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Chapter Text

They’re walking along the path to the car, Aranea resting between his neck and shoulder, fuzzy little legs tickling him. She’s facing forward, and Peter thinks she’s watching where they’re going. He feels kind of bad taking her away from her home, but maybe she’ll really like hanging out with him. 

If not, Peter will bring her back to Ivy and Harley.

“I promise,” he whispers, head tilted just slightly so he could see her out of the corner of his eyes.

Jason hums, knocking his arm into Peter, “Promise what?”

Instead of answering, Peter scowls up at Jason’s big stupid face. It surprises the man, because his eyes go wide and his steps falter. He trips, catching himself on a tree branch before correcting his feet quickly and catching up with Peter, who never stopped walking.

“The fuck is that face for?”

Again, Peter doesn’t answer, just bares his teeth to show off his fangs. He thinks he can feel Aranea being super impressed with him. She totally should be. Peter’s a pretty badass spider, after all. 

Not that great of a kid, but a fucking awesome spider.

“Why are you mad at me?” Jason asks, eyebrows up, lips downturned into a genuine pout, “We had a good morning, I thought!”

Peter slams his foot down as they walk, smashing his heel into Jason’s toe. It probably wouldn’t hurt him, you know, if Peter was a normal kid, but he’s not. He used a bit of his strength in that stomp, digging his heel in, feeling a bit of vindication run through him when Jason yelps, grabbing his stepped-on-foot and hopping around on one leg.

When he puts it down, he’s gaping at Peter, green eyes flicking between Peter’s, “What the fuck is going on?!”

He’s tempted to ignore Jason again, but a voice in his head (that sounds suspiciously like Harley) is urging him to just fucking say something to the big dumb idiot. 

Gritting his teeth, Peter turns to face Jason head on, squaring his shoulders, unsettling Aranea a little bit, to which he says, “Sorry,” before turning a glare back to Jason. 

“You’re keeping things from me!” Peter declared, pressing his lips together to keep himself from blurting out anything else. He crosses his arms and waits for Jason’s response, as the man’s mouth opens and closes like a fucking fish.

An ugly fish.

Like, one of those bottom of the ocean fish.

Oh, now Peter feels bad.

Poor bottom of the ocean fish…

“What things am I keeping from you?”

Seriously?! That’s his fucking answer?

Peter’s mouth fills with venom but instead of swallowing, he turns slightly and spits it out. It lands on the bush beside him, melting through the leaves before dropping to the ground below, turning the brown dirt to a pitch black.

Jason’s eyes are as big as saucers staring at where his venom is sinking further and further into the ground. He swallows, turning his attention back to Peter.

“You were texting someone earlier, before lunch,” Peter says, “And then I heard you call Bruce. He was talking about him and Clark figuring everything out, and then Damian agreeing to keep me distracted!”

Aranea shuffles, crawling up Peter’s neck, settling herself on top of his ear. 

“Okay, yeah, I was texting Bruce before,” Jason admits, like the loser he is, “And I did call Bruce. You heard the whole damn conversation, kid, how the hell am I keeping shit from you?”

Peter’s eyes narrow, “Because you’re not telling me everything! Just because I could hear the very fucking limited conversation you and Bozo had, doesn’t mean you’re telling me anything!”

Jason rolls his eyes, throwing his hands in the air, “Are you being serious right now? What do ya want me to do, kid? Loop you into every text and phone call I have so you don’t feel left out?”

Peter knows the metaphor is being so angry that you see red, but Peter’s so fucking angry his entire vision goes green. A sick green that seeps into his brain, like vine tendrils crawling through the wrinkles and down his brain stem, curling around his spine. He’s so angry he starts shaking.

“Do you honestly think I have fomo right now?!” Peter yells, fists clenched so tight together he can feel his fingernails digging into his palm. 

“I don’t know what the fuck ya got going on,” Jason replies, voice too level for Peter’s liking, “But what I do know is that it doesn’t fucking matter what things I’m keeping from you, because after the shit you’ve pulled the last few outings, you don’t deserve to know shit about what’s going on.”

Peter’s entire brain short circuits, when it comes back online it feels like a YouTube video on 360p. Jason’s glaring at him, eyes hard, mouth set, and Peter wants to start screaming.

“You’re grounded anyways. Remember?” Jason adds, rubbing salt into the wound like the giant dickhole he is.

But he’s right.

Peter’s grounded . Grounded from his stupid tablet that he smashed to pieces and grounded from patrolling. He wasn’t too bent out of shape about being grounded from the tablet, but losing patrolling access sucked. Hard.

He feels it even harder now, with the itch to flee zinging under his skin. 

“I’m not ten,” Peter breathes out, startling Jason, “You do know that right? Yeah, I look ten and sometimes act ten,” more like all the time , “But I’m not ten! I’m not and you keep treating me like I’m some breakable, fragile thing that has to be protected when I’m a goddamn vigilante, just like you! Like the others!”

He’s breathing heavy now, eyes unfocused, “I’ve fought lotsa guys that would like to see my dead body hanging from one of my webs! Most of them have tried to be the guy that finally kills me! Shit, I flew off into space and fucking died! I’m not some sniveling little kid that you gotta protect all the time.”

Jason seems to take an aborted step forward, but stops, eyebrows drawn together. He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t say anything, so Peter keeps going, “You’re right. I don’t deserve to know anything because I keep fucking everything up,” Jason winces at his words, but Peter plows forward, “But if I don’t know what’s going on, I’m going to fuck up even more by throwing myself head first into whatever bullshit you got planned.”

“I didn’t…” Jason pauses, face scrunched up, scowling down at his shoes. He shakes his head, stomps over to Peter, and kneels in front of him. It makes him a little lower than Peter, forcing Peter to look down at him. “I didn’t mean it like that, Pete, I’m sorry. I meant… I meant you don’t need to know.”

Peter shakes his head, “But if I don’t know I’m gonna go crazy! I’ll throw myself out of the apartment window and find you guys! Fuck up whatever plan you have!”

Jason gives him an unamused smile, shaking his own head, “Yeah, I can see that.”

He reaches up, grabbing Peter by the shoulders, leveling him with a total dad look that Peter’s only really seen in movies, “I’ll tell you what’s up after we get back to our place, yeah? Dames should be over in a few hours.”

Peter chews on his bottom lip, thinking. Jason lets him.

“Okay,” he mumbles, nodding.

Jason pats him on the cheek, throwing a half smile at him, standing back up to his full height. He twists his torso around, cracking his back, and says, “Okay! So let’s head home.”

Peter slyly slips his hand into Jason’s, appreciating the fact that the man doesn’t look at him when he does, just squeezes Peter’s hand back, and they start walking again. When Peter sees the car, he feels a bit better.

Less green.

The itch is gone, too, which is nice.

Aranea is crawling around his scalp, tip-tapping all over. It’s distracting enough that Peter lets it occupy his thoughts as he slides into the back seat.

His shattered tablet is sitting accusingly on the end table that Peter placed it on after it happened. He ignores it, even though he kind of wants to hiss at it for the audacity of breaking on him. All he did was throw it against a wall! Big fucking deal! Peter’s been slammed into a wall and survived. 

A hand on his shoulder brings him out of his thoughts, and he turns to look up at Jason, “Wanna sit?”

Peter sighs, moving to throw himself down on the couch, curling into the corner as best as he can. Aranea comes crawling out, moving down his arm as she makes her way to the back cushion. Jason eyes her warily, like she may randomly attack him , or some other stupid thought.

Rolling his eyes, Peter says, “Just sit down, Jay, she’s not gonna eat ya.”

“What if she… I don’t know, gets mad at me and lunges at me?”

Peter can feel his face screw up as he takes in just how fucking stupid Jason is. “She’s not a jumping spider, stupid head. Aranea’s just explorin’ the place.”

Jason narrows her eyes at her, before turning back to Peter, “I mean, I don’t think you’re a jumping spider and you jump at people pretty frequently.”

Peter actually has to restrain himself from lunging at Jason, because that would just prove the idiot’s point. Instead he presses his back even further into the armchair, glaring at Jason as the big, stupid, dumb man smiles at him.

“Are you gonna tell me your plans or not, assface?” Peter barks out, wrapping his arms around his chest. 

Jason’s smile softens immediately, body relaxing, and he nods, “Yeah, I am.” Then he grabs the back of the couch and hauls himself forward, so he’s sitting nearly on top of Peter. 

“Clark and Bruce met for lunch -”

Peter couldn’t stop himself from interrupting, “And you distracted me by teasing Bruce that it was a date!”

Jason presses his lips together, obviously fighting to keep laughter in. He shakes his head, blinking a few times, “I didn’t distract you, kid, I was actually teasing the old man. I knew they’d be talking about Mikhail but why not do that at the Watchtower? Why not do it with the other JL members?”

Peter thinks on it, realizing Jason’s actually making sense. 

But at that thought, Peter pretends to retch, “Gross! They had a date while talking about the man that wants to kill me and steal my body?!”

Jason winces, “I mean, saying it like that sounds pretty messed up… If it makes ya feel better, they definitely didn’t talk about it the entire time. Didn’t you hear Bruce sounding a bit pissed off when I called?”

He nods, wriggling his fingers against his sides, slotting them in between his ribs. 

Jason smiles ruefully, “The old man was pissed because they had finished making all their plans and had moved on to just being Clark and Bruce, not Batman and Superman trying to stop a crazy meta.”

“Ew! Were they kissing?!”

It was Jason’s turn to fake gag.

“I don’t know! Why would I know that?!”

Peter shrugs, which is awkward considering he’s basically holding himself like he’s in a straitjacket. Jason runs a hand down his face, pulling his cheeks down, which shows off the whites of his eyes. 

“Let’s just… Ugh, let’s just stop talking about Bruce and Clark kissing, yeah? Fucking deal?”

Peter nods quickly, “Deal!”

Running a hand through his hair, Jason says, “The current plan is to have J’onn pretend to be you for long enough to get Mikhail somewhat cornered. Though I doubt he’ll stay cornered for long…” The last bit is mumbled, and Peter decides to let Jason have his under-the-breath comment that a normal person wouldn’t have heard. “J’onn’ll be the bait, Clark’ll be the muscle, and Constantine is gonna be the giant pain in the ass that uses whatever weird magic bullshit he can to get Mikhail’s crazy ass in check.”

Peter frowns, swallowing, “Um, what are they gonna do to him? They’re not gonna kill him, right?”

Jason sighs out, long and drawn out, throwing his head back on the couch, “Please for the love of everything, Pete, do not sit here and say that you want Mikhail to live after all the fucked up shit he’s done to you.”

Shifting his weight on the couch, Peter stares down at his legs, rather than at Jason, as he answers, “Well, uh, I mean… He’s done a lot of messed up stuff, yeah. Not even just to me, but to others. But… I mean, um, killing him wouldn’t solve anything would it?”

That apparently was the wrong thing to say to Jason, who sits up so quickly the action almost sends him off the couch completely.

“Are you being fucking serious right now? Killing him would solve everything . He’s killed two Peter Parker’s, right? Two kids! He’s killed you plenty of times! Killed other meta kids around, too, yeah?”

When Jason stops talking, staring down at Peter as he heaves, Peter realizes he should probably answer, “Yeah, yeah, he’s done bad stuff. But if Constantine can subdue him, wouldn’t that solve the problem? Then nobody else has to die.”

When Peter looks up, he’s met with Jason's wide green eyes. 

Two words: uh oh.

“What happens if subduing him doesn’t keep him down, huh? He fights back, he escapes, he attacks someone else, goes after you. What happens if not killing him just gives him a fucking chance at hurting someone else? You wanna live with that, Peter? Be the reason somebody else gets hurt? Be the reason somebody else dies?”

He doesn’t answer, mostly because he doesn’t know how to answer. Instead Jason’s words are just swirling around in his head, over and over again. Peter curls up even more, knees drawing up to his chest, pressing his arms further into his chest. He turns his head, facing away from Jason, finding Aranea crawling up the wall by the front door. 

“No one dies,” Peter whispers, eyes going glassy for some reason. “Do you think Mikhail deserves to decide who lives or dies?”

Jason grunts, shaking his head, “Fuck no.”

Turning back to face the man, Peter says, “Then why do we?”

It was quiet for a second, Jason’s eyes going from wide enough for his eyeballs to fall out to narrowed into slits. “It’s not about who gets to be the decider, Peter. It’s getting rid of the possibility of them killing others. If there’s a guy out there that’s killed five people, and I kill him before he kills another five, I’m saving five people. It’s basic math.”

Peter takes a deep breath, eye only barely twitching at the words basic math and says, “I like math, Jay, but I don’t use math to decide who lives or dies. It’s not my choice to make, it’s not anybody’s choice to make.”

“Sure, I’ll agree with ya on that, but sometimes ya don’t get a choice. Ya gotta do what’s gotta be done .”

It’s quiet between them then, with Peter realizing that no matter how long they talk, neither of them are going to change their opinions on this. Jason’s always going to follow his basic math philosophy, and Peter’s always going to try to follow his. 

“So that’s the plan?” Peter asks, going back to the previous part of the conversation, “J’onn is the bait, Clark is the braun, and Constantine is the brain. What’s Bruce gonna do? Stand there and brood?”

Jason barks out a laugh, smiling, “Oh the old man doesn’t do well with sitting back and brooding, actually. He’s always gotta throw his ass into the middle of things. Like somebody else I know.”

At that, Jason gives Peter a pointed look, before shoving himself off the couch. Once standing, he says, “Diana’s on stand-by. Brucie’s already anxious about letting the others into Gotham, and Diana’s pretty…”

When Jason trails off, Peter shoots out, “Yeah, I know you think Diana’s pretty, you’re really fucking obvious about it.”

It’s a bit surprising when a blush dusts over Jason’s cheeks, and Peter bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing. 

“Shut the hell up, kid,” Jason grits out, “I meant, Daina’s pretty trigger happy. She likes the fight of it all, and she’s damn good at it.”

Peter thinks of Natasha, even though she’s not a super powered alien slash god slash what exactly is Diana? Natasha is the best fighter Peter’s ever seen, and he’s seen a lot of fighters, including mutant ones. Deadpool would be the actual best, but he fights without worrying about getting his limbs cut off because he knows they’ll just grow back, so his fighting is… Messy and chaotic, at best. Natasha’s is clean, strategic, and lethal. 

He has an ache suddenly, wants to get online and watch Black Widow videos until his eyes hurt. 

“Hungry?” Jason asks, bringing him out of his thoughts.

Humming, Peter says, “Can I have some fruit?”

Narrowing his eyes, Jason answers, “Sure, but no q’tasba melon. Think ya had enough at lunch.”

“But it’s good for my lungs, remember? Dick said so!”

Jason ignores him, walking to the kitchen. He drags out the apples and some grapes, making way too much noise for a guy that’s just gathering fruit. 

“Your lungs are probably in tip top shape after eating the three fucking melons you had at lunch, kid. I’m sure you’ll fare just fine and dandy with some apple slices and grapes, yeah?”

Huffing, Peter doesn’t bother to answer, because Jason’s just going to feed him whatever Jason wants no matter what Peter says. Instead, he gets up, looking around for his phone. Jason never said he was grounded from that after all.

“Watcha looking for?” 

Peter glances up, seeing Jason cutting an apple into slices, “My phone. I don’t remember where I put it. Or where I last had it.”

Grunting, Jason reaches into his own pocket, pulling out Peter’s phone. He tosses it underhanded at Peter, and he catches it easily. “Thanks!”

Peter jumps back onto the couch, opening the phone up, ignoring every text from Dick and Tim with an eye roll. He sees Damian has texted him, telling him he’d be coming over to Jason’s later. He glares for a minute, thinking again that it’s all for a distraction. Does Damian even want to hang out with him? 

He’d probably have more fun with Jon, Peter thinks angrily.

Okay, that was mean, but still!

Peter doesn’t want Damian over if it’s just to distract him from the others going after Mikhail.

DAMIAN: Father is going to drop me off at Todd’s later this evening. Shall I bring anything? Alfred would like to prepare food for us.

PETER: its fine dames you dont have to come over

DAMIAN: Explain.

PETER: jay told me the whole plan thing with everybody and mikhail so i dont need to be distracted or anything

DAMIAN: Explain better. 

PETER: heard bruce and jay on the phone. he said you offered to stay with me while everyone did their thing right? its cool you dont gotta anymore. ill be fine alone

DAMIAN: No.

PETER: ???

DAMIAN: I am still coming over. Alfred is preparing dinner and a plethora of snacks for us. 

DAMIAN: I am not coming to “distract” you or whatever other foolish thought you have in your head.

DAMIAN: I offered to stay with you because I was also told to sit out from tonight’s plans. 

PETER: oh

DAMIAN: Quite.

PETER: whats alfred making

“Here, kid,” Jason says, holding a plate of fruit in front of Peter’s face. When he looks up he sees the apple slices, freshly washed grapes, and even a cut up cucumber. They had cucumbers here? Who the fuck bought cucumbers?

“Oh, thanks, Jay!”

Taking the plate, Peter sits up more on the couch, placing the dish in his lap. 

“You talking to Demon Spawn?”

Peter narrows his eyes at Jason, shoving two apple slices into his mouth. After swallowing, he answers, “I was talking to Damian, yeah. I didn’t, uh, know he was benched.”

Jason raises an eyebrow as he sits down, crossing a leg over the other. He hums, nodding, “Yeah, Pete, he was. Neither of us really wanted our kids out there.”

As soon as the words are out of Jason’s mouth another blush crawls up the man’s neck. Jason shifts where he’s sitting, an uncomfortable look on his face, but Peter smiles, just a little. 

Our kids .

Damn.

Peter’s really going to miss him.

Ignoring that thought, Peter scoops up all of the grapes, shoving them into his mouth. They pop in a satisfying way when he clamps his teeth down, juice coating his tongue. 

“Tim’s also been benched,” Jason says, reclining further into the couch, “Alfred took away his suit privileges since he hasn’t slept in, hm, three days?”

Peter gapes at Jason, hand halfway to his mouth with a cucumber slice, “Huh? But he’s always gone upstairs. I thought he was sleeping?”

Jason snorts, shaking his head, “No way, kid. He goes up to his own little lair. Sure he’s got less computers in his own room, but still enough for him to make bad choices. He just lays down long enough for Dick to be happy and leave, then he gets right back up to do his little gremlin thing.”

Peter continues eating, taking the plate back to the kitchen himself. After washing and drying it, he returns to the couch, noticing Jason’s eyes are drifting closed. He tries to be quiet, picking his phone up and sitting back in his spot carefully.

DAMIAN: He is making lasagna and breadsticks. For dessert, he is going to prepare brownies.

PETER: brownies !!!!!!

DAMIAN: Yes, that is what I said.

PETER: i like brownies :)

DAMIAN: I assumed as much.

DAMIAN: How were the gardens?

PETER: great !!!! i got a pet spider !!!! i named her aranea

DAMIAN: That is an adequate name for a spider. I am excited to meet her. 

PETER: shes exploring the living room rn but ill have her close when you come

A small snore causes Peter to look up, seeing Jason’s head fully leaned back against the couch, body lax, mouth slightly open. His heartbeat is slowed, and his breathing is deep and even. 

Out like a light, Peter thinks, smiling. 

But it can’t be that comfortable with his head craned back like that, so Peter sets his phone on the coffee table and stands up. Carefully, he grabs Jason by the shoulders, and lowers his body so he’s laying down. Jason shuffles a bit, but overall lets himself be shifted around. Peter runs off to the bedroom, grabbing one of the blankets before running back to the living room, draping it over Jason. 

He eyes the man’s boots at the door, thankful he took them off when they got inside the apartment. Peter so did not want to take his shoes off. 

Leaving him there, Peter scoops his phone up, and heads for his room. He throws himself in his bed, happy to have his stuffed Robin back. He had felt bad leaving it behind when he went to the manor. But he doesn’t think that the stuffed Robin would’ve survived the trip through the Zeta Tube, so probably better he left it behind.

When he hears another snore, slightly louder than the first one, he yawns just in solidarity. Opening his phone again, he goes to Tim’s name, ignoring all the texts he’s sent before. 

PETER: if you wanna hang out tonight you can

PETER: but you have to promise to take a nap before coming over

PETER: ill ask alfred to check

PETER: and ill make damian check too

TIM: Are you inviting me over to hang out w you and Damian?!?!?!

PETER: you have to nap in order to come

TIM: HOW

TIM: LONG

PETER: three hours

TIM: 3?!

PETER: three and a half

TIM: !!!!

TIM: ok 

Before Peter can say anything back to Tim, he gets a new text from Dick.

DICK: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

PETER: what

DICK: I WANT TO COME OVER TOO!!!!

PETER: no

DICK: PLEASE

PETER: no ty pls stay away from me

DICK: PETER D:

PETER: im gonna block u 

DICK: please let me come over pete :(

PETER: blocked

DICK: NO 

He locks his phone, tossing it on the side table, and lets his own eyes closed. If everybody’s napping (by everybody he means Jason and Tim), Peter might as well join them. It’s not cold enough to warrant going under the blankets, so he relaxes on top, shoving his face into his pillow, curling his arms around his stuffed Robin. 

It’s easy to fall asleep with Jason’s steady breathing as background noise.

He’s admiring his new suit, gold lines and shiny red metal covering his body, blue going down his legs. 

Somebody’s fingers snap in front of his face, drawing his attention up. He comes face to face with Tony, the man’s face looking a bit more wrinkled than it had been the last time he saw the guy. 

When was that?

Oh, they’d been in the lab, one of Pepper and May’s required weekly sessions to ensure Peter wasn’t just being Spider-Man and Tony wasn’t drowning himself in work. Mutual babysitting, May had called it.

Tony had seemed lighter that day, smiling at nothing, teasing Peter that he had “big plans” coming up. 

What were those big plans?

Surely Earth being attacked wasn’t on his big plans list…

“Kid, are you even listening to me?”

Peter snaps back to the present, feeling the lenses widen in his mask, and then feels as it melts away entirely. Now standing face to face with Tony, Peter gives the man a sheepish smile, “Uh, yeah, I am.”

Tony’s face shows he doesn’t believe him, but he keeps going, “Whatever. Just listen up, Underoos, because we’ve got some major shit to deal with.”

Peter looks around, finding Dr. Strange a few feet away, floating in the air with his legs crossed, head glitching around. It creeps Peter the fuck out, so he looks away, finding the others. 

Peter Quill, right? That was that guy’s. Him and his friends are looking for a Gamora. 

“What are we gonna do, Tony?”

Tony looks distraught for a moment, before shaking it off, “We’re gonna do what we always do, kid. We win, right?”

Peter thinks about Germany, how Tony had looked after that particular battle. And that had been against his own friends. His black eye lasted for so long Peter had thought it would never go away. Did they win that? It didn’t feel like winning.

Then he thinks about the Vulture, nearly dying (multiple times), being ignored by Tony, by Happy, fighting alone, losing, fighting alone again, losing again, rinse and repeat. He technically won that one, right?

“Stop overthinking it,” Tony says, frowning, “We’re gonna win this. The wizard’s over there doing his wizard thing, and we’re gonna do our thing.”

“What… Is… Our thing?” Peter asks, tilting his head as he watches Tony’s eyes flick around. 

“Our thing is, you know, fighting and winning. Simple as that.”

Simple as that .

Is anything ever that simple?

Not for Peter.

Suddenly, Dr. Strange drops to the ground, and quickly rushes to them. He looks upset, angry, frustrated, maybe every other negative emotion Peter can think of. He stands closer to Tony than he does to Peter, addressing the older man, “We have a problem.”

Tony groans, turning toward the wizard, “As if we don’t already have a fucking problem.”

Dr. Strange doesn’t seem too amused by Tony’s response, but doesn’t comment on it. He does turn to look at Peter, eyes cloudy with something that Peter can’t name. There’s a moment where a thought swirls in the back of his head, but he can’t grasp it, fully think of it, it just sits there. And when Dr. Strange turns to walk away, the half-formed thought drifts away entirely. 

Tony turns to follow Dr. Strange, jerking a hand in a motion for Peter to follow, “Let’s go with the wizard, kid.” 

When Peter tries to go, though, his feet are stuck in place. Looking down, there’s not quicksand under him, sucking him into the ground, just his feet on top of red, dusty dirt. Nothing cementing him in place. So why can’t he move?

He tries again, jerking his legs as hard as he can, but there’s no lifting his feet from the ground. 

Tony and Dr. Strange are so far away now that Peter can barely see them through the dust flying in the air. He opens his mouth to say something, call out for them, but nothing comes out. 

He can’t move and he can’t talk and he’s starting to fucking panic!

Tony hasn’t even turned back around, and all he can see when the dust lets up every now and again is the back of Tony’s head, walking further and further away from him.

He reaches down, wraps his hands around one of his ankles, sticking to his suit, and starts yanking, trying to pull his leg up. He jerks a few times, feeling his actual fingertips burn as they’re pulled where he’s stuck them.

Why can’t he move!

He shoots out of the bed, tumbling to the floor, rolling. When he stops, he’s on his back, heaving as he looks up at the ceiling. His hands are shaking and he can feel sweat all over his sin, sticking his shirt to him. 

There’s something crawling up his leg, gentle pressure telling him it’s getting closer to him, and when looks down he sees Aranea. Her long legs bringing her up to him. She stops at his chest, seemingly staring at him. 

They just watch each other for a few minutes.

She’s probably thinking he’s a fucking idiot. 

And she’d be right.

“Did I scare you?” Peter asks her, voice quiet.

His breathing is evening out, which she probably appreciates. Jason’s heartbeat is still steady, telling Peter he’s fast asleep. He must be exhausted, sleeping through Peter falling out of bed. 

Aranea doesn’t answer him, of course, but she does crawl off of him, moving to the floor. He leaves her to do whatever she wants to, standing up on slightly shaky legs. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, grabbing his phone from the table to see he was only asleep for thirty minutes. 

Stupid nightmare.

Memory.

Whatever.

What was the problem Dr. Strange had? Was it them losing? Because Peter knew from the jump their odds weren’t that great, he didn’t need to levitate to figure that out! 

He grabs a change of clothes, heading for the bathroom, intending to take a shower to get the sweat off of his body. If he smelled himself, which he’s trying very hard not to, he’d probably cringe away. 

It’s only after he gets out that Jason starts to stir. He’s on the floor, sketchbook open on the coffee table in front of him, and Jason’s hand slaps onto his own face, rubbing at his eyes as he groans. When he sits up, the blanket pools at his waist, and he looks around the room with half lidded eyes. They finally land on Peter, not quite focused but getting there.

“What time s’it?”

Peter taps on his phone and reads out, “4:17.”

Jason nods, licking his slightly chapped lips, and throws the blanket completely off of him. He does glance down at it, eyes narrowing even further, “Did you… Tuck me in?”

Peter huffs, not even bothering to look up at him as he returns his eyes to his sketchbook, “No, fuck you!”

Jason doesn’t seem convinced, but thankfully leaves it. Peter continues drawing his portrait of Aranea, but she keeps moving around the table, which makes it hard to get her good side. He’s resigned to just drawing a slightly blurry portrait of her. Jason’s banging around in the kitchen, which causes Aranea and Peter to look at each other in a “I hate humans” way. 

“I invited Tim over,” Peter says, smiling when Jason thunks his head against the counter, groaning, “Now, why in the fuck would you do that?”

Aranea takes off again, and Peter sighs.

“You said he got benched, like me and Dami. I felt bad. So I texted him and told him he could come over later, as long as he took a nap. He should still be sleeping.”

Now that he’s thinking about Tim, he reaches for his phone, opening it to send a text to Damian and Alfred, just in case Tim somehow managed to turn one of them against the cause. 

DAMIAN: Still sleeping. There is an obvious drool puddle on his pillow.

The picture Peter receives after is fucking priceless and he immediately sends it to Jason. 

ALFRED: Master Tim has been sleeping for an hour and twenty-seven minutes.

Peter’s satisfied as he sets his phone down, and even more satisfied when Jason barks out a loud laugh, body hunching over his phone as (he assumes) the picture is delivered. 

“Fucking classic,” Jason breathes out.

Peter rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling the entire time. 

He really likes this family, he thinks. 

Damn.

Leaving is going to hurt like a bitch. 

Peter hears them before they even enter the building, with Tim challenging Damian to a race up the stairs, and Damian responding that he would never lower himself to be seen running in public, as it is “uncouth”. Peter suddenly remembers all the times he’s ran in public, usually limbs flailing, backpack slapping against him.

Yeah, he probably looked uncouth. 

Tim ignores him, running up the stairs, heaving as he does. Damian takes the elevator up, and obviously arrives minutes before Tim. Peter is already yanking the door open before Damian could knock, and both of the boys turn to watch Tim fall out of the doorway to the stairwell, sweating. 

Peter shakes his head, nudging his elbow into Damian, “Totally uncouth of him.”

Damian nods, once, “Indeed.”

Tim pouts, and essentially crawls on all fours into the apartment. Jason looks up from the book he’s reading, sitting at the counter, and grimaces when he sees Tim. 

“Get the fuck up, man, have some respect for yourself.”

Tim listens, though he leans heavily against the door. Peter moves to stand directly in front him, hands on his hips, “Aren’t you, like, a vigilante or some shit? Shouldn’t you be in better shape? We’re only four floors up, man!”

That seems to snap Tim out of his exhausted state even more, as he stands up straight, no longer leaning, and attempts to regulate his breathing. Peter can still hear his pounding pulse, though.

“Can you two not berate me upon immediately seeing me?” Tim says, blinking between Peter and Jason.

Peter shrugs, “It’s fun, though.” Jason nods, closing his book and setting it aside, “The funnest!”

Damian tuts, shutting the door behind Tim, and holding up the glass containers of food he’s holding.

“Alfred wishes to know what you think after you eat, Peter.”

He scoops up the food, beelining into the kitchen. If he was alone, he’d rip the lid off and just start devouring the lasagna with his hands. As it is, though, he’s not alone. And Tim was called uncouth for running up the stairs, so Peter was a little worried what Damian would call him if he saw him leaning over the lasagna scooping it out by the handful like a fucking rat. 

Or raccoon.

Nah, he’s not a raccoon, he’s not cool enough to be one.

Definitely a rat, though. 

“Peter, I brought you another tablet!” Tim calls, pulling out said tablet from his bag. He waves it in the air for only a second before Jason plucks it out of his fingers. 

“The fuck?”

Jason tucks the tablet under his arm, giving Peter a pointed look before turning back to Tim, “He’s grounded, stupid. He’s got another day with no tablet privileges, so I’ll give it to him when he’s officially ungrounded.”

Peter sticks his tongue out at the back of Jason’s head. Somehow, Peter doesn’t actually know how, Jason must sense Peter sticking his tongue out, because he flips Peter off before he trudges into his room. He can hear the man shuffling around, keys jingling, and when he comes out he’s in all black.

“I’ll be back by morning,” Jason says, addressing Peter, “I promise. While I’m gone, Dami’s in charge.”

Tim starts sputtering, but Damian nods solemnly, “I will ensure Peter and Tim do not make poor decisions.”

Jason ruffles his hair, which earns him a near deadly glare from the boy, “I can always count on you, huh?”

He comes around, into the kitchen, pulling Peter into a hug that’s too tight but not tight enough, and it doesn’t nearly last as long as Peter really wants it to. He whispers, “Be good, kid, yeah?”

Peter nods, knowing better than to promise anything out loud, and Jason leaves. He listens as the man trudges downstairs, reaching the bottom without his heart rate or breathing changing, which makes him smirk at Tim. He doesn’t say why, but he thinks Tim knows.

The motorcycle starts, revs, and Jason’s off.

“So…” Peter says, dragging a finger across the counter top as he draws out the o , “What stupid shit can we do while Jay’s gone?”

Damian levels him with an unimpressed glare, but Tim claps his hands together, digging into his bag, “I brought my laptop over, and a police scanner because I figured Jason wouldn’t keep one around with you here. I also have a satellite map!”

“What in the world are you planning to do with a satellite map?” Damian questions, crossing his arms together and raising a single brow. It makes him look older. He doesn’t look like Bruce, though, so Peter figures he’s got this all from his mom.

He wishes he could meet Damian’s mom.

If she’s anything like her son, Peter figures she’s cool as fuck.

Tim shrugs, laying all of his things out on the table, “Whatever we can think of. The apartment is our oyster, as they say.”

“They most certainly do not say that. And I should know, Drake, as I have studied metaphors and phrases common in this country for years.”

Peter puckers his lips and squints his eyes together, going to comment on what Damian said when Tim shoots him a quick look, shaking his head minutely. So Peter lets it go. 

“Zucchini, zucchini,” Tim says, waving his hand around.

Except…

Except Tim said “zuCHini” and then “zuKini”. Like how people say “potAto” and “potAHto”. What the fuck? He whips around to look at Damian, but the boy doesn’t even look fazed. Which he totally would, right? Because he just called Tim out on his weird ass phrase not even two minutes ago, so if what Tim just said was weird, Damian would for sure say something.

Holy shit, so is that normal ? 

Tim and Damian continue their little fake argument, unaware of Peter’s inner dilemma. 

Peter makes it known, though, “Isn’t it potato, potato?”

That earns him the attention of both of his guests, who give him confused looks. Damian cocks his head to the side, “No, it is not. Why would the saying be about potatoes?”

Peter throws his hands in the air, “Well, why the hell would it be about zucchinis?!”

“Do you say potato, potato in your universe?” Tim asks, looking genuinely curious. Peter nods his head, and Tim smiles, “That’s pretty interesting. I might start saying that, maybe it’ll become a thing. And then, in ten years, when everybody says it, we can say we got it from you!”

“Something to remember me by when I’m gone,” Peter jokes, but it falls flat, actually it falls so worse than flat that it turns into a parabola and he prepares himself to fall to the bottom of the damned thing. 

Damian’s glare turns scary, and Peter’s pretty sure he got that from his mom too, “That is not funny, Peter. Apologize.”

Oh.

Peter gulps, so loud Tim winces, and says, “Uh, ‘m sorry.”

Nodding, Damian relaxes, “Thank you, apology accepted.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Aranea moving slowly down the wall. He runs to her, startling Tim, and gently scoops her off the wall, placing her reverently on his shoulder. She accepts, settling down as he runs back over to Damian.

“Dami, this is Aranea! Aranea, this is Damian!” Peter goes so far as to motion between the two as he says their names. Damian inclines his head toward her, as if bowing, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Aranea.”

Tim makes a squeaking sound, and when Peter looks over at him, he sees the man is paler than usual. It makes his blue eyes look like diamonds. If the diamonds were laid down against paper, considering how damn white he is. 

“Oh, Tim, grow up,” Peter says, “Aranea’s harmless.”

Damian is leaned in, inspecting her, “Yes, she is. Her venom would not hurt us, should she choose to bite us.”

Peter grins maniacally at Tim, “My venom would, though.”

Tim gets even paler and Peter starts to worry the guy might actually fucking die, so he puts his teeth away. 

Moving on, Peter scoops up Tim’s police scanner, practically throwing it at the man, “Set this up, I’m gonna go plate the food so I can spam Alfred with how much I love it and adore him as a human being.”

Tim nods, actually doing what he’s told, and moves into the living room as he begins fiddling with the scanner. Peter gets out three plates, noting they’re the fancy kind that come up at the edges, like big, flat bowls. Peter’s seen Gordon Ramsay use this type shit!

Why does Jason have such good plateware?

Damian comes in to help, divvying up the portions, and Peter decides not to comment on the fact that one plate has at least four servings on it while the others look measly compared to it. Even the breadsticks get the same treatment, with one plate holding three breadsticks, and the other two getting just one. 

Peter purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything as he grabs the silverware, and then three glasses from the cabinet, filling them with water.

It takes two trips to bring everything (safely) to the table, and normally Peter would’ve just scooped everything up and attempted to carry all three plates and three glasses to the table in one trip, but a look from Damian stops him. 

“Drake, you are going to eat with us, and then you and Peter can act like fools,” Damian commands.

Again, Tim listens, dutifully setting the scanner down and joining them at the table. They begin eating quietly, and Peter knows the silence isn’t meant to be awkward, but he’s thinking of it being awkward. Mostly because when it’s silent, Peter feels the inherent need to fill it. Like, if he doesn’t think of something to say fast , then the people around him are going to figure out how much of a loser he is. 

So, he says: “Do ya think they’re gonna beat Mikhail?”

Damian hums, patting his lips with an actual cloth napkin, where the fuck did that come from?!

“I believe the likelihood of them succeeding is far higher than our’s has been of late.”

A diplomatic answer, Peter muses. 

“If it was just a few of the JL members? Honestly, I don’t know. Mikhail’s… Something else. And we don’t even really know all that much about his cohorts. But with Constantine there, I think they’ve got a real good chance, Pete.”

Far higher .

Real good chance .

Peter was hoping for a more sure answer. Like, give him a percentage! He can deal with percentages. But likelihoods and chances? That’s usually where Parker Luck has room to fuck around and make him find out. 

“So, like between one and ten, what do you think?” Peter tries, deciding ten is 100% success, and one isn’t even worth a percentage, because it means everybody’s dead and it’s all Peter’s fault.

Damian seems to think about it, taking a small sip from his glass, “I say seven.”

Seven!

Shrugging, Tim says (with a mouthful of food), “I say seven and a half!”

So…

75% success rate.

Peter’s odds against Mikhail are probably… 15% success rate. So he decides that’s pretty good. Nodding, he eats the rest of his meal, not questioning how likely anybody is to get their shit rocked against Mikhail and his family of crazies. Or, crazy coworkers? Peter doesn’t really think they’re a family, doesn’t think Mikhail’s even capable of caring about somebody.

But Marrow…

Nope, not thinking about her.

Tim gathers their empty plates and takes them to the sink, washing them without asking, so Peter takes it upon himself to dry them. They get done rather quickly, and then they both head for the scanner.

Damian watches them, uninterested, “And what are you two hoping to hear?”

Tim shrugs, “Anything? Steph and Cass are out tonight, doing regular patrol, so maybe we can follow along whatever they’re up to. Even Duke went out to help, since, ya know, we’re all here.”

“Why can’t we just be on comms?” Peter asks, turning the knobs at random because he likes how Tim freaks out and fixes them.

“Babs is worried that should you be heard on comms, Mikhail may find out. We do not truly understand his energy manipulation power. How much can he control?” 

Peter does not say that he would’ve been quiet if Tim and Damian were on comms, because he knows himself well enough that he totally would not have stayed fucking quiet. So he nods, agreeing, and wonders to himself how much Mikhail can manipulate. 

“He can fuck with souls,” Peter reminds them, “Which points to him being able to mess with non-physical energy. Also means he has control over stuff that even physics hasn’t defined, which is… Wack.”

Tim hums, “Very wack.”

Damian finally moves around, sitting in a chair on the other side of the coffee table, “And we know that he can alter cameras, which means his abilities are able to exploit physical and non-physical things. All powerful, essentially.”

Yeah, that’s not terrifying as fuck.

Peter thinks about the basement at the hotel.

“Does Dr. Death have any powers?”

Tim grunts, “No. He’s just a regular asshole that likes to cause chaos for fun. Right up Mikhail’s alley.”

“I think Mikhail, like, cut off the basement,” Peter says, “Because when I was going down, it was like I entered into a different dimension. I couldn’t even hear anything before I went into the actual basement itself. There was, like, a wall of… Energy,” he finishes lamely.

“The fuck?” Tim whispers, shaking his head, “I can barely even remember anything from the hotel. We went in, and it was like bam! , we went down. I saw Steph hit the ground first, like a puppet with her strings cut. I freaked, because we didn’t even hear anything. Or see anything! Dr. Death likes to fuck around, but he’s not usually that stealth about it.”

Peter does not fucking like the image of Steph dropping to the ground like that, so fuck Tim very much for putting that into his head. Asshole. But then he starts thinking about the rest of what Tim said.

“I know Mikhail had Dr. Death create a poison for me, something to kill me quick. But, like you pointed out, I’m evolving so his shit was useless. Dr. Death also made a chemical that would mutate people, turn them into metas.”

Oh…

He should probably add: “Well, some people. He was pretty upfront with the fact that some people would just straight up die.”

“Ah, so that explains why they held all of the hotel guests hostage,” Damian says, and Peter winces, correcting him, “Yeah, those guys and…” he gestures to Tim, and thankfully they understand his meaning.

“Wait, I’m sorry, pause,” Tim spouts off, “He was going to use that shit on us ?”

Nodding, Peter says, “He put it into a bomb, like a smoke bomb. I’m sure that’s why it would kill some while changing others, because if he just created an injectable it'd be much more manageable. That’s why I webbed him up in that room! To stop him!”

Tim’s gaping at him, and then awkwardly claps Peter on the back, “Well, uh, thanks.”

Peter smiles at him, “No problem!”

The scanner crackles to life, announcing to the room that there was a car theft on seventh street. None of them say anything about it. 

“Father and Clark took care of the lab Dr. Death had set up at the hotel. The man is currently being held at Arkham Asylum, so we can at least be sure that he is no longer working with Mikhail.”

Peter frowns, shifting, thinking but not saying that Mikhail could easily just teleport Dr. Death’s ass out of Arkham. Mikhail probably got what he wanted from the dick anyways. Surely a man of science wouldn’t just create one biological weapon. Peter, after all, would create at least a dozen versions, just in case. 

The scanner comes on again, a break in, a mugging, shots fired, and a bank robbery all happening at different places around the city.

This place really is hell, huh?

“Man,” Tim sighs out, leaning back against the couch, “Can you imagine if Mikhail had succeeded at the hotel? How many people would’ve been turned meta?”

“More like, how many people would have died,” Damian spits out, glaring at Tim.

The man holds his hands up, surrendering, “I mean, yeah, but some of ‘em would’ve survived it. What typa abilities do ya think they would’ve got?”

“I think Mikhail would have just been pleased with whatever,” Peter admits, “Any powers are useful when you’re just using them as canon fodder.”

Tim grimaces, wrapping his arms around himself, “Okay, fair but sad point.”

Thankfully, they leave the conversation at that, and continue listening to the scanner, making jokes here and there when the police came through to mention a Bat that helped out. 

Peter’s fucking with the sat map about an hour later, looking at specific locations marked around him. Where they are, Jason’s apartment, is marked with a simple T. Peter assumes it means Todd. The other places have letter initials as well but Peter doesn’t know what they mean.

A moving dot goes across the grainy little screen, labeled SN. Peter watches it move, coming a few blocks away from the apartment before quickly going away. 

“I didn’t know sat maps could track like this,” Peter says, because he had assumed this thing was more like a hiking GPS than anything else.

Tim hums, typing fast and furious on his laptop, “I did some tweaking on the thing. Who went by?”

Peter relays the SN sighting, and Tim nods, “Signal. SP is Spoiler, and BG is Batgirl, if you see them roving around.”

He keeps his eyes on the map, but doesn’t see those initials appear. Damian’s been flicking through Peter’s sketchbook, silently, humming here and there. He’s trying not to pay attention to the kid. 

Aranea had abandoned him, choosing instead to crawl over to Damian. She’s on the coffee table now, watching him, frighteningly still. Peter resists the urge to blow a raspberry at her. 

“Is this your suit?” Damian asks, holding up the book on a page of Peter’s Spider-Man suit. 

Peter makes a so-so motion with his hand, “Kinda. I colored it differently for Gotham, so it could match.”

Damian nods, seeming impressed, which makes Peter puff his chest out a bit. 

“I could probably make the suit for you,” Tim mumbles, “Wouldn’t take too long, Bruce would probably help me.”

Peter almost jumps on that offer, an actual jolt running through his body at the way he wants to accept the offer. But then he thinks about the shit going down tonight, and how they have a seven and half (75%) chance at beating Mikhail’s ass, which just means Peter’s going to be sent away sooner rather than later so he…

“It’s cool,” Peter says, waving away Tim’s words, “I’ll keep the mini Hood suit.”

Tim smiles, still staring at his laptop, “Yeah, you do make one adorable baby Red Hood.”

And Peter’s back to baring his teeth at the man.

Another hour gone, and Peter is trying his damndest to convince Tim to put whipped cream in Damian’s open hand. The kid had fallen asleep roughly twenty minutes previous, curled up slightly in the chair, hand falling open when he officially entered into a sleep cycle. 

“Peter, why do you want me to die?” Tim asked imploringly, staring at him with his too-wide eyes.

Peter guffaws (quietly) and responds, “This is part of it, right? We play pranks! I pranked you, remember? In the elevator?”

Tim’s face screws up, likely remembering the elevator, “Yeah, kid, I remember thinking I was going to fucking die. So, again, I ask, why do you want me to die?”

“It’s just fun! Dames won’t even know which one of us did it!”

With narrowed eyes, Tim says, “Then why does it have to be me ? You do it!”

Peter gasps, hand clutching at his heart, but before he can say anything, Tim shuts his laptop loudly, causing Peter to whip around to check to make sure Damian was still asleep. 

“Tim,” Peter whines, drawing out the i , “Don’t you wanna be my favorite?”

Tim eyes him, “I assumed I already was, considering I gave you a whole ass suit.”

Peter purses his lips, tapping at his chin, “Yeah, exactly, you assumed and we all know what assuming does. This would be declaring, to everyone, that you’re my favorite! Even over Damian!”

That seems to do the trick, because Tim sets his laptop on the coffee table carefully, before yanking the spray can of whipped cream out of Peter’s hand, “I want you to send it in the family group chat, by the way.”

Peter nods, holding a hand up in oath, “I solemnly swear.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but tip toes over to Damian. He shakes the can, turns it over, and sprays it into the kid’s palm, wincing at the volume. Peter’s grinning like a shark behind him. 

Right before Tim finishes it off, Peter claps his hands together, the slap ringing out through the apartment. It startles Tim and Damian, the latter of which jumps, eyes shooting open. His hands come up automatically, likely in fight mode, and it causes the whipped cream to go flying into Damian’s face. 

Peter’s mouth drops open into an O, and Tim looks fucking terrified.

Damian’s frozen, only his eyes moving between his whipped cream covered hand and the can still held firmly in Tim’s hand. Tim realizes it at the same time Damian does, throwing the can like it was on fire. 

If looks could kill, Peter thinks Tim would be six feet under. 

It’s only a half second later that Damian tackles Tim to the floor, hissing as he does. Peter leans over the side of the couch to watch, eyes wide, and Tim turns pleading blue eyes on him.

“Peter!” he yells, and Damian muffles it by clamping the clean hand over his mouth. 

“I will end you, Drake, but not before making you wish even your great grandmother had not been born so that you would not have to suffer through this.”

Somehow, Tim’s eyes go wider, and Peter thinks he should intervene now. He hopes over the side of the couch, landing easily on his toes, and simply plucks the seething boy off of Tim’s chest. Tim scurries backwards, only stopping when his back hits the wall.

“Why do you want me dead?!” Tim yells.

Damian may think that question is directed at him, but Peter knows better. 

He’s setting Damian on the floor, mouth open to explain the prank, when a zing goes up his spine. At the same time, his phone starts ringing.

Then Tim’s.

And Damian’s.

The police scanner even starts going off. 

Somehow Tim’s laptop starts ringing and vibrating, what the fuck?

The whole room stops, and Peter notices there’s more time between their heartbeats than before. Is time actually slowing down or is Peter mid-panic attack so his senses have gone up about a million percent? He blinks, eyes flicking around, another zing lighting up his bones. What the hell is happening?

“Peter?” Tim asks, standing, but it’s all slow. Why is it so slow?

Damian reaches out for him, hand moving like it’s trapped in molasses, “Peter!”

Zing .

Peter grabs for his phone, noticing the hairs on his arm are standing straight up, and clicks on the green circle for answer as quickly as he could (meaning not quickly at all). 

“Hello?” his own voice is in slo-mo, like he’s put the playback speed at .25x on YouTube. 

Jason’s voice comes through, as normal as ever, “Get to the Cave! Now!”

He blinks, it takes four seconds, blinks again, and after waiting another four seconds, he realizes he should probably stop fucking blinking!

“I…” Peter sees Tim moving, Damian’s hand finally clamping around his arm, and says, “Can’t.”

Because he doesn’t think they can even make it out of the apartment before whatever shitstorm is heading for them gets to them. Tim’s been walking toward Peter and Damian for what feels like hours now and he’s still three feet away from them. 

Jason’s breathing heavy, and Peter can hear his heartbeat, sped up and far too quick to be safe, “What’s going on? Why do you sound like that?”

Oh, so he can hear it, too? That doesn’t actually make Peter feel better. 

Zing!

What the fuck is happening?!

“Slow,” Peter answers, because it’s all he knows. 

On the couch, laying face up, Peter sees dots descending on the apartment from the screen of the satellite map. SN, SP, and BG all move in one group, from the north, with dots from the south appearing that are labeled with B, NW, and RH.

Ahead of them, though, are unlabeled dots.

Moving fast.

But there’s another dot, Peter sees, right on top of them. He stretches his hearing out, which is so painstakingly slow tears actually form in his eyes out of frustration. He hears it, though, sitting on top of the roof. A slowed heartbeat.

Thump.

Peter counts to thirty before he hears it again.

Thump.

“Here,” he says into the phone, and Jason starts cursing. The little RH dot moves faster, but not fast enough.

ZING!

Time collapses back onto them, like a weight settling on Peter’s shoulders, and he sags under the newfound pressure. Tim suddenly goes flying forward, likely putting too much pressure behind each step in an attempt to move faster against the imposing slowness. But now, with time back to normal, the pressure forces Tim to jump forward, collapsing into a heap at Damian’s feet. 

“Who’s there?!” Jason barks into the phone.

The heartbeat above them is normal, but Peter doesn’t recognize it. Someone new, someone unknown , which is real fucking dangerous when your name is Peter goddamn Parker (super mega emphasis on the goddamn). 

He thinks about getting them the fuck out of there, but with the unknown above them, who apparently has the goddamn power to control time!, they’re essentially trapped. 

Damian grabs for his own phone, and Peter hears Bruce on the other side. Tim’s sharing the phone with the kid, both of their heads knocking into the others as they try to press their ears to the speaker. 

“Jay,” Peter whispers, “I’m scared.”

It’s a weird thing to admit, because he would never say he’s scared out loud. He’s fucking Spider-Man (super mega emphasis on the man). Spider-Man isn’t scared! Can’t afford to be, not really. But… He’s not Spider-Man right now. 

Just Peter Parker.

And Peter Parker?

Yeah, he’s scared all the damn time.

It’s kind of his thing.

Jason’s breathing is heavy, panting, his dot moving at break neck speeds, “I’m coming, Peter. I swear, I’m coming as fast as I can.”

There’s a beat of silence where all Peter hears is the unknown heartbeat above them, and Bruce telling Damian and Tim where to find an apparent secret stash of weapons he hid in the apartment before Jason and Peter moved in.

The shit?!

“It’s okay to be scared,” Jason says, voice quieter, though the wind still rips through the speakers. It sounds like Jason’s flying. “I’m scared. I’ve been scared for days now, kid. You terrify the absolute shit outta me on a good day.”

Peter smiles, a bit wobbly but a smile all the same, “Well, it’s what I’m good at.”

Tim punches a hole into the wall, revealing a number pad. He slams his finger into the numbers 0816. What does that mean? There’s a beep, and then the entire back wall of the kitchen disappears. Literally. Fucking melts into the floor.

Spy Kids type shit. 

Damian quickly makes his way to the new display of weapons, most of them being bat-shaped, to Peter’s utter disappointment. Tim follows behind, and both of them begin gathering. Peter does note that there are no guns, which seems fitting, if Bruce stocked the place.

Peter bends to pick up the satellite map, seeing the unlabeled dots two blocks away. Their unknown friend is still there, unmoving. Peter debates busting the window and crawling up to see just who the fuck it is, but he thinks about Jason. He promised he wouldn’t throw himself head first into shit like this. 

He broke the promise before.

A few times.

Not this time, though.

“Mikhail get away?” Peter asks, watching the dots get closer and closer.

Jason grunts, growls, groans, all of the above maybe, “No. Constantine has him.”

Huh?

“Then what the fuck is going on?”

There’s a shink and when Peter looks up, Damian’s admiring the sharpness of a machete. Okay, so Bruce draws the lines at guns but not fucking serial killer type weapons?! Good god. 

“They had their own plan,” is all Jason says.

Which… Isn’t good. Did Mikhail get captured just to keep Constantine busy? Where’s Clark? And J’onn? It seems like only the Bats are on their way. 

He doesn’t get a chance to ask, though, before time slows again. 

Thump . 

The unlabeled dots are on top of them now, joining up with the other unknown. 

Thump .

They are so fucked.

Thump .

Damian turns, taking minutes, finding Peter’s eyes. They stare at each other, and Damian finally gets out, “Run.”

Thump .

Peter doesn’t have the time to say it’s too late.

Thump .

The lights go out at the same time the windows shatter, glass raining down as Peter’s spidey sense begs him to get away. Even with his sense, though, time is moving too slow for him to obey it. It smatters into his skin, cutting as it digs in. 

Peter finds it real fucking unfair that they’re slowed down but the glass isn’t. What kind of fucking schtick is that?

In the darkness, all Peter can do is trust his sense and his hearing. His eyesight is fucked. He hears the heartbeats enter the apartment, normal paced, hears their regular footsteps and how easy they talk. 

“Just want the kiddie,” a gravelly voice says, “So long he comes, we’ll be outta your hair.”

There’s a low growl, long and drawn out due to the time constraints imposed on them. Damian’s voice is deep as he says, “No.”

A tsk is heard, and then a new voice, a woman, says, “Unfortunately, no isn’t an option. Trust me, I tried that.”

Huh?

Peter would so be asking questions if he could fucking talk at a normal speed right now! 

Zing.

Oh, shut the fuck up!

Hands grab him, squeezing his shoulders so tight Peter knows it’s going to bruise. He opens his mouth to yelp, but all that comes out is a long and drawn out “aaa”. The hands squeeze tighter. The gravel voice leans down to him, lips to his ear, “Up we get, kiddie.”

Peter thought he hated when Tony called him Petey , but boy, does he fucking hate Mr. No Name calling him kiddie . Venom pools in his mouth, and it’s now that Peter realizes he’s moving normally.

Because Mr. No Name is touching him, holy shit!

With that realization, Peter throws his neck forward, finding the man’s forearm and chomping down. He bites harder than he ever has before, even harder than he did Mikhail that time in the base. Peter also shoves all of the venom pooled in his mouth into the new wounds on the man’s arm, because fuck this guy! There’s a wailing sound almost immediately, the hands dropping him to the ground. But with the hands off of them, Peter’s fall is slow, and it’s like he’s in a dream. 

Falling down, down, down.

Forever. 

“No one said this fucker was poisonous!” the man bellows, voice cracking as he whimpers at the end. 

Peter so wants to correct this asshole that he’s venomous , not fucking poisonous, but he’s too busy living life in slow motion, fucking literally. 

A second later gunshots start ringing through the place, the blasts lighting up the room like lightning. Peter flinches, which jostles his fall. He starts to bring his hands up to cover his ears, but it’s no fucking use. 

He thinks, judging by the yelps and grunts, some of those gunshots land. 

“Peter!” Jason calls, another shot lighting up his face. 

For a split second, Peter sees the intense worry lines around Jason’s mouth. His eyes flicker rapidly around the room, but before they find Peter, it goes dark again. 

Whizzing flies above him, more grunts, and Peter thinks somebody is throwing something. When he listens for the heartbeats around him he notes Jason, Bruce and Dick have arrived. Bruce must be the one throwing shit, the loser. Where’s Dick?

Suddenly wind rushes past him, a body moves above him, and there’s a collision of boots on bones. 

Oh, there’s Dick, Peter thinks.

When Dick’s foot makes contact with whoever the fuck, Peter crashes to the floor. He gasps at the shock, the fervor of his fall knocking the fucking air out of his lungs. He recovers as quickly as he can, jumping to his feet. Jason shoots again, a brief moment of brightness lets Peter look around and he almost fucking sobs when he sees Aranea just chilling casually on the couch.

His unbothered queen, god, Peter loves her. 

Scooping her up, Peter settles her on top of his hair, letting her squirm until she’s well hidden in his curls.

Damian comes up to him, only known by the smell and the quick, “We are leaving,” the boy rushes out. 

Peter couldn’t agree more, because whoever the hell these losers are, he is so not interested in hanging out with them. 

Okay, well, if he had met the time controller under normal circumstances, he totally would be interested in hanging out with them. But not anymore! They’re uncool now! Mega uncool!

His sense pings, and he drags Damian out of the way of somebody reaching for them. Damian hisses, and there’s a tear through the air as Damian cuts through it with… Oh fuck, the machete!

Suddenly the smell of blood fills the air, and Peter actually might throw up. He clings to Damian’s free hand, “Did you just cut their fucking arm off?”

“Hm, yes. They should learn not to touch others without permission.”

Damian hauls them toward Jason, the front door, and Peter’s so jealous of regular people’s abilities to have their eyes adjust to the dark. He feels Aranea squirm, but she does not crawl out of his hair. 

“Get downstairs, now!” Jason commands, and Damian wastes no time yanking Peter along.

He feels something tugging at him, covering half of his body like a blanket, and suddenly he’s dragging one leg behind himself. Oh. Half of him is slowed. The non-slowed half moves even harder, dragging the useless half along. Damian turns, sucks his teeth, and says, “I will kill every single person in your bloodline.”

Okay, you know what? Peter does not want to meet Damian’s mom anymore. 

An alert rings through his head, but when Peter turns around all he sees is blackness. But in the middle of the dark, there’s a shadow moving.

Thump .

Oh brother, this guy stinks!

Thump .

And then a voice that sounds like it’s been slowed and reverbed says, “My bloodline is already gone.”

Damian doesn’t even hesitate before saying, “Good.”

The shadow strikes forward, but before they can reach Damian and Peter, Jason starts shooting again. The shadow collapses at Peter’s feet, gurgling, and he feels his slowed half be released. It’s weird, feeling his blood moving at a normal pace again. 

The shadow breathes, rasps, “I just wanted to go home.”

Double huh?!

“Get the fuck outta here!”

Damian starts pulling him again. Peter turns around when they start on the stairs, stares at the unmoving shadow, listening to the extra slowed heartbeat. This time he knows the guy isn’t doing it to himself. 

Once downstairs, they find Cass and Steph at the doors. Damian slows, only just, before plowing into them. 

“Car,” Cass orders, eyes dark, and Peter chirps a simple, “Yes, ma’am!”

Duke’s in the driver’s seat when they slide in, and he’s staring at them with wide, panicked eyes. It’s a tense moment of silence in the car, before Steph slams the car door shut behind them. She pats the top, yells, “Leave!” and Duke listens. 

Aranea crawls out then, but goes no further than his forehead. 

“Who the fuck were those guys?” Duke breathes out, driving way too fast for Peter to feel even a bit safe in the backseat without being buckled in. 

Peter answers honestly, “I have no idea.”

But he thinks of what they said.

Just want the kiddie.

Unfortunately, no isn’t an option. Trust me, I tried that.

I just wanted to go home.

Doesn’t really sound anything like the Morlocks he’s come to know and fucking despise. Sounds like people drug into some bullshit. Goddamn, Peter fucking hates Mikhail. 

“Does Constantine really have Mikhail?” Peter asks, sliding forward so he’s holding onto the passenger seat, staring at the side of Duke’s head. 

The man nods, eyes firmly on the road at least, “At the Watchtower. Clark and J’onn went up there with him. Though maybe they should’ve stuck around.”

Peter thinks about Jason shooting people, Damian literally cutting somebody’s arm off, and then the Shadow Man slash Time Controller dying. “No,” Peter whispers, “I don’t think there needed to be anymore people involved in that.”

It was a shitshow to end all shitshows.

Truly.

Damian hums, setting the machete down on the seat beside him, “Quite. The apartment was beginning to feel crowded.”

Peter leans back into his seat, taking deep breaths, thinking, thinking, thinking. Aranea must feel it, because she crawls down his face and moves to rest in the collar of his shirt. He swallows, tears spilling over his cheeks as he comes to his own decision.

“We’re going to the Zeta Tube,” Peter instructs. 

Duke swerves, righting the wheel quickly, “What? Why?”

Damian’s watching him, eyes calculating, following one of his tears as it trails down his face. Peter sucks in a breath. 

“Mikhail’s involving others,” he states, “That lady said she tried to say no. And look what happened to them! One of them’s dead! Another doesn’t have an arm anymore!”

Damian bristles, but Peter keeps going, “Take me to the Zeta Tube or I go by myself!”

It’s quiet in the car, but Duke does change direction. His hands are squeezing the steering wheel so tight Peter can hear it bending. 

“What is your plan once you get to the Watchtower?” Damian asks, voice quiet but easily heard in the silence. 

Peter looks away from him, facing the window, “Constantine has Mikhail, yeah? That’s what Duke said.”

Duke hums, “Yeah, he does. Subdued or some shit, I don’t know.”

Nodding, he says, “Right. So he can send me back safely now. And he’s gonna.”

Damian grabs the machete again, but Peter ignores him. Duke’s teeth clack together, stopping himself from saying whatever he was going to say. Peter blinks, slowly (this time because he wants to), and breathes out, “Nobody else is going to get hurt.”