Chapter Text
The night had already started terrible. Actually, "terrible" was putting it mildly—it was the kind of night that made Peter wonder if he'd accidentally walked under a ladder while holding an open umbrella and petting a black cat. He was in a new city with no idea where he was going, walking around with a single shoe, and worst of all, he'd been mugged. Yes. Spider-Man, defender of Queens, friendly neighborhood hero, all-around amazing fighter, had been mugged. By ordinary humans. With ordinary weapons. And not even impressive ones—one of them had been wielding what looked suspiciously like a selfie stick.
"A selfie stick," Peter muttered to himself, the absurdity of it all hitting him again. "I've fought all sorts of horrific villains but get taken down by some dude with a selfie stick in Gotham."
His only saving grace was that he still had his camera—the current cause of all his misfortune—which he had previously hidden away when his spider-sense finally decided to show up for work. Though "show up" was generous—it had been more like a half-hearted nudge than the usual blaring alarm. Just enough warning for him to stash his camera but not enough to, you know, actually avoid the muggers.
Peter retrieved his camera from its hiding place, brushing off bits of debris from the alley wall. The lens, thankfully, was unscratched. At least he'd gotten some decent shots of Gotham's skyline before everything went sideways. Mr. Jameson would be expecting photos of "Batman in action" for the Daily Bugle's special feature on "America's So-Called Heroes: A Warning," but all Peter had managed to capture was architecture and shadows.
"Get me Batman, Parker!" Jameson had barked earlier that week, jabbing his cigar in Peter's direction like it was a tiny, smoldering weapon. "Not buildings! Not birds! Not that ridiculous signal they shine in the sky! I want the man himself, preferably doing something suspicious!" Spittle had flown across his desk, landing dangerously close to Peter's half-eaten sandwich. "I want angles no one else has! Give me the story behind the mask! The Daily Bugle doesn't do postcards—we expose the truth!"
That morning, Peter had made the mistake of asking, "What if Batman doesn't want to be photographed?" which had resulted in Jameson's face turning an alarming shade of purple.
"That's the point, Parker!" Jameson had roared, slamming his fist down hard enough to make his coffee mug jump. "If he's hiding, he's got something to hide! And the Bugle is going to find out what it is! Now get out of my office and don't come back without Batman looking shifty!"
It should have been simple—just take some photos of the vigilante and head home. Nothing Spider-Man related. Just Peter Parker, photography intern, doing his job without getting involved in any heroics whatsoever. He'd even promised Aunt May. And Mr. Stark. And Happy. And Ned. And MJ. Basically everyone he knew had extracted the same promise: no Spider-Manning in Gotham.
"I'm serious, Peter," Aunt May had said, her expression more worried than usual as she'd packed him an extra sandwich for the bus ride. "Gotham isn't like New York. It's... darker. More dangerous."
"It's just a photography assignment," Peter had assured her. "Two days, tops. No Spider-Man, no danger, no problem."
Mr. Stark had been more direct. "Kid, Gotham's got its own brand of crazy, and they don't play nice with outsiders. Batman's territorial, and he's got at least three mini-Batmans running around. Stay out of their way, get your shots, and get out. No heroics."
Peter had nodded solemnly, thinking it would be easy to keep that promise. After all, how hard could it be to stay out of trouble for forty-eight hours?
Very hard, apparently. The shadows here were somehow creepier than New York's most intimidating alley, the gargoyles more numerous than pigeons, and the criminals apparently had a thing for Peter Parker as much as they did for Spider-Man. It was like they could smell the out-of-towner on him.
His very first hour in the city, he'd nearly been pickpocketed at the bus station. By hour three, he'd witnessed two attempted muggings (neither involving him, thankfully) and one car theft. By hour six, he'd gotten lost three times, been cursed at by a taxi driver who'd nearly run him over, and had a pigeon drop something unmentionable on his left shoulder. And that was all before sunset.
Now, as the clock ticked closer to midnight, Peter was experiencing the true Gotham welcome package: limping down the darkened street, one shoe squelching against the wet pavement, his nerves frayed from the encounter with the muggers who'd seemed to materialize from the shadows themselves.
"Hey, tourist," one of them had said, his voice sandpaper-rough. "Nice backpack. Mind if we take a look?"
There had been four of them, boxing him in against the grimy brick wall of the alley. The biggest one had flicked open a switchblade, the metal gleaming dully in the faint light. Another had that ridiculous selfie stick, which turned out to be reinforced with metal and surprisingly intimidating when swung at your head.
His Spider-Man suit was safely tucked away in his backpack—which was currently in the possession of that group of thugs. They'd taken his wallet, his phone, and his dignity, but had missed the camera he'd hastily wedged behind a dumpster when he heard them coming.
"Some hero," Peter muttered to himself, taking extra care not to step on broken glass with his stockinged foot. "Can't even handle a mugging without powers. May's never going to let me leave Queens again." He could already hear Mr. Stark's lecture: "So let me get this straight, kid. You went to Gotham, got mugged, and didn't use your powers because... why exactly? Your secret identity is more important than your kneecaps?"
The answer, of course, was yes. His secret identity was absolutely more important than his kneecaps. Or at least, that's what he'd thought until thirty minutes ago, when he'd found himself hobbling down Crime Alley (yes, Gotham had an actual place called Crime Alley—subtle) with nothing but his camera and wounded pride.
He paused under a flickering streetlight, the only functioning illumination on the block, and examined the scrapes on his palms from when he'd been shoved to the ground. Had he been Spider-Man, these thugs wouldn't have stood a chance. But he wasn't Spider-Man tonight. He was just Peter Parker, out-of-town photographer with terrible luck.
He thought of Aunt May, how worried she'd be if she knew what was happening right now. The way her forehead would crease with concern, how she'd insist on tending to his scrapes herself even though he'd be healed by morning. Ever since Uncle Ben died, the fear never quite left her eyes. And here he was, giving her more reasons to worry.
"Get it together, Parker," he whispered, straightening his shoulders. "You've faced down worse. You can handle being shoeless in Gotham."
With a resigned sigh, he continued limping down the dimly lit street, one shoe slapping against the wet pavement in a rhythm that matched his deflating self-esteem. His spidey-sense tingled faintly—not danger, exactly, but something was off. The hairs on his arms stood up, and he got that familiar feeling of being watched.
He glanced up just in time to see a figure swinging between buildings with practiced grace.
Not Batman. Too small. Too agile. Definitely not bulky enough to be the Dark Knight that Jameson was so desperate to smear across Page One.
Peter's photographer instincts kicked in before his superhero ones. He raised his camera, adjusting the focus with expert precision. The shutter clicked rapidly as he captured the mysterious vigilante in mid-air, black cape (or was it a cloak?) billowing behind them.
The figure paused, perched on a gargoyle, head cocked to one side like a curious bird. Then, without warning, it changed direction—heading straight for Peter.
"Oh, come on," Peter muttered, lowering his camera. "Why can things never just be easy for me." He briefly considered running but decided that would look even more suspicious. Plus, his single-shoe situation wasn't exactly conducive to a speedy getaway.
The vigilante landed with barely a sound, red and black costume gleaming in the moonlight. "You know, photography without permission is generally frowned upon in Gotham," said a voice that sounded about Peter's age. "Especially after dark."
"I'm with the Daily Bugle," Peter replied, holding up his camera as if it were a press badge, trying to look as professional as one could with one shoe missing and damp sock rapidly soaking through. "Just getting some shots for—"
"The Daily Bugle is publishing a piece on why vigilantes are a menace to society," the figure interrupted, crossing his arms. "I keep up with the news. Your editor has an... interesting perspective on mask-wearing individuals."
Peter winced. "Yeah, that's... that's Jameson's angle. Not mine." He lowered the camera, taking in the details of the costume. Black, red, and green with a stylized "R" on the chest. The cape was shorter than Batman's, the build leaner. This had to be Robin, Batman's partner. "I just take the pictures. I don't write the headlines."
The vigilante stepped closer, the white lenses of his mask narrowing. "You're a long way from New York, photographer."
"How did you—"
"Your accent. Queens, if I'm not mistaken."
"I'm Peter. Peter Parker." He extended his hand before realizing how bizarre this situation was—standing in a Gotham alley, introducing himself to a masked vigilante like they were meeting at a networking event. The vigilante—Robin, he now recognized—stared at the offered hand.
"You're missing a shoe," Robin observed, ignoring the handshake.
"Yeah, got mugged," Peter admitted sheepishly, withdrawing his hand and trying not to look as embarrassed as he felt. "Welcome to Gotham, right? Guess I should have stuck to the tourist areas."
Robin's posture shifted subtly. "You got mugged? Are you okay?"
"Fine, fine. Just bruised pride, mostly." Peter gestured to his sock, now thoroughly soaked. "And, uh, one shoe down. Plus my backpack with all my stuff. But hey, at least they didn't get my camera, so the trip wasn't a total loss." He attempted a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
"I'm Robin," the vigilante said, finally accepting the previously offered handshake. "But you already knew that." His grip was firm but not showy—the handshake of someone with nothing to prove.
Peter could have said anything, maybe asked for directions, a way out of here, an extra shoe, but instead what came bubbling up from the depths of his brain like a geyser of pure self-destruction was—
"Tim," He blurted out, then immediately regretted it as Robin's body language tensed and his hand flew to his belt. "I mean—I didn't say anything. Who's Tim? I don't know any Tim. Thin air. That's what I said. Thin air." He winced at his own terrible attempt at recovery.
Robin stood perfectly still, only the slight tilt of his head betraying his surprise. "What did you just call me?"
The temperature in the alley seemed to drop ten degrees. Peter felt his stomach twist into knots as his brain frantically tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why he'd just called a masked vigilante by his civilian name. A name that, by all rights, he shouldn't know.
How could he explain that he'd recognized Tim Drake's jawline from those charity gala photos he'd studied for a photography class? That his heightened senses could detect the same cologne Bruce Wayne wore at press conferences? That he'd made the connection months ago when researching Gotham's elite for a school project and had practically forgotten about it until this very moment?
"I—I think I'm hallucinating from hunger," Peter stammered, his voice cracking embarrassingly. "Been a long day. Skipped lunch. And dinner. And now I'm making up names. Weird, right?" He laughed nervously.
Robin's hand moved to his utility belt, fingers brushing what was probably a weapon. "How do you know that name?" The friendly tone was gone, replaced by something colder.
"The same way you know I'm from Queens, not just New York," Peter replied, suddenly understanding the gravity of their mutual predicament. "We both notice things others don't." He swallowed hard. "I'm good with faces. Even partially covered ones."
A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant wail of a police siren. Peter could practically see the wheels turning behind that domino mask—calculating threats, analyzing options, preparing contingencies. It was exactly what he would be doing if their positions were reversed.
"Your camera," Robin finally said, his voice carefully controlled. "Hand it over."
"No way," Peter clutched it protectively against his chest. "These are my shots. I need them for my job."
"I need to delete any photos that could compromise identities." Robin's stance widened slightly, preparing for resistance.
"There's nothing compromising! Just silhouettes and shadows! I'm a professional—I know what I'm doing!" Peter took a step back, his sock squishing unpleasantly against the pavement.
"No one at your age is a professional anything," Robin countered, reaching for the camera.
"Says the teenage sidekick!" Peter shot back, before his brain could catch up with his mouth.
"Partner," Robin corrected automatically, lunging for the camera.
Peter reacted instinctively—forgetting entirely about his promises not to use his powers—landing on the side of the building with a soft thwip sound as his fingertips adhered to the brick. It wasn't until he was five feet up the wall that his brain caught up with his reflexes.
They stared at each other, secrets laid bare in the most anticlimactic reveal possible under the dim light of the street lamp. Peter's heart hammered in his chest. So much for keeping a low profile in Gotham.
"You're him," Robin said quietly, his voice a mix of surprise and what might have been respect. "The spider guy from YouTube. The one who stopped that car with his bare hands."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about." Peter tried, clutching his camera tighter.
Robin's mask couldn't hide his exasperation. "You're literally hanging from a vertical wall right now."
Peter glanced at his hands, still firmly stuck to the brick. "Would you believe it's a really good rock climbing technique?"
"No."
"Worth a shot," Peter sighed, sliding down the wall to stand on the ground again. "And you're the world's second-greatest detective's sidekick."
Robin's mask couldn't hide his grimace. "Partner," He corrected again. "Not sidekick."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude." Peter shrugged, trying for casual and missing by a mile.
They remained in tense silence, two teenage vigilantes sizing each other up on a dark Gotham street, like the world's most awkward standoff.
"So," Peter finally said, scuffing his one-shoed foot against the pavement. "This is uncomfortable."
Robin's shoulders relaxed slightly. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone older. Less... talkative. Less likely to immediately expose my secret identity within seconds of meeting me."
Peter grinned despite himself. "Yeah, I get that a lot. The talking thing, not the exposing-secret-identities thing. That's new. Sorry about that. It just... slipped out?" He ran a hand through his hair. "If it makes you feel any better, I've never told anyone. About you, I mean. I just... noticed. And then forgot I noticed until right now."
Robin seemed to make a decision, his posture softening slightly. "Look, I'm not going to expose you if you don't expose me. But I can't let you publish those photos if there's any chance they could connect dots."
"What if I show you the ones I plan to use? Professional courtesy between masked vigilantes?" Peter offered, holding up the camera. "You can veto anything that's too revealing."
"I'll even throw in my secret recipe for removing blood stains from spandex." He added with a grin before pausing, expression faltering. "That sounded less creepy in my head."
Robin raised an eyebrow, seeming to consider. "There's a diner three blocks east that's open late. They won't question the costume—this is Gotham."
"Do they have fries? I'm starving. Being mugged really works up an appetite." Peter's stomach growled audibly, as if to emphasize his point. "Enhanced metabolism. It's a curse."
"Best in the city. Triple-fried and seasoned." Robin's head tilted slightly. "Enhanced metabolism, huh? That explains the five cheeseburgers."
Peter froze. "What five cheeseburgers?"
"The ones you had at Big Belly Burger when you first arrived in Gotham. Around 2 PM today. With the chocolate milkshake."
"Have... have you been following me?"
Robin shrugged. "We monitor unusual visitors. Especially ones with press credentials who work for publications with anti-vigilante agendas."
"That's... invasive. And creepy." Peter paused. "Also impressive. But mostly creepy."
"Gotham," Robin replied, as if that explained everything. And somehow, it did.
Peter glanced down at his single shoe and soggy sock. "You think they have a no-shoes, no-service policy?"
Robin actually smiled—or at least, his mouth quirked upward at one corner. "I think we can make an exception for Spider-Man."
"Don't say that so loud!" Peter hissed, looking around the empty alley. "I have a secret identity crisis to maintain!"
"Says the guy who just called me by my real name in the middle of patrol."
"Touché, Bird Boy. Touché."
———
Twenty minutes later, Peter found himself in the strangest situation yet: sitting across from Robin—Tim—in a booth at the back of a dingy diner called "Gotham Grill," reviewing photos on his camera while sharing a massive plate of fries that were, true to Robin's word, possibly the best he'd ever tasted.
The waitress hadn't batted an eye at Robin's costume or Peter's missing shoe, simply asking "The usual, Boy Wonder?" before bringing them menus and water. When she returned to take their order, she looked Peter over with the weary expression of someone who'd seen it all.
"First time in Gotham?" she asked, pen poised over her notepad.
"That obvious, huh?"
"The one shoe gives it away. Most tourists lose both or none." She glanced at Robin. "He with you?"
Robin nodded. "He's... a colleague. From out of town."
"New York," she guessed, and when Peter's eyes widened, she tapped her name tag. "I'm from the Bronx. I can smell a New Yorker from across the room."
"Queens," Peter admitted.
"Thought so. You've got that Queens look about you." She turned to Robin. "You vouching for him?"
Robin gave a curt nod, and the waitress seemed satisfied. "Double order of the special fries and two chocolate shakes, then?"
"And a burger," Peter added quickly. "With everything. And maybe some onion rings?"
"Growing boy," the waitress said with a knowing smile. "Got it."
As she walked away, Peter leaned across the table. "Does everyone in this city know everyone else's business?"
"Pretty much," Tim replied. "It's either incredibly convenient or extremely annoying, depending on the day."
When the food arrived—a mountain of fries, Peter's burger nearly toppling with toppings, and a side of crispy onion rings—they fell into a comfortable silence broken only by the sounds of eating. Peter hadn't realized just how hungry he was until the first bite of burger hit his stomach.
"This one's actually good," Tim said, pointing to a silhouette shot of him swinging between buildings, the composition capturing both movement and the gothic architecture of Gotham. "You can tell it's me, but not... me."
"Told you I know what I'm doing," Peter replied, popping another fry into his mouth. "Been photographing myself for years. It's all about the angles and lighting."
"That's... kind of weird when you say it out loud."
"Tell me about it. Try explaining expense reports to yourself. 'Dear Mr. Jameson, please reimburse me for the bus fare I took to photograph myself flying through the air.'"
Tim laughed, then quickly composed himself. "Batman would kill me if he knew I was doing this."
"He actually kills people? I thought that was just a rumor," Peter said with mock seriousness, then backpedaled when he saw Tim's expression. "Joke! That was a joke! We don't kill people. Obviously. Bad guy rule number one."
"Funny," Tim said dryly. "And no, he doesn't kill people. But he's not exactly known for his sense of humor."
"Mr. Stark would probably make some quip about a playdate and then secretly run background checks on your entire family." Peter sipped his chocolate milkshake.
"Too late," Tim muttered. "Already did that on yours."
Peter choked on his milkshake. "You what?"
"After I spotted you taking photos earlier today. Standard procedure." Tim shrugged, dunking a fry in ketchup. "Your academic record is impressive, by the way. Especially in science."
"Dude! Boundaries!" Peter spluttered. "You can't just background check people you've never met!"
Tim shrugged. "Says the guy who somehow figured out my identity just by looking at my chin."
"That was an accident! I'm just observant!"
"So am I."
They stared at each other again, this time with grudging respect underneath the mutual embarrassment.
"Your aunt seems nice," Tim offered, breaking the tension. "Great community service record."
Peter groaned, dropping his face into his hands. "This is the most awkward encounter I've ever had in my life. And I once had to ask a girl to homecoming while wearing only a towel in the school gym locker room."
"That... sounds like a story."
"It involved a chemical spill, three fire alarms, and Flash Thompson's gym shorts. I'm not ready to talk about it yet."
"Same," Tim admitted, a smile tugging at his lips. "About this being awkward, not the gym shorts thing. But at least neither of us has to fake a death and assume a new identity."
Peter looked up. "You considered that option too?"
"Briefly. Seemed drastic. But I did run through thirteen contingency plans in my head when you said my name."
"Only thirteen? Amateur." Peter grinned. "I was on contingency twenty-six, which involved faking my own kidnapping by an interdimensional being."
"Completely drastic," Tim agreed, looking more relaxed than he had all evening. "Though I was about 73% sure it was my only option."
"That's my percentage!" Peter exclaimed. "Are you stealing my very specific statistical anxieties?"
Tim smiled—a real smile this time. "Great minds calculate oddly specific probabilities alike."
"Good thing we're both terrible at keeping secrets," Peter said, stealing the last fry.
"Speak for yourself," Tim protested. "I'm excellent at secret-keeping. Batman hasn't fired me yet."
"You literally acknowledged who you were within thirty seconds of me slipping up."
"That was... okay, fair point. But in my defense, you threw me off by being Spider-Man."
"What, you were expecting someone cooler? More impressive? Less likely to lose a shoe to muggers?"
"Someone who doesn't take selfies while fighting crime, maybe."
They fell into a comfortable silence, two teenagers carrying the weight of cities on their shoulders, finding unexpected common ground over greasy diner food.
"So," Peter said, pushing the empty plate aside and slurping the last of his milkshake. "Any chance you could help me find my other shoe? And maybe my backpack? It has my suit and my emergency twenty dollars and my chemistry homework."
Tim's mask lenses narrowed in amusement. "I think I can manage that. I am a detective, after all. World's second-greatest, as you pointed out."
"Great," Peter grinned. "And maybe afterward, you could show me some of Gotham's better angles? For my portfolio, of course. And because I'm pretty sure I'll get lost again if left to my own devices."
"Only if you tell me how those web-shooters work. Batman's been trying to reverse-engineer the formula for months."
"Wait, what?" Peter's eyes widened. "Batman's been studying my web fluid?"
"Don't look so shocked. You're on his radar. All meta-humans are."
"I'm not a meta-human! I was bitten by a radioactive spider!"
"That... definitely makes you a meta-human."
"Says who? The classification committee for people with weird powers?"
"Actually, yes," Tim replied seriously. "There's a database."
Peter stared at him. "You're joking."
"I'm not." Tim leaned back in the booth. "We keep track of these things. For safety reasons."
"That's... somehow even creepier than you knowing about my cheeseburgers."
"Deal with it." Tim stood up, dropping a generous tip on the table despite the waitress's protest. "Now, about that backpack. I think I know who might have taken it. Small-time muggers usually have a fence they sell to, and there's only three or four operating in this part of Gotham right now."
"Let me guess," Peter sighed, following him out of the booth. "We're going to go dangle someone off a rooftop until they talk?"
"That's more Batman's style," Tim replied, heading for the door. "I prefer a more subtle approach."
"Such as?"
"You'll see. How's your acting?"
Peter grinned. "Depends. Am I playing the charming, sophisticated hero or the ditzy, helpless tourist?"
"Definitely the second one."
"Deal. But you have to promise not to actually make any web fluid if I tell you the formula. I've got patents pending."
"Patents? Under Spider-Man's name?"
"It's... complicated. Let's just say my lawyer is very blind to certain details."
As they left the diner, Peter couldn't help thinking that maybe this night wasn't a total disaster after all. He'd made a new friend, kept his secret identity (mostly) intact, and gotten some great photos for Jameson, who would undoubtedly still hate them.
Even if he still only had one shoe.
———
"So what's the plan?" Peter asked as they crouched on a rooftop overlooking a run-down pawn shop. The neon sign reading "Gotham Gold & Goods" flickered weakly in the night.
"Your muggers work for a guy named Twitch," Tim explained, his voice shifting to a more professional tone. "He runs this pawn shop as a front for selling stolen goods. Electronics, jewelry, wallets—anything that can be flipped quickly."
"And my one shoe?" Peter asked doubtfully.
Tim's mask couldn't hide his amusement. "Probably not worth the effort, but your phone and backpack should be inside."
Peter nodded, scanning the building. "So we just go in and ask nicely?"
"Not exactly." Tim pulled something from his utility belt—a small device that looked like a compact mirror. "We need to be strategic. Twitch knows Robin, but he doesn't know you."
"I'm just the poor tourist from Queens who got mugged," Peter realized, catching on. "And you're..."
"Not here," Tim finished. "I'll be watching from up here. You go in, play the lost tourist, see what you can find out. If things go south, I'll intervene."
Peter glanced down at his mismatched feet—one shoe, one sock now thoroughly soaked through. "I think I can sell the 'pathetic tourist' angle pretty convincingly."
"Just don't drop any names this time," Tim warned. "Especially not mine."
"One identity crisis per night is my limit," Peter agreed, climbing down the fire escape.
The pawn shop bell jingled as Peter entered, and he immediately adopted a slightly hunched posture, making himself look smaller and more vulnerable than he actually was. The man behind the counter—a skinny guy with twitchy eyes that explained his nickname—looked up suspiciously.
"We're closed," Twitch said, despite the "Open" sign in the window.
"Please," Peter said, putting a slight quaver in his voice. "I just need some help. I got mugged a few hours ago, and I thought... I mean, someone told me that stuff from muggings sometimes ends up in places like this."
Twitch's eyes narrowed. "You calling me a fence, kid?"
"No! No, nothing like that," Peter backpedaled, raising his hands. "I just thought... maybe someone tried to sell you my stuff, and you, being an upstanding businessman, would recognize it as stolen and want to return it to its rightful owner." He tried his best innocent puppy eyes.
"Beat it, kid."
"Please," Peter persisted. "It's my backpack. It has my homework in it, and my chemistry project is due Monday. My aunt will kill me if I fail another assignment."
Twitch seemed unmoved, but Peter noticed the slight flicker of his eyes toward a door behind the counter—probably a back room where the most recently acquired merchandise was kept.
"I can pay," Peter added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the twenty dollars Tim had lent him. "I know you'd be losing money, but it would really help me out."
"Twenty bucks?" Twitch scoffed. "Get lost."
Time for Plan B. Peter's shoulders slumped in defeat, and he turned to leave. Just as he reached the door, he let out an exaggerated sigh. "I guess I'll have to tell Batman I couldn't find it."
He counted silently: one, two, three...
"The Batman?" Twitch's voice was suddenly higher. "What's the Bat got to do with this?"
Peter turned back, feigning surprise. "Oh, he's the one who told me to come here. I ran into him after I got mugged. He said he was too busy with some big case to deal with petty theft, but he told me exactly where to find my stuff." Peter gestured around the shop. "Said something about keeping an eye on this place anyway."
Twitch's face had gone pale. "I don't know nothing about no backpack."
"That's weird," Peter pressed, "because he seemed pretty sure. Said the guys who mugged me work for you." He stepped closer to the counter, dropping his voice. "Between you and me, he seemed kind of angry about it. Something about 'repeat offenders' and 'last warning.'"
Twitch's eye twitched more rapidly. "Wait here." He disappeared through the back door, returning moments later with Peter's backpack. "Some guys brought this in. I was gonna call the lost and found tomorrow."
"Wow, what a coincidence," Peter said, taking the backpack with an overly grateful expression. "The Bat will be so glad to hear about your cooperation."
"Yeah, you tell him," Twitch nodded eagerly. "Twitch is always helpful. Always looking out for the community."
Peter checked through his backpack—the suit was still there, hidden in the secret compartment. His wallet was gone, as expected, but his student ID had been tossed back in.
"My phone?" he asked hopefully.
Twitch hesitated, then reached under the counter and pulled out Peter's slightly scratched but intact phone. "Found this too. Must've fallen in by accident."
"You're a real hero," Peter said with complete insincerity. "Oh, and you haven't seen my shoe, have you? Just one shoe? Left foot, size ten?"
"Get out," Twitch said, patience clearly at an end.
"Right. Thanks again!" Peter backed out of the shop, backpack clutched to his chest.
Once outside, he looked up to the rooftop where Tim was waiting. With a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching, he leaped up, landing softly beside the vigilante.
"That," Tim said, sounding genuinely impressed, "was not bad at all. The Batman threat was a nice touch."
"I learned from the best," Peter grinned. "Mr. Stark calls it 'strategic intimidation through name-dropping.'"
"Did you get everything?"
Peter nodded, patting his backpack. "Suit, check. Phone, check. Dignity... still working on that one."
"What about your shoe?"
"Apparently even Gotham's criminals have standards when it comes to used footwear." Peter sighed. "But hey, two out of three isn't bad."
A slight movement caught his eye—Tim was holding up a familiar-looking sneaker. "You mean this shoe?"
"How did you—"
"While you were distracting Twitch, I checked the alley behind the shop. Your muggers apparently discarded it after realizing one shoe isn't particularly valuable."
Peter took the shoe reverently. "You beautiful, wonderful bird person. I could kiss you right now."
"Please don't," Tim said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," Peter declared, sitting down to put his recovered shoe on. "Spider-Man and Robin, working together to fight crime and recover footwear."
"I think you mean Robin and Spider-Man."
"Nope. My name definitely comes first."
———
Three hours later, Peter found himself perched on a gargoyle overlooking Gotham Harbor, his backpack retrieved (minus twenty dollars but with his Spider-Man suit intact), both shoes on his feet, and a newfound appreciation for Tim Drake's detective skills.
"So," Peter said as they watched the first hints of dawn breaking over the skyline. "Does this mean I'm an honorary Bat-family member now? Do I get a cool signal? Or at least a membership card?"
Tim snorted. "Don't push it, Spider-Boy."
"It's Spider-Man!"
"Not with that backpack full of Hello Kitty pencil cases, it isn't."
"It was on sale!"
Tim laughed, a genuine sound that echoed across the rooftops. "You know, Parker, you're not half bad. For a New Yorker."
"And you're not half bad either. For a guy dressed like a traffic light."
"Says the human arachnid in homemade spandex."
"It's not spandex! It's a breathable polymer blend with enhanced durability and—you know what? Never mind."
They sat in comfortable silence, watching as the city slowly woke up beneath them.
"I should get going," Peter said eventually. "Bus back to New York leaves in a couple hours, and I need to at least try to get some sleep before I face Jameson's wrath over my distinct lack of Batman photos."
"You got some good shots of Robin, though," Tim pointed out. "Surely that counts for something."
"You clearly don't know Jameson. He'll probably accuse me of colluding with the enemy."
"Aren't you?"
Peter grinned. "Yeah, I guess I am."
Tim pulled something from his utility belt—a small, sleek device that looked like a cross between a phone and a GPS tracker. "Here. If you're ever back in Gotham and need help—or just want to grab fries—use this. It's secure."
"Is this a Bat-phone? Am I getting a Bat-phone right now?"
"It's just a communicator."
"A Bat-communicator."
"If you call it that again, I'm taking it back."
Peter accepted the device, tucking it carefully into his backpack. "Thanks. And if you're ever in Queens and need someone to show you where to get the best sandwiches..."
"I know where you live, remember?"
Peter stared at him.
"Right. The background check. Still creepy."
As they prepared to part ways, Peter hesitated. "Hey, Tim?"
"Yeah?"
"This was... not terrible. The almost-getting-my-identity-exposed part and mugged in the most embarrassing way possible was pretty bad, but the rest was actually kind of cool."
Tim smiled. "Yeah. Not terrible at all."
"Next time, I'll try to keep both my shoes and your secret identity intact."
"And I'll try not to run a full background check before saying hello."
Peter extended his hand, and this time, Tim took it without hesitation.
"Until next time, Bird Boy."
"It's Robin!"
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, dude."
With a mock salute, Peter leapt off the gargoyle, swinging into the Gotham night. Behind him, he could have sworn he heard a quiet laugh—the sound of another teenage vigilante who, just maybe, wasn't so different from himself after all.
For all its darkness and danger, Gotham had given him something unexpected tonight—a reminder that he wasn't the only one trying to balance being a teenager with being a hero. And maybe, just maybe, a friend who understood exactly what that felt like.
Even if that friend did have questionable taste in bird-themed costumes.
———
In the dark shadows across from the diner, a figure watched silently as the two teenage vigilantes disappeared into the night, an unlikely friendship forming against the backdrop of Gotham's gothic skyline.
Batman frowned. This wasn't part of the plan. The Parker kid was supposed to be monitored, not befriended. Now he'd have to add another superhero to the 'potential allies/threats' database. And worse—he'd probably have to deal with Tony Stark calling to gloat about his protégé's networking skills.
With a sigh that was barely audible, he melted back into the shadows. Let the kids have their fun. For now.
He'd be watching. He was always watching.
———
Back in New York, Tony Stark's phone buzzed with an automated alert. The GPS tracker he'd secretly installed in Peter's camera had spent forty-five minutes in a Gotham diner, in the company of a signal matching Robin's comm frequency.
Tony smirked. "FRIDAY, send a congratulatory fruit basket to Wayne Manor. Something expensive with a note that says 'Our kids are playing nicely. Try to keep up.'"
"Are you sure that's wise, boss?" the AI responded.
"Absolutely not," Tony replied cheerfully. "That's what makes it fun."