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Peter Parker is an expert at avoidance.
It’s because of this fact that, despite protests, Peter goes back to living in his apartment. And, despite even more protests, he continues to patrol the neighborhoods surrounding his building.
Alone.
Bruce and Dick wanted him to stay in the Manor, especially when they found out he was living in Crime Alley. They tried multiple approaches, the first was him moving in permanently, which was retracted at his immediate and vehement denial. The second offer was that he stay with them a month to see how he likes the place, then to proceed from there. After another shut down, they asked that he just stay until he found a better place. Peter declined them all.
He’s not used to relying on anyone, and he’s not exactly eager to start again.
With Alfred’s stamp of perfect health, he’s freed from the cave and led to Dick’s car.
The past twelve hours have been– draining. He’s not only physically spent, but also still reeling from everything from Dick being a doppelganger of his dad, to Agent A being a kind old man, to Batman being Bruce freaking Wayne. Alfred’s identity was the least world rocking, but the others made up for it. Peter might not be from Gotham, but he’s well aware of Bruce Wayne.
He’s practically this universe’s Tony Stark. A thought that's making him spiral.
Peter can’t think about this, about Tony. Not here. Not now. Definitely not in Dick’s car on the precipice of freedom. Tony’s further from sight than he’s ever been. There are no reminders of him in a universe where he doesn't exist. Peter needs to get a hold of himself.
“It’s that building on the corner,” Peter says, breaking the silence that’s enveloped them since they entered the car.
The walk from the car to his door is short, but they’ve returned to the stifling silence. Dick glances at Peter as he steps up to his door, but he keeps his gaze forward. He knows what Dick’s thinking. He’s wishing Peter would stay in the manor, stay close to them. But Peter can’t do that. Dick knows that. He might even relate to some degree.
He was insistent on Peter staying at the Manor until one moment early this morning. A single moment in the Cave. They were arguing about his health, just him and Bruce, and Peter’s mask slipped. He turned away from Bruce, his eyes screwed shut in an attempt to steel himself against a sudden surge of emotion. When he opened them again, Dick was staring at him, a far too knowing look on his own face.
He saw the confusion, the anger. He saw how overwhelmed Peter was by this entire situation.
And he relented.
Peter unlocks his apartment door and turns the doorknob, abruptly feeling heavy and hesitant. He swings the door open with a bit more force than necessary and steps inside.
“Welcome to the Parker abode,” he says, swinging his arms out wide.
It’s not much, and it’s certainly not home, but it’s his. It’s Peter’s first apartment. The first place he’d been able to call fully and solely his. Sure, all the furniture came with the place and the couch has cigarette burns on it, but it’s his .
With only one room, Peter’s made the most of his space. The kitchenette’s on his left, with his mattress and couch against the far wall. But he’s not giving Dick a tour, he can see everything from the doorway anyways. He drops his bag on the table to his right and pulls out his suit.
Dick is oddly quiet behind him, but Peter doesn’t want to see whatever look he has on his face. He busies himself with tidying up for a few minutes, putting things away and sorting through the rest of his bag. Alfred snuck some food in, Peter’s ready the kiss the ground he walks on.
His stubbornness isn’t working. After putting the food away in the fridge, Peter finds himself out of excuses.
Dick finally steps further into the apartment, the floorboards creaking beneath him.
Peter risks a glance up.
But Dick isn’t looking back at him. There’s no pity in his features, no disgust. He looks almost-- nostalgic.
He catches Peter’s confusion and shrugs. “This just-- this place reminds me of my parents.”
That doesn’t lessen his questions, but he relates to the sentiment. “How so?”
“It just has the same feel. I don’t know. We lived in a trailer at the circus,” he explains. “I’ve always liked smaller places, they feel more secure.”
Peter can relate to that too. Even more so, probably, but thinking about May and their shoebox apartment makes him choke up, so he doesn’t respond.
Dick doesn’t seem to mind, he continues looking around instead of pressing, inspecting diagrams and sketches and books Peter left out. He stops next to the mattress, but Peter only remembers what's down there after he’s already bent down and picked one up.
Peter steps towards him, an aborted move to do-- something. He doesn’t know what. He just looks at the picture over Dick’s shoulder. It’s the only one he has left of his parents, the only item he has left of them at all.
The picture is of the three of them, him and his parents. In it, h e’s propped on his dad’s hip, grinning and messy and covered in chocolate batter. Dad’s grinning down at him and Mom’s looking on. Her arms are crossed and she’s obviously exasperated, but she’s smiling fondly.
He squats done next to Dick and thumbs the edge of the picture.
“I still remember when this happened,” he starts, voice soft in a way it hasn’t been in months. Dick’s eyes flick to him, looking startled and a bit sad.
“Dad looked up at Mom and there wasn’t a hint of guilt. He marched me over to her, held me out, and said ‘Look how happy our little boy is, Mary. He loves chocolate.’ And Mom just raised an eyebrow at him, but she cracked too.”
He pauses. No matter how many years pass, or how much he mourns his parents, he still avoids talking about their deaths. He takes the picture from Dick and turns it over briefly, running a finger over his mother’s loopy handwriting.
Richard, Mary, and Peter (4) eat chocolate cake batter against Mom’s wishes.
He flips back over to their faces, taking in the happiness radiating from each one of them. He gathers his strength to continue.
“My aunt and uncle had come over for dinner that night, and Uncle Ben took this on his camera.” He clears his throat. “It’s the last photo ever taken of us. They died in a plane crash a week later.”
Peter looks back up at Dick, and it’s weird, seeing a face so familiar on a completely different man. A replica of the man in this picture, yet a stranger. Dick’s around the same age his dad was when he died, they’re identical. The expression on his face right now though, the devastation, Peter’s never seen this face twisted like that before. He did his research on Gotham, he knows Dick’s parents died when he was a kid too, but this is more than that. This isn’t empathy or understanding. He looks-- guilty almost, like he’s somehow responsible for his counterpart’s death. Peter can’t stomach it.
He sets the photo back down on top of the other, the one of him, May, and Ben, and stands quickly.
“I, um. Did you need anything else?” He asks, clearing his throat against the utter mortification washing over him. Why did he just do that? Talk about oversharing.
It’s quiet for an uncomfortable amount of time as they fall into an impasse. Dick is either incapable or unwilling to speak, and Peter is too embarrassed to even consider looking up from fiddling with his backpack.
“I-” Dick cuts himself off. Peter’s head rises to meet his eye. “No, I don’t. You’ll text me if you need something? Anything?”
It’s obviously not what he was going to say, or anywhere near what he wants to. But Peter’s always been good with taking outs when they’re offered. He nods stiffly.
Dick takes his leave, only pausing at the door to throw Peter a smile.
Finally alone, Peter sits on his bed with a heaving sigh and lets himself begin to unravel.
In the following weeks, he utilizes his mastery of avoidance to its full extent. He managed to get out of the Manor and back to his apartment without talking about this whole mess, and they let him go. Frankly, that’s their mistake. They didn’t push him on an explanation or a plan when he was cornered, and now they’ve lost their chance.
Dick’s a quick learner, he seems to have caught on to Peter’s strategy. Just to his luck, Dick is definitely the least emotionally stunted of the bunch. Peter hasn’t spoken with anyone other than Bruce, Alfred, and Dick, but he has a feeling that’s the point. Dick is the oldest, and he’s talkative, annoyingly so. Bruce is Gotham’s Protector. The rest of the bats are either avoiding him purposefully or have actually been warned off. Let the father and the oldest sibling take care of the issue, right?
Except Peter doesn’t want to be an issue. He just wants to be left alone. If not for the sake of him or his sanity, then for theirs. He doesn’t have the best track record with attachments.
A few weeks in, they switch gears. Dick stops insisting they talk about everything every minute and starts simply tagging along for Peter’s patrols. He obviously doesn’t want to let the topic go, but he's smart enough to recognize when he’s not getting anywhere.
Plain following Peter isn’t much better in his humble opinion, it’s actually quite patronizing. He can handle himself.
The problem that arises is this: Peter gets so accustomed to dodging a scarily quiet Dick, that his attention is diverted from patrol.
He isn’t paying as much attention as he should, or being as careful as he needs to be.
The gunshot seems to startle his shooter more than it does Peter. Which says a lot, considering the offending bullet is currently lodged in his torso.
“Holy shit,” the other guy says, face ashen. He can’t be any older than fourteen. Peter got shot by a kid . He’s never going to live this down.
Peter only grunts in response to the kid, his head is spinning and muddled. He presses a hand to his side and hisses through his teeth. Gunshot wounds suck .
He clears his throat, but his voice still comes out raspy. “Are you okay, kid?”
The kid looks completely baffled by this before his attention catches on something behind Peter and his face goes slack.
And really, Peter must be really out of it to not notice a threat approaching before some terrified kid did. Maybe he needs to do some awareness training. He stands and spins as quickly as he can, ignoring the pain shooting up him. Showing weakness gets you killed, Parker, buck up.
He’s prepared to hold whoever off so the kid can run, but he’s met with a familiar face instead.
Nightwing jumps from a fire escape and lands in front of him in one smooth moment. The air carries his every movement.
Dick notices the wound immediately, of course, and he’s snatching the gun away from the kid in seconds, talking as he goes. “Did he shoot you ? Give me that.”
Peter’s never been so glad to see him. For the first time since it started, Peter’s actually grateful Dick was following him. Even if he’s currently leveling a civilian with a look so harsh the kid looks like he’s going to piss himself.
“Wing, a little help?”
He tears his gaze from the kid and to Peter, his face hard in anger. Peter shakes his head, the kid didn’t mean to hurt him.
"Get out of here, kid," Dick says, eyes scanning the damage dealt to Peter.
Peter finally slumps to the ground when the kid vanishes from the mouth of the alley. Dick crouches down next to him, one hand landing on his shoulder.
He leans into the touch, trying desperately to hold on to consciousness. The situation might be worse than he expected.
"It's stuck. The bullet," he gasps.
Dick’s eyes go wide as his hand tightens on Peter’s shoulder. "Shit.”
Dick manages to get Peter back to the manor. It’s painful, and embarrassing as hell, but they manage.
Dick lingers anxiously as Alfred removes the bullet. Peter’s conscious for it all, and damn, does it hurt.
Peter wouldn’t be surprised if Alfred went to med school. He inserts an IV, removes the bullet, and presses a bandage to the wound in record time. Peter’s head spins from it all. He leaves with strict orders that Peter rest until he gets back. Until he gets back from fixing Peter a room, that is.
A room in the manor upstairs. They’re still trying to make him stay.
Directly against orders, Peter slowly sits up in bed. He manages to swing one leg over the side of the bed before Dick’s voice stops him.
“Are you serious , Peter?”
This isn’t going to end well.
“Lay back down. You’re staying here,” Dick continues, a stern edge to his voice.
Peter bristles and stays stubbornly still. He's at the end of his very long rope.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his tone falsely polite. “Why do you have the right to tell me to do that?”
Dick starts to respond, his eyes narrowed, but Peter cuts him off.
“That’s right, you don’t. You don’t know me, Dick. We aren’t teammates, we aren’t family . You don’t know a thing about me.”
The family blow hits and Peter immediately regrets it a little, but he’s too mad to take it back.
“We are teammates,” Dick rebuts. “We have been for months. You should know that. I don’t just give out my name.”
A sore spot in Peter’s chest pangs. A very well concealed and ignored sore spot, but one nonetheless.
Peter has never had a team. He’s had– allies, if he can even consider them that, but no team. The Avengers weren’t his team. He couldn’t rely on them and they didn’t even know he existed. Tony ‘knighted’ him as a last ditch effort, then died right before Peter’s eyes. By the end, they were a hobbled group formed from anger and desperation, nothing more.
At least for Peter.
Because then, after the snap, after everything was going back to normal, he was somehow the only Avenger available. He was the last hope for the Elementals. He was alone in fighting Mysterio, a fight he nearly died in.
His identity was leaked, and no one came.
He went to Doctor Strange for help and ended up here.
To his horror, a tear slips down his face, and Peter quickly turns away from Dick.
Alfred’s standing in the doorway. “Master Dick, I think it’s time you go upstairs.”
“Alfie I have to–” Dick protests, looking guilty.
“Giving Master Peter some space is all you need to do. He’ll be up in no time.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Peter sees Dick glance at him before he nods and leaves. His steps echo in the cave. Peter takes a steadying breath.
“You should be doing the same, Master Bruce,” Alfred calls out a moment later, busying himself with vials and syringes.
Bruce steps into the room and Peter didn’t even know he was down here. Some spidey sense he has, he can't even catch a break.
He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, Batman must be done for the night. The accessing run-over he levels Peter with makes him squirm. It’s reminding him far too much of Tony. It’s all at the forefront of his mind now, every fight, every person he’s lost. He looks away to swallow down the emotion creeping up his throat.
“How are you doing?” Bruce asks. The floor creaks as he steps closer.
Peter rubs his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll be at 100% as soon as I sleep.”
“Your healing component works that quickly?”
Peter’s starting to feel the exhaustion creep in. He finally meets Bruce’s eye, willing this conversation to go as quickly as possible. “Yeah, as long as I eat and sleep enough.”
“Are you?” he asks, his tone light. “Eating and sleeping enough, that is.”
Peter grits his teeth. Bruce is just like Tony. He’s just as overprotective when he has absolutely no right to be. When he’s too distant to have any right to even a semblance of concern.
“I didn’t know audacity was hereditary,” he bites.
Bruce and Dick, they have no right to do this, to hover over him like this. Peter barely tolerated being coddled by May . He won’t let it happen now, not with how raw he feels at every brush of compassion.
Logically, he understands. Peter’s seventeen, they see him as a kid, and they worry for him like a kid. But he’s not a kid, and they don’t know anything about him. They don’t know what he’s been through or what he’s had to do. Bruce and Dick wouldn’t care as much as they do if they were privy to the nitty gritty details of his failures.
Ignoring his dig, Bruce plows on. “I know you’re frustrated, but we aren’t the enemy, Peter. You’re used to taking care of yourself. I’m just trying to show you that you don’t have to .”
A hand lands on his shoulder.
“You aren’t trapped here, but you’re not alone either. People care about you.”
Peter takes a breath. Holds it. They care about him. They shouldn’t, they’ll only get hurt, but he can’t do anything to stop it. He can block them out, and protest as loud as possible, but Bruce Wayne seems like a very persistent man.
He exhales and nods.
Bruce looks at him carefully. “Your room is ready. Can you walk on your own?”
For the first time, Peter takes full stock of his body. He’s trying to avoid any more embarrassing situations, but he needs to realistically weigh his strength.
“I think I’ll be good.”
He slowly gets to his feet, carefully keeping his balance and trying to refrain from any lightheadedness. Passing out immediately after standing is not a good look when you’re trying to prove your health. Peter manages to hobble up the stairs, all one thousand it takes to get to the manor entrance, without much fanfare. By the time he’s reached the room Alfred made up for him, the painkillers have started to kick in. He’s clear-minded, but still blissfully numb. Bruce has the good shit.
Peter flops onto the bed, hissing in pain as he jostles his side. He swears Bruce is holding back a smile when he twists around, but it’s gone too quick for him to confirm.
Alfred, who directed him to the room while following closely, sets him up in bed, fluffing pillows and piling up way too many blankets. Bruce leaves his post at the IV stand, bidding Peter goodnight as he leaves. Alfred follows soon after, first making him swear to call out for help for anything he needs.
The solitude doesn’t last.
When Dick pokes his head in a few minutes later, Peter’s flipping through channels on the tv. And, realistically, he knows this is Bruce Wayne’s house, but a massive tv like this being in a guest room is outrageous.
“Can I come in?” Dick asks.
Peter makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, motioning him in. He's a little high. Just a little.
Dick sits on the edge of the bed, looking nervous. “I wanted to apologize for earlier. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
He seems sincere, but he always does. That’s half of the problem, all of Dick’s actions seem to come from genuine, if not misguided, intentions. It’s annoying and tiring, being mad at someone so good.
Peter is tired. He’s lonely. He’s crumbling under the pressure of his responsibilities.
He’s resigning to this. To them.
Hopefully it’s the right decision.
“It’s okay,” he says.
He shows it, too.
He shows it in the way he pats the bed next to him.
I forgive you. He hands Dick the remote, and lets him turn the channel to some documentary. Dick is fierce in his worry, and Peter doesn’t mind the company.
I trust you , is hushed, appearing softly as Peter’s head lulls onto Dick’s shoulder.
Wood scuffs against the floor nearby, Peter wills his eyes open long enough to register a chair and Dick’s voice pitched low. Peter doesn’t have the energy to figure out what he’s saying.
His eyes slip closed. And Peter’s tired, he’s so exhausted, but his mind whirs.
Too many memories flash by him. Too many nightmares. He thinks of the warehouse, about feeling himself rip to pieces. He thinks of a train and a dodged bullet. Peter thinks of bricks and school and green bleeding into red.
It’s just me and you.
He turns from them all, every terror that's plagued him. Think of something happy, Peter. Think of all the good.
One memory comes to him clearly. His dad, watching a documentary, his arm wrapped around Peter's tiny frame.
He sees the irony.
He floats a little closer to consciousness, smiling.
"-look jus' like 'im," he mumbles. "jus' like Dad."
His pillow goes tense, and someone is talking, but Peter's already gone. Falling has never been so easy.
Peter jolts awake.
His nightmare, his memories come rushing back and he chokes on a sob.
A collage of all his greatest hits.
Ben crumpling to the ground, feet away from him.
A damp warehouse falling around him, a pressure across his back. Digging in.
His skin flaking off like dust.
Mysterio.
He only registers the hand on his shoulder when it squeezes. Suddenly, h e’s gasping for air, eyes coming into focus and adjusting to the dark room. Someone is standing over him. He blinks. It’s a man, his brow pinched.
Peter blinks again and confusion rushes in because his dad is standing over him.
Richard Parker, leaning over his bed.
Richard Parker, with a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Peter freezes, his breathing shallow. He slowly raises a hand to the arm stretched towards his, and misses. His limbs are heavy, panic incapacitating his coordination.
The man seems to understand what he was trying to do, though. He grips Peter’s hand with his free one. Peter’s face crumbles.
“Breathe, Peter,” his father says, squeezing Peter’s hands in time with his own breaths.
It helps. Peter’s awareness slowly clears, but that somehow makes things worse . He hurriedly glances at the room they’re in, body coiling like a spring poised for release. He’s-- this isn’t his parents’ apartment in Queens. Peter isn’t four years old.
His parents are dead. His father is dead .
Peter looks back at the man in front of him, panicked and desperate. The man who, despite all logic, has his father’s face. He looks back at Peter, steady but worried, and growing slightly alarmed. He looks behind him, at the room like Peter did, like he’s trying to find something. To figure something out. He turns back to face Peter, looking slightly confused. And now he’s trying to figure Peter out. The weight of the searching gaze and Peter’s own confusion have his fear rebounding.
“Pete, bud, you need to breathe . What’s wrong?”
This man isn’t his father. He can’t be. But Peter doesn’t know where he is, or why he hurts inside and out. And this man, with Richard Parker’s face, has just uttered a word Peter hasn’t heard said in that cadence in a decade . Pete, his father would say to grab his attention as a child. Pete, he’d called him every time Peter ever saw him. He had forgotten how the nickname sounded, lost the warmth etched into every syllable.
Peter caves.
He slumps forward, and the man immediately shifts to accommodate him. Peter grabs a handful of his shirt as his face lands in the crevice of the man’s neck.
“Dad,” he gasps out between frantic sobs. “ Dad. ”
The body beneath him freezes minutely before relaxing again. “I’m here, Peter,” it says as he’s shifted. “I’m here, you’re safe.”
And Peter-- Peter hasn’t been safe for a long time. He hasn’t felt safe since before he was four years old and not understanding where his parents went. Or since he was fourteen and desperate and blood slipped through his fingers. Since he was fifteen with the weight of an entire warehouse on his back, sixteen and being tricked and hit by a freight train. He certainly wasn’t safe when an alien more closely resembling a god broke his world.
This has happened before, Peter is being tricked. He should really know better by now.
This isn’t real. You’re not real, you’re dead. Dad, you’re dead, this isn’t real.
“This is real, Pete. I’m real. You’re safe.”
This isn’t real. Peter is going to wake up, alone and cold, and t his won’t be real and he won’t be safe. But, in the arms of a man who, against all odds and logic, is his dad , he finally could be.
He can pretend. For now, at least, he can pretend.
He falls back asleep.