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awhoreintheory · 3 months ago

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Welcome to the Circus

check tags / here / ch2 / ch3 / ch4 /

ao3 link

Summary:

As Peter lay there, gasping for breath and trying to clear his mind, the green haze persisted, swirling around him like a sinister fog. He coughed and sputtered, wiping the remnants of the acrid goop from his mouth and eyes, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with every movement. His head throbbed with a dull ache, and his vision swam as he tried to take stock of his surroundings. This wasn't Queens. This wasn't home.

Good ol' Peter Parker in Gotham trope, for those interested ;)

Drowning.

Peter was drowning. Why was he drowning?

He was just with Doctor Strange… Why was he with Doctor Strange? It was important. It was important…

Why is he drowning?

Panic surged through him as he thrashed, inhaling mouthfuls of something thick and acrid. It wasn’t water—it was something worse. The green liquid filled his mouth, his lungs. It was inside him, choking him, suffocating him. Peter was drowning in it.

getoutgetoutgetout

His mind screamed as he flailed, desperate for something solid, something that could save him. His hand grazed a surface, something cold and unyielding. He fumbled, but his limbs were heavy, numb, uncooperative. His legs felt like they were made of lead, sinking him deeper into the suffocating green.

Peter’s fingers searched frantically along the surface, but there was nothing—no hatch, no ridges, no sign of an escape. Just a smooth, cold wall that offered no mercy.

Green panic swirled, Peter’s search for an exit becoming desperate.

The green panic inside him swelled, his thoughts scattering as his need for air became unbearable. Trembling, Peter cracked his eyes open, hoping for a miracle. Instead, he was met with a blinding, searing pain. The green liquid burned his eyes, his throat, his lungs—every breath, every swallow, was agony.

Jesus fucking Christ, that hurt.

His body convulsed as the burning intensified, the green liquid seeping into every part of him, robbing him of breath, of thought, of hope. The idea of finding an exit, of escaping, slipped away as the pain consumed him. The burning in his lungs was unbearable, and his mind grew hazy from the lack of oxygen, from the relentless assault of the green.

He was going to drown. He was going to die here, suffocated by this toxic green hell.

GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT

Desperation took over, and Peter thrashed wildly, slamming his fists and feet against the smooth walls that confined him. The space was too small, too tight, the green pressing in on him from all sides. His movements were frantic, uncoordinated, but he didn’t care—he couldn’t stop. He had to fight, had to find a way out, even if it meant tearing himself apart.

Cracks spread, spiderwebbing outwards.

Peter heard every crack of the glass and every vibration. It was overwhelming.

As his vision spotted and his arms grew sluggish, the glass shattered. Peter was all but thrown out, catching on more than his fair share of jagged glass on the way out.

He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring, but the adrenaline kept him moving. Peter shivered violently, his body reacting to the sudden cold as he felt around in a panic. For what, he wasn’t quite sure—something solid, something familiar, something that wasn’t green. Someone. He was looking for someone, he thought. But the thought slipped away as quickly as it came, drowned out by the all-consuming need to breathe.

He gasped, sputtering, and suddenly he was retching, hacking up mouthful after mouthful of the thick, acrid green goop that had filled his lungs. It clung to his throat, slimy and suffocating, and he damn near passed out before he finally managed to draw in his first breath of air. The taste in his mouth was revolting, a nauseating blend of bile and chemicals that made him gag.

Greedily, Peter gulped down the stale, musty air, his chest heaving as he lay there, too exhausted to move. Jagged pieces of glass dug into his skin, new homes found in the raw flesh exposed by his shredded clothes. The smell of stomach acid mixed with the pungent odor of the green liquid, a stench that made his head swim. But despite it all, despite the pain and the filth and the cold, he was just so tired—

getupgetoutGO

The command sliced through his haze of exhaustion, dragging him back to the present. He’d been operating on pure instinct, his eyes tightly shut against the world. But now, blinking rapidly, Peter tried to force his vision to clear.

Hissing, Peter rubbed his eyes harshly, only seeming to aid in the green water’s goal of burning his poor eyeballs.

“Son of a—” he choked out, but the words were a mistake. His throat was still coated in that vile sludge, and the effort to speak sent him into another fit of coughing, each spasm more painful than the last.

Tears welled up, slipping down his face and mingling with the green, but they at least helped to wash some of it away. Slowly, painfully, his vision began to clear.

His sight cleared, but the green did not.

Peter shakily sat up, taking each breath as though it were his last, he tried to clear his mind and make heads or tails of his situation. But the green haze persisted, swirling around him like a sinister fog. He coughed and sputtered, burning his throat as he wiped the remnants of the acrid goop from his mouth and eyes.

Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with every movement. His head throbbed with a sharp pain, and his vision swam.

badbadleavegonow

It took a moment for the fog of confusion to lift, but when it did, Peter's heart sank like a stone in his chest.

He was supposed to be in Doctore Strange’s sanctum right now. They were doing something important, Peter thinks.

Except… He wasn't in Doctor Strange's sanctum anymore. He wasn't anywhere familiar at all. Somewhere badnotgoodleave.

The room around him was dimly lit, the air heavy with the scent of decay and neglect and green. Crumbling concrete walls surrounded him, and the hum of machinery reverberated through the air. It was some sort of lab, or at least something resembling one, judging by the various bits of scientific equipment scattered around. Peter's stomach churned with unease.

He staggered to his feet, the adrenaline coursing through his veins driving him forward despite the pain and disorientation. With each step, he struggled to shake off the remnants of his ordeal, but the memory of drowning in that thick, green substance lingered like a nightmare he couldn't escape.

Peter stumbled, hands flying out to steady himself, making contact with glass. He stuck himself there as his limbs shook with the effort it took to hold himself up. Letting out a breath once he was stable, Peter looked up.

Straight into the eyes of a corpse.

Peter froze, the air catching in his throat. The body in front of him was that of a girl—maybe nineteen or so—floating lifelessly in the same green liquid that had nearly drowned him. Her inhuman green eyes were open, staring unseeingly into the void, her skin pale and tinged with the same sickly green hue that filled the tube. Horror gripped Peter as he forced himself to look away, but everywhere he turned, he was met with the same sight—tube after tube, each containing a body suspended in the green liquid. All of them a teenager of younger, and all of them were silent, unmoving, trapped in this grotesque display.

And then he saw it—the one empty tube. The tube he had broken out of.

Peter panicked, and the more he panicked, the greener everything became. This— this wasn’t the sanctum? Why was he drowning? Where was Doctor Strange? Why were all these people in these tubes? What was happening? Where was he?

notsafebadleave

As Peter's panic threatened to overwhelm him, the green haze seemed to intensify, enveloping him in its sickly embrace. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing loudly in his ears as he struggled to make sense of the horrifying scene before him.

The girl in the tube floated eerily, suspended in the green substance like a macabre display. Her expression was serene, almost peaceful, but Peter couldn't shake the sense of dread that settled like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.

With trembling hands, Peter reached out, his fingers hovering over the glass of another nearby tube. Inside, he could see the outline of another person, their features obscured by the murky liquid that surrounded them. They had a small silhouette— a child, barely seven, by the looks of it.

A wave of nausea washed over him as he realized the extent of the horror that surrounded him. These people, trapped in these tubes like specimens in some twisted experiment... what had happened to them?

Peter forced himself to listen, straining his enhanced senses to detect any sign of life within the room. But there was nothing. No shallow breaths, no muffled heartbeats, no sounds of movement. Only the cold, oppressive silence of death, punctuated by the relentless thumping of his own heartbeat, the only one left in this chamber of horrors.

Panic clawed at him, the walls closing in as the green haze began to blur his vision. His breathing grew ragged, his chest tightening as the realization settled over him—he was alone here. Whoever these people had been, whatever had happened to them, they were gone. He was the only one left.

But why? Why was he here? Why had he survived when they hadn’t?

The questions swirled in his mind, but he had no answers. All he knew was that he had to get out. He had to escape this place before whatever nightmare had claimed these lives claimed his as well. The green, the tubes, the dead—it was too much, too overwhelming. He needed to breathe, to think, to live.

Peter stumbled back, looking frantically around. Shards of glass made themselves known as Peter made his way toward a bin filled with— clothes?

One sniff made it apparent they were dead people’s clothes. Peter glanced at the clothes, then to the bodies suspended in green, then at his own similarly undressed form. Man, that was… that was fucking dark. They— whoever was running this shitshow— kept a bunch of dead kids’ clothes?

The realization fueled a surge of disgust and rage, a combination that made his skin crawl. His hand clenched around the edge of the counter, the metal creaking ominously before snapping beneath his grip. Peter barely managed to pull himself back from the brink, forcing deep breaths through clenched teeth as he counted backward from ten. But even that brought on a fit of coughing, the green sludge still clinging to his lungs like poison. (Jesus, Peter was going to be coughing up the green stuff for the next week.)

Peter sighed, resigned in what he was about to do.

He… He didn’t have any clothes. And there were clothes right in front of him. If Peter hadn’t vomited up everything he had in his stomach already, he’d have thrown up again.

Gingerly sifting through the pile of clothes— they were clearly taken with no care, haphazardly ripped and thrown onto the table— he grabbed a shirt and a pair of sweats. They were big, way too big, swallowing his frame like he was a child. The shirt enveloped him, and he’d pulled the drawstrings on the sweats as tight as he could. In all honesty, they were hanging onto his frame by a thin piece of string and a prayer.

Which was odd, because they were only a men’s medium.

As he dressed, he made a silent vow. He’d give these poor souls a proper burial as soon as he could. Fresh, new clothes. A casket. A headstone. Flowers. Everything they deserved, everything they had been denied in this nightmare.

Peter fumbled with the glass in his feet, ripping them out, uncaring of the blood that came gushing out. That didn’t matter. He needed to get out and find Doctor Strange. And maybe alert the police. And… Something. He was forgetting something.

Using the wall as support, Peter made his way to the only door in the room. He only stopped because he caught sight of something shiny hidden beneath some of the bloodier clothes. Upon looking closer, it was two red metal bracelets. Specifically, the red bracelets that made up the Iron Spider. The green in his chest reared its ugly head, mixed emotions swirling that left a sour taste in his mouth.

With trembling hands and hope fluttering in his chest, Peter reached out, picking up the bracelets and clutching them tightly, as though they’d disappear. The bracelets were a reminder of who he was; a symbol of the hero he had become. And more importantly, they were the last thing he had to remember Mr. Stark by. Peter’s lip trembled as he slipped them on. At least he had this— a reminder he was Spider-man. He used that reminder to cool the green. He was Spider-Man.

“Kar—” Peter delved into another coughing fit, his body convulsing with each hack.

“Karen?” A hoarse whisper was the best Peter could manage, staring hopefully at the bracelets.

No response.

Unsurprising, but it hurt nonetheless.

Peter huffed, placating the green that had settled in his chest for the umpteenth time. He needs a working computer, with an outlet. Something to get Karen online and powered up. It’s unlikely the arc reactor powering the Iron Spider gave out that easily. Karen probably just needs a kickstart.

Continuing the trek to leave this nightmare building, Peter stopped to listen every so often. No heartbeats. No people. At least, no one alive, anyway. He heard the faint sounds of a bustling city, as well as the hum of electricity in the room with the… tubes, but that was it. It was like this place was abandoned. Not that Peter is complaining! He was barely coordinated enough to walk while leaning on the wall, there was absolutely no chance he could have fought his way out.

Small mercies, he supposed.

The building was trashed, but not in a deliberate sense. It was dusty, clearly abandoned, with paper and trash littering the floor, but it was not like there was mold or signs of a struggle. It looked closer to a hasty evacuation than a subsequent abandonment. The paper looked vaguely important, but when Peter tried to read them, it all jumbled up into nonsense in his mind. He huffed in irritation, ditching the papers in favor of his first task: finding an exit. His Peter-tingl— spidey-sense quieted down after he left the green room, for the most part, mainly just a low hum of cautiouscarefulwary.

After who-knows-how-long of wandering, (Karen would’ve known), and a near endless staircase, Peter finally stumbled upon a door through which he could distinctly hear the aforementioned sounds of the city beyond. He only hesitated for a second before pushing this door open.

A gust of city-polluted air rushed in, replacing the previously stale air. The light left Peter momentarily blinded, his sensitive eyesight taking the cloud-covered sun as though it were a flash grenade.

Wincing, Peter covered his eyes until they adjusted. Cracking them open, Peter looked out onto a city.

A city that was not Queens, New York.

nothomenothomenothome

Granted, the door had opened into an alleyway, which was absolutely disgusting, if all the smells Peter was bombarded with were what he thought they were, and he was pretty sure it was. The nasties.

Peter promptly slammed it shut. His head swam, ears rang, and green swirled. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck? Where was he? Why was he here? Wherever here was, anyway.

Peter ran a hand down his face, massaging his temples. Fuck, shitballs, ok, this is fine. (Read: not fine) He’d survived being dusted. He died, he actually, legitimately, bit the dust. He could handle this. Until Strange found him, at least. Strange?

Why was he here in the first place?

He was forgetting something…

Braving the door, Peter stumbled down the stairs, glancing up at the sky. It was noon? Maybe? The gray clouds made it hard to tell, but that was Peter’s guess.

Peter couldn’t explain how he knew this place wasn’t Queens, but he just knew. He had been in nearly every alleyway in New York, every corner and street and rooftop. This just… This wasn’t home. He knew it. He felt it. Peter feels like he’d earned the benefit of the doubt when it came to his feelings. They were generally right, not that Peter listened to them as often as he should’ve, but semantics.

Peter made his way to the end of the alleyway, towards a not-quite bustling street, but it wasn’t empty either. It still grated on his ears. He was almost tempted to crawl his sorry-ass back into the nightmare-lab. So, definitely noon. Another reason this place wasn’t New York, because the street would’ve been packed to the absolute brim.

The closer he got to the end of the alleyway, the louder his spidey-sense seemed to get. Which was odd, because weren’t these all just civilians? Why was his spidey-sense going off for civilians? Well, more than average. One does not simply live in New York, they survived New York.

Stepping out, Peter got several snide looks from passing people. And was it just him, or was everyone… really tall? Peter’s eyebrows furrowed, looking down at himself, then back up to another passerby. That’s… Huh?

He called out to a couple passing people but was oh-so kindly told to fuck off. Three times! One was even in Spanish, although butchered by the local accent. Diversity!

cautiouswaryunsure

Peter chewed on his lips, tasting the dried remnants of green on his lips. He tried not to think about that. Looking around, Peter played a game of “Will they shank me?” with his spidey-sense, trying to find someone who looked less… stabby than everyone else. And would maybe, actually answer a question or 10 without telling him to get fucked by a three-legged chair.

This wasn’t Queens, so Peter needed to find somewhere they'd let a grimy, homeless looking adult touch their mediocre computers so he could get Karen online. Peter doubted a computer cafe would even let him get through the doors before he was shooed out— or shot— so public library it was.

He settled on a young lady— she was around 19 and lifeless, suspended in the green— minding her own business on the blockiest phone Peter’s seen in years. He decided against touching her, instead hesitantly waving in her peripherals to get her attention.

niceokgood

She leveled him with an unimpressed glare. “What, kid?”

And wow, was that an accent? Sounded Jersey to him, which, gag. Why was he in Jersey? Also rude, they were basically the same age, no need to call him a kid. Condescending much? Clearing his throat as best he could, Peter asked his question.

“S—sorry, could you, um, point me in the direction of the public library?” Peter haorsley whispered, ducking his head, all the while giving her his best “I-mean-you-no-harm” eyes. His throat burned as he spoke, and he bet good money his breath smelled like that goop. He could feel his hair drying with the green, leaving it uncomfortably stiff and crunchy. Not to mention he was wearing dead people’s clothes. So, in short terms; he smelled and looked like death.

She didn’t appear moved by his puppy eyes but answered anyways. “Go down this street as far as you can see, twice, then turn right. It’s the big building that doesn’t look like shit.” She put her earbuds back in, walking away, mumbling something about “Fucking New Yorkers,”.

Peter blinked. Those were certainly… directions, he supposed. Weirdest directions he’s ever received, but who is he to not listen to them? Peter rasped a small “thanks” as he hesitantly made his way in the direction she pointed, decidedly not acknowledging being called a New Yorker with the same amount of emotion Peter would’ve had about wet socks.

Peter estimated where a normal person’s eyesight would end, and then walked (Read: stumbled) his way there. Halfway there, Peter had to stop to catch his breath, coughing up the equivalent of green phlegm. Wiping his mouth, Peter looked up, eyes catching on a decently reflective window.

What the fuck.

What the actual fuck.

Head wiping around, Peter looked for the half-dead kid in the window, which couldn’t have been him. Because… What?

The green swirled in his chest. There’s no fucking way.

Why the fuck did he look like his twelve-year-old self.

Peter had dried off, for the most part, the green substance leaving his hair crunchy and dry, and a faint, greenish sheen on his skin. He looked sickly and pale, dwarfed in clothes that should’ve fit Peter. His hair was darker— basically black— with a big ol’ chunk of white hair right at Peter’s widow’s peak.

Which, sure, this weird substance could’ve damaged his hair, and changed its color like the world’s shittiest dye, except Peter’s eyes. They were green. And not a pretty, natural green. Peter looked like he was some sort of Danny Phantom fanboy.

Peter… Peter didn’t even look like himself. Sure, the facial shape of this body would eventually grow to be familiar, but what the fuck? You don’t just— deage! With noticeable changes to characteristics that are otherwise unchangeable! Because last Peter checked, a spider bite may have changed his DNA, but he didn’t look any different! It was all internal!

Peter shook his head in disbelief, trying to make sense of the bizarre situation he found himself in. It was like a twisted nightmare came to life, leaving him feeling disoriented and unsettled. As he stared at his distorted reflection, a surge of frustration and anger welled up inside him. How could this be happening? Where the hel was Strange? Was he the cause of this? Was he part of this?

With renewed vigor to get to the library, find Strange, and then throttle him, Peter pushed away from the window. Except, he must’ve pushed a little too hard, because Peter’s hand went straight through. The sound of glass shattering abused his sensitive ears.

Peter paused, only momentarily, before very quickly moving on. Thankfully, it appeared this place was just another abandoned building, but Peter didn’t stick around to find out. People gave him odd and warry looks but otherwise did nothing. He hoped it was abandoned. He’d feel bad if he just broke some poor person’s window.

Speed walking away, Peter shoved his hands in the pockets of his stolen sweats. It was freezing, and it hadn’t helped that he was still kind of damp when he’d stepped out. Hopefully the cold wouldn’t trigger a premature hibernation. That could land Peter in some trouble. Peter’s walk didn’t have any more disruptions, aside from a couple people trying to pickpocket him, but since Peter literally has nothing, all they got was a handful of empty pockets.

Coming to a stop, Peter looked up at the library. He could see what the girl meant. It really was the least shitty looking building around.

Looking down, Peter flushed slightly in embarrassment. He looked and smelt like death, had no shoes on, and was wearing bloodied clothes. Maybe the library would kick him out…

Worth a shot. Worst-case scenario, Peter… entered in less than legal ways after hours.

Walking up, Peter got the sense of deja vu looking at everything. The green haze was still present in the back of his mind, and everything looked so big and overwhelming. And he felt off. Really off. Probably because he was, like, seven inches shorter than normal, with changed characteristics, and was in a completely different city.

awaresharpwatch

Pushing open the door, Peter appreciated the blast of warm air and the relative silence of this building. Hesitantly walking up to the abnormally tall front desk (not tall— Peter was now just short, he reminded himself) Peter hesitantly waved to get the red-haired lady’s attention. She set off his spidey-sense, but she was also the only person upfront, so he took his chances.

“Um, hi, can— can you point me in the direction of the computers?” Peter mumbled, throat protesting, eyes darting around before looking back up at her. He swallowed a cough that made his eyes water. He did not want to choke up a green loogie on this poor civilian-librarian-lady.

The librarian turned to Peter with a smile, but it faltered slightly as soon as she saw him. She stared in… disbelief? Shock? Anger? Resentment? The green was not at all helping Peter decipher facial expressions and emotions. Did news of Peter being Spider-man reach Jersey too? Was that why? But wasn’t Strange supposed to…

Strange was supposed to…

“Sorry about that! I’m Barabara, the Librarian. Please sign in here, and then the computers are free to use until we close. They’re over there,” Barbara points over to a comfy-looking corner, with a couple of college students typing away like their lives depended on it. Probably did, in this economy. “And can I… help you with anything else?”

It felt like there was more behind her question, but Peter wasn’t sure.

Peter cleared his throat. This green phlegm was gonna be the end of him. “Oh, no, um, thank you, Miss Barbara.” Peter ducked his head, offering a small smile that felt more like a grimace.

She was, quite literally, the first nice person Peter had talked to. Which only accounted for like, maybe seven people, but still. Reaching for a pen to sign himself in with, Peter fumbled for a second, his hand and brain not cooperating. It took him a couple of tries to read the sign-in sheet, and even more to get his hand to cooperate on the writing department, but he (probably) got the gist of it. He thinks. (He signed his name on the phone number line with the legibility of a seven year old.)

She sent him a kind smile as Peter walked away. Peter wrung his hands together anxiously, glancing at the clunky computer, then back to his sleek bracelets that housed Karen.

Dear Thor and Loki, and any other gods or demi-gods listening that might hold a smidgen of favor for him, he hoped this worked.

—

Barbara was in shock.

Actually, shock might have been an understatement. Disbelief? Utter disbelief might have been more accurate. Yeah, yeah that sounded accurate.

She’d felt a stab of sympathy first. This poor kid— Peter, read the sign-in sheet, on the wrong line— looked like he’d been to hell and back. Thrice. He was small, in the malnourished sense. Cheeks caved in, thin wrists and arms, a sickly sort of sheen to him, as well. He was tan in a way that was foreign to Gotham’s consistant cloud covered skies. Dark hair, that was probably wavy, if how it dried was any pointers. Baggy clothes that clearly didn’t fit him, blood dried on them, as well as the various cuts that marred his arms, with a good chance of even more injuries hidden under his weather-innapropriate clothes. She hadn’t seen his face too clearly, Peter’s eyes practically glued to the ground, but she thought they were green. A boyish face with freckles— he fit a certain broody man’s adoption criteria.

Most notably, though, was the shock of white hair at his widow’s peak. He vaguely resembled Jason when he was that age. What with the matching tufts of white hair, which was a problem if it was what she thought it was.

Barbara pursed her lips, watching Peter fiddle with the computer. His eyes darted around the room, never staying in one place too long.

Skittish. Unsure. Scared.

It was a conclusion not many would have jumped to. “This skittish kid must have died!” But she was god-damn Oracle, okay? She’d honed her senses over many years—along with dealing with this batshit family. She’d been around the block.

She’d thought Bruce had taken care of all the Lazarus Pits in Gotham. And, hell, he could’ve! Maybe that white streak is natural, but the odds of that were as slim as Harley turning in her hyenas for a pair of poodles. No, there was something about Peter Parker that didn't add up, and she wasn’t one to ignore her instincts.

It was something in the kid's nose, his eye shape, his face—hell! Even the dimples Barbara had caught a glimpse of screamed familiar.

Barbara pulled out her phone, typing furiously before deleting her message.

If she texted Bruce, he’d rush down here from the very important JL meeting he was peer-pressured into going to, and definitely overwhelm the kid. He’d try to immediately interrogate Peter, find out where the Pits were, and figure out how to dispose of them.

It would absolutely demolish any chance of Peter trusting them. And from what Barbara spied, he was a runner if the record of one Peter Benjamin Parker proved correct.

Thankfully, Peter had looked around the library when he walked in, straight into a camera. Face ID brought him up as one of the many missing kids in Gotham.

No one she texted in the manor would keep silent from Bruce, either. The poor kid would be ratted out within twenty-four hours.

(Probably adopted. The man is a genuine addict, and the kid fit the bill to a tee. Black hair? Check. More-than-likely traumatic backstory? Barbara was near certain.)

So Barbara messaged someone who didn’t live in the manor—and, more importantly—wouldn’t immediately run to Bruce with this information. Was it born of stubbornness and a desire to be an ass? Absolutely.

Barbara took a quick photo of Peter sitting at the computer, deep in concentration. His shirt was a little bloody, with a suspiciously knife-shaped hole on the side and random cuts along his forearms.

Hoodlum [1:12 PM]

Babs: I need a favor.

Jason: I’m not interested in doing your dirty work, Barbie.

Babs: It's about the Lazarus Pits in Gotham.

Jason: Didn’t B say he wiped those out? The hells happening?

Babs: [Image attached]

Babs: I’m not so sure about that anymore.[read 1:27 PM]

Jason: Is that a kid? The hell happened to him?

Babs: Yeah. I know.

Jason: If this is some kind of joke, it ain’t funny. Babs, the kid looks like he’s been through hell.

Babs: Trust me, it’s no joke. He came into the library looking like that.

Jason: Shit… Has B see this yet?

Babs: No. And I’d like to keep it that way for now. He’s too skittish. If Bruce charges in, we’ll lose him before we get any answers. [read 1:34 PM]

Jason: Good.

Jason: You think he’s been in a Lazarus Pit?

Babs: It's possible. Something about him doesn’t add up. I don’t want to risk scaring him off before we know more.

Jason: I’ll keep an eye out for the kid. Try to see if I can dig anything up on my end. Keep me updated.

Babs: Thanks, Jay. I appreciate it. (Read at 1:42 PM)

Barbara sighed as she put her phone away. If anyone could handle this without Bruce finding out too soon, it was Jason. He might be rough around the edges, but he understood what it was like to be young, lost, and scared. More importantly, he knew how to approach someone like Peter without spooking him.

He liked to deny it, push it off on Dick, say he was the emotional one. But Jason is a liar.

Underneath the sarcasm and the tough exterior, Jason had a heart that bled for people like Peter—kids who’d been through the wringer, who wore their trauma like a second skin. Jason could relate to that in a way none of the others could. Maybe it was the Lazarus Pit’s influence, maybe it was just who he was at his core, but Jason had a softness that he kept buried deep under layers of anger and bravado.

He’d scoff at the idea, roll his eyes and crack a joke to deflect, but Barbara knew better. She’d seen the way he was with the strays—human or otherwise—that crossed his path. He wasn’t as callous as he liked to pretend. And when it came to a kid like Peter, someone who was clearly in over their head, Jason’s protective instincts would kick in whether he admitted it or not.

Barbara knew she could count on him. Jason had a way of making people feel like they weren’t alone in their pain, like they had someone who truly understood. And that was exactly what Peter needed right now—someone who could see through the cracks in his armor without trying to pry them open.

She glanced at Peter again, noticing the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as he typed. The kid was barely holding it together, and any wrong move could send him spiraling. Barbara wasn’t going to let that happen. Not on her watch.

Jason might act like he was all guns and gritted teeth, but he had the ability to reach out to the lost and the broken in a way that even Bruce couldn’t. And that, more than anything, was why Barbara trusted him with this. Peter needed someone who wouldn’t judge him, who wouldn’t push him too hard or too fast.

Jason could be that person, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

Barbara just hoped it would be enough to keep Peter from slipping through their fingers before they could figure out what had really happened to him—and what it meant for Gotham.

Bruce would come down like a hammer eventually, but until then, she had to make sure Peter felt safe— at least as safe as anyone could feel in Gotham.

#i've jumped aboard the peter parker in gotham train yall #its consuming my brain #brain is rotting #dc #fanfic #batfam #peter parker in gotham #ao3 fanfic #my fic writing #trigger warnings may apply check tags yall #spiderman #vague smooshing of tom holland movies and dc timeline hell #dick grayson is the multiversal equivalent to peter's dad #dick grayson #jason todd #barbara gordon #dr strange #angst #idk how to tag lol

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