Archive of Our Own

Peter is having a light patrol when the weird bat monsters overrun the city.

The sheer number of them is overwhelming, coming from all angles. Peter swings down to the busier parts of the city, stopping in between to help random people. He webs them up, leaves them by sidewalks or in alleys.

It’s an all-hands-on-deck type situation, from what he can see. Batman is in the centre of all of it, but all of the other bats are also out, except for Signal, who Peter can kind of make out from the earpieces on the others when he gets close enough. Peter doesn’t say anything to them, and they don’t really acknowledge him, either. He’s just swinging around the thicks of it and taking down as many of them as he can.

The mutual understanding of unacknowledged teaming-up continues until Peter, mid-swing, runs out of web fluid. “Shit,” he yells as he’s falling. He’s pretty high up, maybe ten stories, and as long as he lands well enough it shouldn’t incapacitate him or leave lasting damage, but it would still hurt like a bitch and leave some bruises.

And then he’s intercepted in the air by a blurry figure.

It runs into him, and Peter can only see a blur of red and black as they land on a nearby rooftop. Peter quickly separates from the guy, stumbling back to see Red Robin muttering under his breath.

“Thanks,” he says, and it’s genuine. He splits the empty capsules from his web shooters, tossing and replacing them with new cartridges he keeps in a different compartment. He shuts the web shooters, shaking his hands a bit to get them going, and then does a test shoot, nodding in satisfaction when a strand of webbing comes out.

He looks up to find Red Robin studying his wrists in fascination. “Those don’t… come out of you?” He sounds uncertain.

But Peter notices a swarm of the bat mutants heading somewhere. “Maybe we can talk about this later,” he shouts, and then he’s swinging towards them.

He chases the animals on their way, webbing a few of them while swinging, when there’s an explosion on a building down the street. Peter’s there in a flash, abandoning his pursuit of the creatures and changing directories.

“You got that?” Red Robin yells at him, and Peter can barely just make it through the chaos.

He nods furiously. “Go!” He yells, and Red Robin gives him a clear, apprehensive look, before changing trajectories himself to head towards the cluster of screaming that just started a few seconds ago.

The building’s starting to shake—not much time until it collapses, maybe only seconds. Peter can hear the people inside; heartbeats in the lobby, from people evacuating the building before the explosion blocked off the doorway. He swings in, breaking through a window, and finds himself facing a group of people staring back at him with wide eyes.

“Hey, everyone,” he rambles, gaze darting from face to face. Only maybe two dozen people left to go. Okay. “My name’s Spidey, I’ll be your tour guide for the day, if you would just follow me—”

“Shut the fuck up and get us out of here, man!” Some guy yells from the group.

Geez, tough crowd. “I’m… working on that,” he grunts out, before kicking a chunk of debris out of his way. “Alright, when I give the go, everyone book it out the door. Okay?”

“The door’s blocked,” someone says, like the eyes on the Spider-Man mask are just for show.

“I can see that,” Peter replies, biting his tongue to keep his words even. Instead, he shifts position, moving to the other side, adjusting his weight so he can crouch down and wiggle his fingers under the massive piece of second-story that’s been collapsed. “Just—go—I dunno how long the ceiling will last—” He takes a deep breath and lifts the debris, panting with the effort.

The civilians, once they get over their initial shock, rush to leave the collapsing building.

And then, because the universe loves to kick him while he’s already down, the ceiling gives out.

Peter barely has enough time to think to himself, not again, before he has to brace himself to hold up the weight of the sky as the last of them all escape.

-

“Yo, Spidey, you okay, man?” Some guy in a poncho asks, one Peter recognizes as part of the group he saved from the building. Probably the one who told him to shut the fuck up.

Peter would’ve thought the answer was obvious. He’d barely escaped the building caving in on top of him, crawled out once everyone had reached safety, barely depositing himself on the sidewalk before collapsing himself in to a heap, all bruises and aching bones, muscles trembling with sheer exhaustion. The ceiling had hit his back on the way down, had fallen onto him before he had the chance to catch it, he’d be lucky with some busted ribs at best. If anything, he should be lucky it was only a six-story apartment.

Not very structurally sound, but a hell of a lot easier to hold above his head.

He waits a moment to respond until he thinks he can respond without groaning. “Fine. I’m fine.” The words barely come out in a wheeze.

An elderly looking lady rubs his arm gently. “Maybe you should sit this one out, dear.”

Peter shakes it off, only feeling slightly bad about the short dismissal. “Nah. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, get somewhere safe. Maybe stay with a friend for a few days.”

“Get some fucking sleep, bro,” a voice calls out, and at this point Peter can’t even tell who said it. He has to admit—he’s wiped. He’s had a shit day, which he should’ve seen coming because it started off as a good day, and Parkers don’t really get good days unless some storm is coming. “The bats are handling it anyway.”

Yeah, well, Bats can’t bench press a building, Peter doesn’t snap back. He doesn’t need to.

In the midst of the chaos of mutant attacks, a hole opens up in the sky.

A red-gold figure falls out of it. For a moment, Peter’s reminded of the battle of New York, the Chitauri invasion, the moments of bated breath as everyone watched Iron Man fall from the sky and he wasn’t slowing down. And the Parkers’ apartment had barely avoided being among the wreckage, but they were hiding in the living room, May and Ben ready to jump and run in a second’s notice, and they’d been watching the news for any sign the fighting was headed their way and May’d been so shocked he could fall at all that she’d forgot to cover Peter’s eyes.

It takes a moment too long to realize that it is Iron Man.

Tony Stark. Iron Man.

That’s Tony Stark, falling from the strange hole in the sky in this strange universe.

And he’s not slowing down.

“Holy shit,” poncho dude murmurs, staring up where everyone can’t seem to tear their eyes away. “What the fuck is that?”

Tony Stark is falling, for a second time, and he’s not stopping, and Peter isn’t the Hulk—he’s injured, he’s barely on his feet, for one, and his acme caps out a few meters above the highest building in the city—Wayne Enterprises, some decent miles away. He can’t do anything to stop it.

And then, all of a sudden, the suit wakes up. The repulsers flash, lighting up in a way that feels all too familiar, and he’s righting himself, head up, looking around—at the still-dying invasion ongoing, the thick of the fighting, the strange, dark city so like New York in all the ways he can’t see yet, the confusion that should not be visible to Peter, miles and miles away—

Tony, because Peter has never known him to do anything else, flies into the midst of it. Where the bats are, ending the fight for the night.

Peter’s still staring at the sky, stunned. There’s a small, faintly visible trail from where he flew.

“I better go take care of that,” he says hoarsely, willing his body to move in a way that allows him to swing.

The elderly woman just pats him on the shoulder. It speaks volumes that no one is objecting, too entranced by the sky as it is.

Far off, he can hear the distant sounds of repulsers, and the enraged screams of those bat mutant things.

Because Peter has never been taught any better, raised by an aunt who default resorted to angry Italian yelling and encouraged by the same asshole who just dropped into this universe, he heads towards the noise.

-

Iron Man is standing in a clearly aggressive stance, gauntlet raised and ready to fire at the bats all lined up against him. Neither side has noticed Peter yet, and he’s not too proud to admit that he’d tried swinging over on his busted ribs and kind of fallen embarrassingly fast, still recovering too far away to do anything but watch and listen, and slowly try to catch his breath enough to make his way over.

But it’s close enough to see him. There’s no question about it. That’s Tony Stark, that’s his suit, his stance, his voice. Even without the ribs, it stops Peter dead in his tracks.

At least now, the fight seems properly won. He wonders how much Iron Man had to do with that—wild card, and all.

“Stay back,” Tony says in his metallic voice.

Red Hood scoffs, raising his guns. Peter would facepalm if it didn’t hurt to raise his arms. What does he think bullets are gonna do against metal armour? “What’re you gonna do?” He sneers.

Tony fires at the ground in front of them, leaving a smoking crater. A warning shot. He must be really freaked out, Peter thinks, because Tony’s never been a warning shot kind of guy. He either talks with his patented ego (he’d call it charm) or he’s certain enough of the situation to attack. Assuming that he actually did just travel interdimensionally, Peter supposes it makes sense that he’d be a little freaked.

Red Hood curses, fires at his legs. The other bats start, but they’re driven to silence as the bullets bounce off. Also a warning shot—from what Peter’s heard of the Red Hood, when he shoots he never misses.

The tension is thick between them. “Really,” Tony says. “You wanna go there? Bullets against titanium armour, huh? Who wants to see how that turns out?”

“Who are you?” Nightwing yells, frustrated and strained.

Peter can feel Tony rolling his eyes, even when his face is covered by the mask, then suddenly, out of nowhere, he stiffens. “Is that StarkTech?”

Peter curses in his head as Tony surges forward, and the bats all raise their weapons. But nothing’s stopping Tony, who has his eyes locked on one thing—the small avengers logo on Nightwing’s shoulder. “Who are you? Where did you get that? How did you get that?”

“I—uh—what?” Nightwing elegantly says, as he backs away.

“Your suit,” Tony replies impatiently. “Where did you get your suit?”

“We… we made it?” Peter winces, as Tony gets pulled taught. He notices Batman melt away, which Tony hasn’t seen because he’s so focused on Nightwing. This isn’t going to be good.

“No you didn’t,” Tony snaps, and Peter watches as the bats all get into an aggressive stance, ready to attack, when Peter finally snaps out of it and swings into the middle of the scene, in between both sides.

“Stop!” He yells, putting out a hand to each side.

Batman reappears, and from his stance and his mouth, he is the furthest thing from pleased. “Spider-Man, stand down.”

And if Peter thought that Tony was tense before, he must be a statue now after hearing that name. “Spider-Man…?” He says much quieter, only Peter can hear it.

“Stop fighting,” Peter says. “He’s a friend—or did you not see how he helped take the weird bat mutant things down? You want something to do, the webbing I used on them will disintegrate in a couple hours. Somebody should take care of that. Just, don’t pick fights with the Iron Man,” he adds wryly.

And then suddenly, Tony spurs into action as he grabs Peter by the wrist and takes off. It’s a short flight, but fast and intense. He puts distance between them and the bats they left behind, as he lands them suddenly on a roof Peter recognizes in Crime Alley.

Peter lands with a grunt, gathering himself only to see the other end of the gauntlet. “Take off your mask,” Tony says, and his voice is colder than Peter’s ever heard it before.

“You first,” he shoots back, both to be adversary but also to confirm that it is Tony under there.

The Iron Man faceplate dissolves in branches of nanotech retreating into the body of the armour, revealing Tony Stark, a face Peter hasn’t seen in months, with a panicked, angry, hopeful look in his eyes.

Well, that solves that problem.

Peter pulls off his mask. He can imagine how he looks right now—face bruised and nose a little bloody, hair sticky with sweat and tangled in every direction. Tony looks at him like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Oh my God, Peter,” he breathes, his armour retracting entirely back into his arc reactor. Tony staggering forward, and Peter rushes to catch him, but is pulled into him instead. “Peter.”

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he mumbles, enveloped into a crushing hug. It hurts his busted up ribs, but he can’t do anything about it—only holds onto his mentor harder, tighter.

-

Some time later, they make their way off the roof, and it’s lucky that nobody’s noticed them. Peter puts his mask back on and climbs off the side while Tony uses the fire escape.

The building they were on is not too far from where Peter’s stashed his clothes, so he leads them both there, Tony clutching onto his arm and staring at him the entire time. He makes him turn around as he changes, though, moreso because of the numerous bruises he definitely has than for any modesty. He peels off his suit as Tony stands watch in the alley, trading it for a simple t-shirt and jeans.

It’s hard to move his arms much, but he manages with as little grunts and groans as possible. The shirt doesn’t do much to hide the bruises along his arms—courtesy of the falling building, but at least the worst ones on his back, stomach and legs are hidden. The fight really took a lot out of him—he’s bruised and sore all over, not to mention faint from using so much energy. There’s a pinched expression on Tony’s face as he studies Peter.

“You’re too thin, kid,” he says, and Peter gives a wry grin.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“God,” Tony says, and then Peter’s pulled back into him again. They stumble a bit from the force, but Tony holds them both up.

They start walking, Peter guiding them back to the firehouse. The streets are deserted, everything abandoned, and they’re in the worst parts of Crime Alley anyway—the ones that never see anyone. So in a low voice, Peter fills him in on what’s happened since the battle—how he woke up here, what he’s found about this universe, returning as Spider-Man, etc. It takes longer than he would’ve thought—the walk back home is agonizingly slow with Tony supporting most of his weight, and there’s so much to talk about.

Two hours later, and they’re mostly there. The sky’s darkened to a haziness, and all the adrenaline has left Peter’s body, leaving him sore and weak. Abruptly, Peter stops, pulling Tony with him. They’re on the side of a street, around a corner. A pain fills him, and guilt, and terror. “Is… is May—”

Sadness fills in Tony’s eyes. Peter reels, and Tony’s grip on him tightens as he lowers them both to the ground. Peter makes a choked sound, and clutches onto the man. Three hugs in one day. Tony never was one for physical contact—he must be in really bad shape.

“Ned—MJ—”

“I’m sorry, kid,” he murmurs, planting a firm kiss on Peter’s temple. The tears Peter hadn’t felt before suddenly come rushing, as he sobs into Tony’s shoulder, who can only find it in him to keep whispering apologies. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“What’s going on,” a sharp voice says, and Peter’s startled out of his tears. He turns in shock to see Tim, standing behind them for god knows how long.

“Tim? What are you doing here?” Peter pushes himself up, Tony following suit, and wipes his hands over his face.

“I came to check on you,” he says to Peter, but his gaze is fixed on the man behind him. “You know, what with the attack and all.”

Peter’s stunned a bit at his concern, and gives him a weak smile. “Thanks, but I’m fine. We’re just about to head home.” He turns to Tony. “Mr. Stark, this is my friend, Tim,” he adds.

Tony strides up easily and puts out his hand. “Tony Stark,” he says, with all the confidence that name deserves. But to Peter’s surprise, Tim doesn’t take his hand, and his eyes harden.

“Tim Drake,” he says coldly, and Tony looks confused at the hostility before dropping his hand. Tim turns to face Peter and then suddenly looks as if he was punched. “What happened to you?”

“Huh?”

Tim steps forward, taking Peter’s arms and pulling him back with him until they’re under a street light. He turns Peter’s arms over in the light, examining the harsh bruises on them and on his face. “You said you were fine,” he accuses.

Peter winces. “I am,” he insists. “We just got caught up in the fight. Nothing too bad, just need some rest.”

Tim scowls at the marks. “You need to go to a hospital—”

“No hospital,” Peter and Tony say at once, firmly. Tim’s expression steels even further.

“I can’t afford the bills,” Peter tries to offer, but Tim looks convictingly at Tony, whom Peter belatedly realizes is wearing a very expensive suit.

“I know a free clinic,” Tim retorts.

“—and I just don’t like hospitals,” Peter says. He tries to give an innocent, reassuring smile, pretends to miss Tony’s exasperated disapproval at his lying skills behind him. “It’s really not that bad. It looks worse than it is. I just gotta sleep it off.”

Tim doesn’t look convinced—if anything, he looks taut, ready to spring. “You’re coming home with me,” he says decidedly, warningly. “Our butler can fix you up, and you can stay the night.” He talks in a tone that’s almost daring him to disagree, but Peter’s already shaking his head.

“I can’t.” He tries to gently pull his arms from Tim’s grip, surprised to find that he’s holding his wrists firmly. “Gotta stay with Mr. Stark. We’ll really be fine, though.”

Tim feels angrier than Peter’s ever seen him, and it’s making him jittery and uncertain. He hesitates, and then almost seethes in his response. “He can come too. But you’re not going home without getting checked out by someone.”

Peter looks helplessly at Tony, who sighs and shrugs. “Right behind you, kid,” he reassures, snaking his hand out to ruffle Peter’s hair, but Tim suddenly pulls Peter towards him, out of his reach.

“Let’s go,” Tim says, setting off. He’s still holding Peter’s arm, so he tries to walk normally, but exhaustion pulls at him. As they carry on, Peter unknowingly slumps more and more, staggering in his steps until eventually Tim is carrying much of his body weight.

Tony saddles up beside him, taking Peter under the arm to help support his weight, but is cut off by a glare from Tim. “I’ve got him,” he snaps, and Tony looks at him with a scrupulous gaze.

He then simply slides off Peter’s backpack from where it was slung on one arm, and swings it on his own. “Got your backpack,” he says.

“Okay, sir,” Peter mutters, and Tim stares at them both intensely.

He leads them to an expensive-looking car parked on the side of the road, and Peter grimaces at the thought of leaving it unattended in Crime Alley. That’s just begging to be broken into. Surprisingly, it seems intact—maybe everyone’s too busy recovering from the manbats to care about the car. Tim opens the door to shotgun and helps Peter in as gently as he can, before getting into the driver’s seat. Tony gets in the back, which Peter knows must have him a little miffed. He always tried to drive his cars unless it was Happy in front.

They sit in silence for a while, as Tim takes out his phone and types something. Soon, they begin the drive, and Peter notices Tim’s hands on the steering wheel are gripped tight, knuckles whitening.

“You okay?” Peter asks him, eyeing the stiffness of his shoulders and his hands. “You seem… tense.”

“Yeah,” Tim bites. He glances at Peter, softens a bit, and elaborates. “Was just worried.”

Peter nudges him with his elbow, grimacing when it jostles a particularly sore bruise, hiding it with a smile. From the way Tim tenses up again, he hasn’t done a good job. “Everything’s fine. The bats had it all handled.”

“The bats and then some,” Tim mutters lowly. Peter pretends not to hear.

They spend the rest of the drive in silence; Tony stares out the window, taking in everything Gotham has to offer. Peter mostly zones out, spacing from his body, and whenever the car is at a rest, Tim takes out his phone and types some more. He hears vibrations from it often, assumes he’s texting someone.

Peter falls asleep to the rumble of the car.

***

BATCHAT

Barbara: dad says the cops will handle the webbed manbats. anyone seen spider-man or “the iron man?”

Dick: nope, not a glance

Steph: like he vanished into thin air

Jason: lucky for him, I’d shoot the hell out of that fucker

Barbara: maybe not. anyway, crime should be low tonight, everyone should head in and get some rest. Cass volunteered to be on manbat-watch, and Steph and Damian are going to do a light patrol. keep an eye out for a giant spider and a tin can

-

Tim: I found Peter. headed back to the manor with him now. he’s in rough shape.

Tim: found him with Tony Stark. he’s coming too.

Duke: shit. what are you getting from him?

Tim: they were on an abandoned street in Crime Alley. Peter was crying and Stark kept apologizing about something. Peter’s bruised all over, could barely walk, but Stark’s not hurt at all. they said they got caught in the fight, and can’t afford the hospital, but Stark’s got money, his suit is as expensive as Bruce’s. and Peter calls him “Mr. Stark” and “sir”

Jason: Bastard.

Steph: we can’t let Peter go with him

Dick: first things first, we’ll get him fixed up. we’ll see where it goes from there. Bruce will be wanting to talk to that Stark guy, too. he’s been looking into him and hasn’t found anything

Dick: fair warning, Bruce is in a terrible mood

Tim: Good.

***

Peter wakes up to the car slowing and a gentle tap on his cheek.

“Hey kid, we’re here,” Tony says softly, and Peter stirs.

By the time Peter gets his seatbelt off, both Tim and Tony are already out the car, and Tim’s opened his door for him and is helping him out.

“ This is where you live?” Peter says incredulously, eyeing the mansion—and it really is a mansion. Tony doesn’t look all that impressed, it isn’t his style. While Peter’s sure that Tony’s old mansion, Stark Tower, and the penthouse he’s taken to before Titan would all cost about the same or more, Tony Stark is nothing if not a futurist and the places he lives reflect that. Tim’s mansion is huge, wide instead of tall, lots of ground instead of squished in the center of Manhattan, and classically architectured. It stinks of Old Money, and Peter immediately feels out of place.

Tim looks sheepish, and it’s the first expression outside of worry or the unexplained coldness in that night. “Home, sweet home.”

They have some trouble going up the stairs, and Tim begrudgingly accepts Tony’s help in getting them up. Once they reach the doors, though, he immediately steps away, opening the doors and pushing through without glancing back.

Duke meets them soon. “Peter,” he gasped, rushing to help support him with his non-broken arm.

“It looks worse than it is,” Peter hurries to reassure, but Duke doesn’t look so convinced.

“Somehow, I sincerely doubt that,” he says, and Tony gives an amused snort. Duke whips his head to look at him, stares for a good couple seconds, and then completely ignores him. “Let’s get to the living room.”

They help him down a couple corridors, Tony trailing behind them, and just when Peter’s legs are about to give out, they lay him down gently on a couch.

“I’ll get Alfred,” Tim says, running off and leaving them with Duke. The silence is incredibly awkward.

“How’s your arm?” Peter asks, startling Duke from his glaring contest with the bruise under Peter’s eye.

“Huh? Oh, uh, it’s good. Healing,” Duke replies.

Tony must see his eyes start to droop, because he sits on the ground by the couch and snaps his fingers above his head. “No sleeping, kid. Keep your eyes open.”

“Sorry,” Peter mutters, blinking them. “That fight just took a lot out of me.”

Tony gives him a pained smile, and Peter knows he’ll ask about it when they’re alone. “We’ll talk later,” he says, “about everything,” and Duke stiffens.

Just then, Tim returns with an old man in a tux and a little bowtie holding a first aid kit. Peter would smile at how cartoonish his uniform looks if he didn’t think that would be inappropriate. Duke moves aside to make room for Alfred, and Tony steps so he’s beside the couch instead of in front of it.

“Hello,” Peter smiles nervously. “I’m Peter Parker.” Tony huffs so quietly, he’s sure he’s the only one who can hear it.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Parker,” he responds, and Peter flushes. “It’s good to meet you. You may call me Alfred.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Alfred.” He can practically feel Tony repress the urge to roll his eyes.

“Now if you could please take off your shirt—”

“That really isn’t necessary—” Peter tries to object, but Duke is already tugging the shirt off of him. “Hey,” he complains, but he doesn’t fight it as his shirt is shrugged off, and he’s adjusted to lie on his stomach, back completely exposed.

The room’s so quiet and thick with tension, he could hear a pin drop even without his enhanced hearing. It’s silent for a minute, everyone just staring horrified at what Peter’s sure is a multi-coloured patchwork on his back, when Tony cuts through it.

“You look like you got hit by a bus, kid,” he says, and when Peter looks up at him, his face is pale. He must be really worried.

Peter gives him an easy grin. “Come on, Mr. Stark. You know better than anyone that I can take a hit. Nothing keeps a Parker down,” he says, and then suppresses a wince. Nothing but the Parker Luck, that is, but sometimes even then.

Tony lets out a slow breath. “Maybe if you learned how to stay down once in a while, you wouldn’t get so hurt.” He fondly tugs a strand of his hair, and Peter beams at him.

The others have seemingly snapped out of whatever trance they were in, although the tension hasn’t gone away. “Master Duke, if you could please get some ice packs—a lot of them,” Alfred says, and Duke nods and leaves stiffly.

“There’s not much I can do for bruises, I’m afraid,” Alfred continues. “They should be rested, iced and compressed. You will have to stay here for a few days, stay off your feet.”

“I really should go home,” Peter protests, but Alfred gives him a look that reminds him a bit of that look Captain America gave the camera during one of those puberty talks. Disappointed but not surprised, firm and commanding, and so utterly done with the bullshit.

“You’ll stay here,” he repeats firmly, and Peter sinks into the couch, properly chastised.

Tim gives him a scrutinizing look. “What about your legs? Are they okay?”

Peter levels him with a flat look. “I am not taking my pants off,” he says, but when Tim starts forward with the clear intent of doing just that, Peter throws his hands up in exasperation before wincing at the movement. “No, stop, fine, I’ll do it myself.”

It takes some effort, but he wiggles them off, and Tim has a sharp intake. “Since when did you get stabbed? ”

“Huh?” He startles, looking down and seeing the thin cut that he’s since sloppily stitched up. It should’ve healed by now, but considering his healing factor’s not what it used to be, what with the starving and the not sleeping at all, it still looks pretty bad. “Oh, that. Um, I got mugged.” It’s not a lie, he just wasn’t the one getting mugged.

“And the old bruises?” Tim narrows his eyes at him. Peter stares at him, confused, and he elaborates. “Some of those bruises look old,” he gestures to his body.

“They’re not,” he denies.

“They are,” Alfred agrees.

Peter gives Tony a panicked look, and he takes over, false charm oozing from his body. “You know boys,” he says with a faux cheer. “Pete can be pretty clumsy.”

Alfred presses his lips into a thin, white line. “I will disinfect the cut,” he says, pulling out rubbing alcohol and cotton swabs.

He does everything quickly and effectively, cleaning the cut, examining the stitches and deciding it’s not worth restitching, bandaging it. It reminds him of Aunt May, who was a nurse. She used to fix him up after some bad patrols, gentle, slim hands pressing wounds and wrapping limbs.

By the time he’s done, Duke’s returned with an arm full of ice packs, some towels, and some loose fitting, light clothing—pyjamas, he thinks. He also brought a water bottle and some painkillers, which Peter refuses.

“Just take it, Peter,” Duke frowns, but Peter waves them off, taking only the water. He can’t exactly say drugs don’t work on him.

Tony’s studying him, as Peter works to get the soft and clean pyjama bottoms on. “Could you check his ribs?” He asks Alfred, gesturing to his bruised torso. Alfred nods.

He already knew a couple were bruised, but one on his back is fractured. Not too much—Peter knows what a busted rib feels like, and this is probably barely a hairline, but Alfred’s stiff lip keeps getting pressed tighter and tighter. He tapes the ribs, and Peter tries not to wince as hands press down on sore spots.

Duke helps him put on the shirt, which is very big on him. Evidence at the weight he’s lost, he supposes. Then, they place towels on his back and stack ice on him, and give him another for his face.

“Keep them on for twenty minutes. We’ll ice them several times a day as needed.” Alfred picks up Peter’s clothes, dirty from falling on the ground, with a miniscule wrinkle of his nose, and leaves the room. Tim and Duke make no attempt to follow, only staying standing.

“You don’t have a concussion, do you, kid?” Tony asks, sitting back down on the ground beside him. He runs his hand through Peter’s hair, feeling for any bumps.

“Nope,” Peter says, and it’s the truth. He would know if he had a concussion by now—he’s had enough to be able to identify it.

Tony must believe him, because he nods, satisfied. “You can tap out then,” he says, tugging lightly at Peter’s ear, but Peter shakes his head. Not yet, not when Tony’s still there and he might disappear any moment. Tony understands him, because he always understands him, and he softly says, “okay,” and keeps running his hand through his hair.

They stay in that position until the ice comes off.

***

BATCHAT

Dick: We’re almost at the manor. Is there an update?

Duke: he’s skin and bones. I knew he wasn’t eating very well, but I could count his ribs. bruised completely everywhere, too. Alfred’s not letting him leave for a while

Tim: his entire body is black, pretty much. some bruised ribs, one’s cracked in his back—something must’ve hit him, hard, while he was turned—and an old stab wound that he might have stitched himself

Dick: jesus

Duke: he has some older bruises, Stark said he’s “clumsy.” also said Peter can take a hit, but he should learn how to stay down if he doesn’t want to get hurt

Duke: he’s really sounding like a grade A asshole here

Jason: you didn’t leave them alone, did you?

Tim: we’re with them right now

Dick: good. we’ll be there in a few. we can figure things out during late dinner.

***

The ice comes off, leaving his entire body numb—which isn’t a bad thing, but Peter knows he’s not going to start healing until he gets some food in him. He can smell cooking coming from one hallway, though, so hopefully dinner is soon—if they have dinner at 10 pm at night.

“Up you come, Pete,” Tony says, hauling him up. Technically, they said he shouldn’t move, but there’s no chance for that and Tony knows it. Besides, this is far from the worst shape he’s ever been in. He ignores the scrutinizing looks that Duke and Tim gives him.

He turns around at the sound of footsteps coming from the hall. Were other people there the entire time? Three figures emerge, one large one at first, and then two others, all with wet hair and looking as if they’d freshly showered.

The first man seems much older than the rest—their dad, if Peter was to guess. He walks in with a glower, then his eyes narrow on Peter, and his expression suddenly crafts into a bright smile. He sidles up to him as the others exchange a look.

“I didn’t know we had company,” he says, and Tim raises an eyebrow at the two other newcomers. The larger of them, the one with a white streak in his hair, gives him a carefree smile and shrug. The man in front of him pays no attention, however, as he sticks out a hand for him to shake. “Bruce Wayne,” he introduces, and Peter feels his eyes widen.

He hesitantly takes his hand, shaking flimsily. “Peter Parker,” he replies.

“And you?” He turns to Tony, who looks laughably small in comparison. But Peter knows better than anyone that Tony Stark has always been bigger than life, no matter his 5’9ness.

“Tony Stark. I’m Peter’s… mentor,” he says, and they shake hands. Tony’s all business, corporate smiles and charm. It’s the carefully crafted persona that has granted him meme-status back home.

Bruce’s eyes sharpen a bit, and his smile simultaneously widens and sharpens. “Mentor?” He asks when their hands separate.

“I interned for him,” Peter clarifies, a bit nervously. “He taught me everything I know.”

Tony lightly claps his shoulder. “Not everything,” he says. “You figured some of it out yourself.”

“Are you a mechanic?” Tim asks, and they all turn to face him.

Tony shrugs. “If the shoe fits,” he says. “Mechanic, engineer, inventor, businessman. Bee, bird, plane in the sky.”

“He’s a tech genius,” Peter interjects, because none of them seem to be all that impressed right now because they don’t know who the Tony Stark is, and sue him, he’s a little indignant about it. “He can make pretty much anything. He’s lightyears ahead of everyone else.”

“I haven’t heard of you,” Bruce says, and Peter wonders if that’s supposed to be a dig. “What company do you work for, again?”

“You wouldn’t have,” Tony agrees. “I’m sort of freelancing at the moment.”

Peter slips away from the conversation to find Duke near him. He whispers, “So, when you said you were on the Wayne scholarship…”

He grins apologetically. “I mean, technically I am…”

Peter nudges him gently with his shoulder, ignoring the tenderness.

The two other men appear in front of them. The smaller looks in his early twenties, the larger maybe a little younger. “Dick Grayson,” the smaller one says brightly. “And this is Jason. It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

Peter’s lips quirk slightly at the rhyme. “Nice to meet you, too,” he echoes.

Jason’s staring at him, and he feels slightly uncomfortable as he gets the distinct feeling he’s being sized up. And then he speaks, with a gruff and low voice, “You look like shit, kid.”

Dick immediately pushes his arm hard. Peter is stunned for a moment, and then he laughs. “Yeah, thanks,” he grins, and Jason softens just a bit.

A bell rings from inside the manor, startling Peter. “Dinner,” Dick explains, gently taking him by the arm and leading him towards the sound.

“Isn’t it a bit late for dinner?” Not that he’s complaining. He’s starving.

“Nah. We’re all growing children.” He winks at Peter, ushering him along. “Got any allergies?”

“Just pesticides.” A downside of spidery DNA. Bug killer and ethyl chloride would take him out as surely as rat poison would.

“Well, lucky for you, Alfred’s been on an organic kick.”

They reach the dining room, which is bigger than it has any right to be. The table is long, with more empty seats than there are people, even with Peter and Tony’s unexpected addition. Dick guides him to a chair and plops him down, taking place right next to him as others fill in. Bruce sits at the head, and gestures to Tony to sit beside him. Jason sits on his other side, in front of Peter, Tim after him, and Duke takes his seat on Peter’s left.

Peter studies Tony. He likes to think that after knowing him for two years now, even if a lot of that was being ignored, he can read the man pretty well. He’d say that Tony’s a bit uncomfortable right now—out of his element, probably. Whatever reason Tony ended up in this universe, which they still haven’t had the chance to talk about yet, he probably hadn’t expected to be ambushed by Peter’s well-meaning billionaire friends.

Alfred brings the food out—which, butler, right. Plates and plates of typical rich-people dinner, or at least what Peter would expect of them. Honestly, it feels a little like Thanksgiving, minus the iconically Thanksgiving dishes like Turkey. More of a Sunday Roast.

Peter doesn’t know quite what to do, so he just fidgets his hands, feeling awkward. Dick, almost as if he senses this, reaches over the table and starts spooning peas onto Peter’s plate. Then potatoes, then chicken, then rolls.

“Where are you from, Peter?” Bruce suddenly asks, and Peter looks at him a bit nervously.

“Queens,” he says. “Born and raised.”

“How’d you end up in Gotham?” Dick, this time, and Peter feels slightly unsettled from the eyes on him.

He thinks back to what he told Tim and Duke at school. “I kinda just ended up here by accident. Stuck around, I guess. Hopefully, I’ll be able to go home soon.” He smiles confidently at Tony, who gives him a wink.

Jason’s eyes narrow in between them before landing on Peter. “Got any family?”

Peter bites back a flinch. “Uh, kind of. Long story, really.” He tries for a smile.

“And how’d you meet each other?” Bruce inquired, tilting his head at Tony, eyes flashing dangerously behind his smile. It’s too reminiscent of a job interview, and Peter gets the sense that he’s being grilled for something, although his thoughts are a few steps slower than usual and he can’t exactly imagine what.

Tony laughs in his unbothered way that means he’s actually very bothered, he just can’t put a finger on it as to why. “Ran across a little invention of his. Really impressive, especially for a kid. Searched around the city for the mind behind, only to find a skinny little fourteen year old dumpster diving for tech. Making everything out of garbage and high school lab materials, in a dire need of an upgrade. And the rest is history.”

“You were a total jerk to me for a year,” Peter chimes in.

Tony snorts good naturedly. “And you were a brat. But we both learned.”

“Did you?” Peter snarks cheerfully. Tony looks as if he’s barely restraining himself from catapulting a pea at him. Clearly, after a few moments of debate and internal warring, the intrusive voices win.

A pea flies through the air and hits Peter in the chest, falling onto his plate. Peter stares at it, unimpressed.

“Who’s the angsty teen again,” Peter asks, moodily shoving the pea off his plate with the back of his fork.

Tony is obviously holding himself back from launching another pea. But there’s laughter in his eyes, beyond the general discomfort from the tension Peter can feel despite not entirely knowing why it’s there.

“So, Pete,” Tony begins, leaning over the table a bit and making eye contact with him. “You wanna tell me how you met your… friends?” And Peter can read the double-entendre behind that.

He shrugs. “I met them in class,” he replies, aiming for nonchalance. “You told me to stay in school, and all.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Bruce says, and damn his eyes are piercing. Not in that cool, sexy way that Ned tried to practice on him once. More like MJ—damn right unsettling. “Tim and Duke say that you’ve gotten very close over the year.”

Peter ducks his head, a little bit embarrassed—but a warmth grows in his gut. “Uh, yeah. We’ve been friends for a while.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything other than nudging him friendly with a foot.

“You should stay the night,” Dick says, and he sounds casual but there’s almost a careful calculation in his voice. Like he’s thought it through, and already knows how this conversation will go. And then it’s gone in a flash, because he sounds so relaxed, and Peter’s wondering if he just made it up. “Since you’re already here, and all. The streets will be messy tonight, and it’ll be a dangerous trip back home.”

Peter darts his eyes towards Tony, trying to convey that they should not do that. Tony takes it over. “Your concern is appreciated,” he says, sounding more formal and business-like than Peter’s ever really heard him. Which, he has to say, is not a very high bar. Tony’s generally a mess when Peter’s known him. “But that’s unnecessary. Pete and I should head back soon—we’ve had a long night.”

Bruce narrows his eyes at him, but it’s Dick who does all the talking. “Really, we insist,” he says, an easy-going smile still carefully crafted on his face. “It really wouldn’t feel right to send you off into Gotham after a night like this, especially with Peter’s… injuries.” Peter tries not to wince at the emphasis, goes back to staring at his face. “Besides, I’m sure Duke and Tim would love to show him around a bit. It’s not like we don’t have the extra room.”

Tony looks back at Dick, almost as if they’re exchanging a conversation, only they speak different languages and aren’t really that interested in listening to each other. For some reason, Peter’s hands are twisting with some nervous energy, restless from catching up on something that his brain hasn’t yet.

“So it’s settled,” Bruce says, before anyone can say anything, before they can make their disputes. “Alfred, could you get us some more food? Cassandra and Damian will be joining soon.”

Alfred walks in a brisk, and he slides another plate of food directly in front of Peter. It’s a message as clear as anything.

Pushing around the peas on his plate, he can’t help but feel he’s fallen hook, line, and sinker into something. Tony offers him a confused, uneasy smile.

Duke gives him a friendly nudge with his leg, and Peter resolves to push it from his mind—at least, until he can think better. He’s too tired to think too much about it now, and maybe sleeping on an actual mattress will do good things for him. Very good things.

He’ll talk to Tony alone tomorrow, he promises himself. First thing in the morning, he’ll make his excuses and take his leave, catch up on everything, start everything. Tony’s here now. Tony’s here, with him, in front of his very eyes—and that means everything’s gonna be okay.

Tomorrow.