with purpose. He wasn’t one of Gotham’s usual vigilantes, that much was clear. The way he moved was fluid, almost acrobatic, and the technology in his suit screamed high-tech .
And then he’d spoken.
Tim recognized the voice immediately. It was Professor Parker. His professor. The man who graded his papers, cracked self-deprecating jokes about his constant exhaustion, and occasionally showed up late to class with coffee stains on his shirt.
The same man who had just gone toe-to-toe with Otto Octavius, dodging mechanical arms and webbing them to the floor like it was second nature.
Tim could still hear the sharp thwip of the web-shooters, still see the way Peter had landed a brutal kick to one of Otto’s arms before yanking Tim’s chair out of harm’s way.
“Trust me,” Peter had said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll explain everything later. I promise. Right now, I need you to do exactly as I say. Can you do that for me?”
Tim had nodded, still too stunned to process the surreal turn his evening had taken.
And Peter had delivered. Within minutes, Otto was webbed to the ground, thrashing against his bonds while shouting something about his superior intellect. The Riddler hadn’t fared much better, incapacitated with a level of efficiency that would’ve made even Batman raise an eyebrow. Tim could almost hear Bruce’s inevitable grumble about “unnecessary brutality.”
But Peter— Spider-Man —hadn’t stopped there. He’d ensured Tim was safe, pulling him out of harm’s way with a speed and care that bordered on protective.
Then, just as Otto managed to free himself from the webbing, Peter turned to Tim, his voice sharp and commanding. “Go! Now!”
Tim had hesitated, watching as Peter launched himself back into the fray without a second thought. He wanted to argue, to stay and help somehow, but the sheer intensity of Peter’s tone left no room for debate.
So he’d gone.
And now? Now Tim was absolutely not okay with any of it.
Which was why he was tearing through every database he could access, including the Batcomputer. The backdoor he’d built months ago let him work without alerting Bruce, which was the only reason he wasn’t currently being interrogated about his midnight investigation.
Peter Parker wasn’t just a mystery—he was an enigma.
Tim leaned forward, scouring the Batcomputer’s records for anything even remotely connected to Spider-Man. Nothing. Gotham’s vigilante network had never encountered anyone matching his description, and there were no prior sightings of a red-and-blue-suited figure swinging through the city.
Peter Parker himself was equally baffling. His records dated back only nine months. Before that, there was nothing. No birth certificate, no school records, no social media presence—not even an old Facebook post. Well, there were birth certificates and school records, but they didn’t look right. So Tim refused to count them for the moment because clearly, there was something fucking afoot here and he refused to back down until he knew more.
Tim’s mind raced, piecing together the fragments of the night. Otto’s talk of other dimensions. Peter’s inexplicable skill and high-tech suit. The way he’d seemed to know exactly how to handle Octavius, like they had history.
He sat back, running a hand through his hair as his leg bounced nervously. His gut told him there was more to Peter Parker than what met the eye, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight had barely scratched the surface.
“Who the hell are you?” Tim muttered under his breath, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he started a new search.
Whatever the answer was, Tim wasn’t going to stop until he found it. Because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was this: Peter Parker—Spider-Man—didn’t just show up in Gotham by accident.
His fingers flew across the keyboard, his mind running a mile a minute as he hacked into the GCPD servers. He was in the process of pulling up the investigative report from the scene when the police had cleared out the warehouse when his door creaked open.
Tim froze.
If a small scream escaped him, well, that was between him and Bruce.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim hallway light, was Bruce Wayne himself, the man who had taken Tim in after both his parents died during one of their many archaeological trips to Egypt.
“Tim?” Bruce’s voice was calm but carried that unmistakable edge of suspicion.
Tim’s brain short-circuited. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he swapped his laptop screen to one of his many alternate desktops. An empty Word document popped up on the screen, and Tim quickly realized it was one of Peter’s assigned essays on ethics, the title displayed in glaringly obvious bold letters. Perfect.
“Hey, Bruce!” Tim said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, forcing a smile. “Hi! How are you? Whatcha doing here?”
Bruce stepped further into the room, his gaze scrutinizing Tim like he was an open book. “I was coming to check in on you. You seemed… tense earlier.”
“Tense? Me? Pfft, no way. I’m perfectly fine.” Tim waved a hand dismissively, trying to sound casual while his heart pounded in his chest.
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “You screamed when I opened the door.”
Tim blinked. “Did I? Weird. Must’ve been, uh… the essay! Yeah, it’s on ethics. Super intense topic. Gets the ol’ adrenaline pumping, you know?” He gestured vaguely to the screen, hoping Bruce wouldn’t notice the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Bruce didn’t look convinced, but he also didn’t press—yet. His eyes flicked to the laptop before returning to Tim.
Tim swallowed hard. If there was one thing he knew, it was this: there was no way in hell he was going to sell out Peter Parker, his favorite professor and all-around decent human being, to Batman himself. Not tonight. Not ever. Bruce’s gaze lingered on Tim, sharp and assessing. Tim tried not to squirm under the weight of it, keeping his hands firmly planted on the desk as if the sheer act of staying still would make him seem less suspicious.
“You’re jumpier than usual,” Bruce said finally, his tone neutral but his eyes narrowing slightly. “What’s going on, Tim?”
Tim shrugged, forcing a grin. “Nothing! Just, uh, you know, trying to meet deadlines and… stuff.” He waved vaguely at the laptop screen again, hoping the essay title would be enough of a distraction.
Bruce tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking to the empty cans on Tim’s desk. Three crumpled Zesty cans sat in a sad little pyramid, their labels glaringly bright under the desk lamp.
“You drank three Zesty’s?” Bruce asked, his voice carrying the faintest hint of disapproval.
Tim blinked, then latched onto the lifeline Bruce had unintentionally thrown him. “Yup! That’s probably it! You know how it is. High caffeine tolerance but low patience for essays.” He tapped the side of his head with two fingers. “Brain’s firing on all cylinders. Ethics essay and all that. This is on the moral and ethical repercussions of lying, is it ever ethical to tell a lie? If so, what moral repercussions come back on the person. It’s stumping me a bit because you know, we lie every day about our nightlife and frankly it’s a bit complicated to not do too well on it, don’t need any conferences with you taking place because I did too good on an essay you know?” Tim continued, speaking faster and faster as he continued before ending off with an uneasy laugh.
The essay was a bit too on the nose for everything that was going on right now, but he would live with it.
Bruce folded his arms, his expression softening just a fraction. “Tim, those drinks have nearly 300 milligrams of caffeine each. That’s almost a thousand milligrams. No wonder you’re jumpy. You know that’s not healthy, right?”
“Totally,” Tim lied smoothly, nodding. “But desperate times call for desperate measures, and, uh, this essay isn’t going to write itself.”
Bruce sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Tim, you don’t need to push yourself this hard. If you’re stressed, we can figure something out.”
Tim forced a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m fine, Bruce. Seriously. Just over-caffeinated, under-motivated, and trying to finish an essay. Nothing weird going on here.”
Bruce didn’t look entirely convinced, but he also didn’t seem inclined to push further. “Alright,” he said slowly. “But try to pace yourself, Tim. If you’re struggling with something, you can always talk to me. Or Alfred.”
“Got it, Bruce. Thanks for the pep talk.” Tim gave him a thumbs-up, his grin strained but hopeful it would pass as genuine.
Bruce hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded and turned to leave. “Get some rest when you’re done,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll have Alfred make you something to counteract all that caffeine.”
“Will do!” Tim chirped, waiting until Bruce had fully closed the door before letting out a long, shaky breath.
He slumped back in his chair, staring at the screen with wide eyes. That had been way too close.
As his heart rate finally started to settle, he stared at the essay he had totally forgotten about, the date next to the title told him it was due by the end of the week. There was no way he was letting the trail on Peter Parker go cold, not when there were still so many unanswered questions, but he also refused to let himself get behind on his school work because he was more than capable of handling multiple things in his life at once, thank you very much.
Maybe , just maybe, he’d hold off on opening a fourth Zesty.
Tim stared at his laptop screen, the blank Word document mocking him as if it had a personal vendetta. The title of the essay loomed over him, and he couldn’t help the groan that escaped his lips. Ethical and Moral Implications of Lying.
“Of course,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Fucking of course. Couldn’t be something simple like The Role of Ethics in Society or The Impact of Western vs. Eastern ethical implications in Modern Media. No, it had to be this. So on-the-nose, it’s practically breaking the skin.”
Leaning back in his chair, Tim stared at the ceiling as if it held the answers to all his problems. “Great. Just great. Perfect timing, universe. Here I am, trying to figure out why my favorite professor is secretly a superpowered vigilante from god-knows-where, and now I get to write an essay about lying and hand it in to the man himself. Awesome. Fantastic. Totally not going to be weird at all.”
His eyes flicked to the three empty Zesty cans on his desk, their bright, neon labels mocking him almost as much as the essay prompt. His hand hovered over the fourth can, the unopened tab gleaming like a beacon of bad decisions.
Tim sighed, his fingers drumming against the desk. “I guess lying has its place, huh? Especially when it’s to keep people from freaking out or getting hurt.” He grimaced, annoyed with himself for already formulating arguments for the essay before even starting it.
With a resigned groan, he grabbed the fourth Zesty and cracked it open with a hiss. The first sip hit his system like a jolt of electricity, and he couldn’t help but let out a small groan of relief.
“Alright,” he muttered, turning back to the screen. “Let’s get this over with.”
But even as his fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to type, his thoughts kept drifting back to Peter—and to the growing stack of questions he wasn’t sure he’d ever get answers to.
