Chapter Text
It didn't take long for Peter to beat Stephanie's record, SPOIL-SPORT dropping into second place after he won by a scant millisecond. His hands were cramping from how hard he was trying not to squeeze the life out of the Nintendo DS. If he used his full strength the thing would snap in half. Would it make the same dying sound as when someone lost in a game? Or would it just cease to make any last remarks altogether?
peter :) rose to the winners top, and he was satisfied by Duke's cheering. He was a little worried he would make a fool out of himself, claiming to be good, but then failing to prove that worth.
"Yeah! That's how you do it! How does it feel, Steph? Demoted must be your life story." Duke had no problem rubbing it in her face, even as Peter smiled politely despite the pleasure he gained from winning.
There was more to the comment that Peter wasn't able to pick up on. A history he hadn't been around long enough to catch the tail ends of.
"Shut it, Duke. You're now third last time I checked." She didn't appear all too bothered to be bumped down to second place, stating his rank as if it were something that couldn't be helped.
Sure enough, as Peter trailed his eyes further down the scoreboard, DUK3!!! sat comfortably in third place.
His cheers died down as a thoughtful expression pinched his lips. His eyebrows drew together then relaxed, silently deciding how to feel about his demotion.
With a shrug of his shoulders he said, "Still top three. Doesn't matter." Then pure joy washed over him.
He lightly kicked his feet at the end of the bed, a wide smile spanning from one cheek to the other. His heartbeat was so loud that Peter didn't need to hear the monitor to let him know about the rapid skips it was doing. Duke looked like the force of someone wise who kept him in that bed rather than jumping from one end of the room to the other.
"Woah, what the fuck? What the fuck are you doing?" Jay stared at him as if he had three heads. "Why are you doing that shit?"
He looked to Stephanie to confirm that she was seeing how Duke was acting too. But instead of her quips and equally judgmental gaze, she had the same senile smile that Duke had.
"What the hell?" Peter repeated what Jay had been questioning in a more PG version.
"Who's in fourth?" Stephanie randomly requested.
"What?" Jay snapped.
Peter quickly read the name on the scoreboard. "The Heir." Duke and Stephanie were thrilled at the announcement, while Jay struggled to contain a laugh.
Before he could question why The Heir being knocked down a peg in Mario Kart was such a big deal, the wide, singular door was pushed open from the other side.
Another teenager walked into the room, not looking that much younger than Stephanie but slightly older than Duke. Parts of his hair were charred as if he came into contact with the fire as well, and there were nasty bruises that looked like they hurt lining his cheekbones. One hand was occupied with typing something into his phone as the other held two more Nintendo DSs.
An older gentleman was following behind him, and that was all Peter could describe him as. He had a suit that was clearly tailored to his body, and a thin, gray mustache above his lip. There was a purposeful dullness to him. Like he was meant to melt into the background and be forgotten. But Peter could hear how steady his heart beat was. That man was anything but average, calm by default.
"Why do you need two more?" The new teen asked without lifting his head from his phone. He was absorbed in whatever was happening on it, knowledge that only happened when someone repeatedly entered a room, leading him from the entrance of the door to Stephanie's bed. "Jay wanna play or trios something?"
He lamely placed the two Nintendos on her lap, plopping down in the guest chair next to her, leg rising to rest on his other one.
"Or something," Steph said.
The older man who now stood at the foot of Stephanie's bed, and therefore in the middle of the room, cleared his throat.
"It is pleasant to formally meet you, Master Peter." He started, drawing the teen's attention away from his phone and to the bed Peter should be lying in.
When he didn't find Peter there, his eyes scanned the room until he saw Peter's small figure practically curled up on a chair. They almost shot out of his sockets like golf balls, but he quickly gathered his composure.
"I am Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne's butler, at your service so long as you reside in this manor."
Alfred introduced himself and—wait. What? Butler? "You don't—don't have to call me…" The confusion must have shown on his face because Alfred readily swooped in.
With his attention on Jay, his dry voice cut through the sterile room. "I do hope Master Jay has filled you in on some of the details, sir?"
"'Course I did, Alfie. I didn't do anything to deserve that look." Jay wasn't as agitated as he could have been, alerting Peter that this was someone he respected. "Kid knows we're in Bruce Wayne's manor, but we haven't talked 'bout what the hell happened."
The older man moved around the room with practiced ease, gathering medical supplies.
"It is for the best," Standing next to Jay with gauze, he assessed which areas needed reaplication. He made sure Peter knew he was addressing him with what he said next.
"Master Bruce wanted to be the one to tell you, sir. It is a very traumatic thing you went through, and he wants to make sure you were all right." His smooth, British voice settled like one of the audiobooks MJ relentlessly listened to.
"You really don't have to do that, Mr. Pennyworth." Peter clarified.
Mr. Pennyworth raised an eyebrow, almost amused. "Perhaps you could illuminate on that idea, dear boy."
The butler started to replace some of Jay's bandages, removing the bloodied parts that leaked. He was pretty roughed up. Peter wishes he could go back in time and tell Jay he didn't need to cover Peter. He didn't need to take the brunt of the heat. Peter could heal perfectly fine with enough energy, but Jay wasn't so fortunate.
Peter made sure he transferred his hard grip onto the pajama pants he was wearing. They wouldn't break or crumble by his excessive strength, and it gave him a place to release the buddy anxiety starting in his chest. Peter hadn't always been such an anxious child, but after the deaths of his parents and, eventually, Uncle Ben, he grew a fear of doing or saying the wrong thing. If he messed up—like how he did by letting his parents get on the plane, and cursing out Uncle Ben just before he fled from the house. Well. The results showed for themselves.
For example, Aunt May.
His jaw was locked in place, and no matter how much he willed words to come out of his mouth, his teeth ground firmly against one another. He was scared.
The last thing Peter wanted to do was offend someone Jay respected. Someone that bent over backwards for the Wayne family and was now doing the same for him and Pete.
"It's fine, kid." The boy sitting next to Stephanie said. His phone was shoved in his side pocket, practically bulging out comically. "That's just how Alfred is. No matter how many times you ask him to drop the Master, or Miss, or sir, or ma'am, he'll continue to say it anyway."
Okay. That did relieve Peter, because now he didn't have to confront Mr. Pennyworth at all. He still felt uncomfortable at the prospect of someone addressing him with those titles, but he wouldn't start a losing battle.
"I'm Tim, by the way. Timothy Drake. Jay already told everyone your name is Peter, so don't be surprised when everyone here already knows you like you came to the Christmas party."
He nodded his head cordially, keeping a keen eye on Alfred as he fixed Jay's gauze. Logically, he knew Mr. Pennyworth wouldn't do anything to hurt Jay, but he still felt protective of the only familiarity bonded to him at current. Jay was the only constant human connection he had.
This wasn't his New Jersey. This wasn't his universe. But Jay was beginning to be the first person who Peter felt that sameaffection as he had with Tony. As he had with Aunt May and Uncle Ben. With MJ and Ned. He was beginning to feel normal.
That was just as dangerous as letting his luck affect the people close to him.
"Thanks for letting me play," He automatically returned to things he knew how to do. Like being grateful.
Tim sat straighter in his chair. "Oh! It's no problem. Seriously." He adjusted the collar around his neck. "I'm a tech maniac and wealthy, so I have plenty of these things."
Peter would have plenty too, if he were wealthy. "You like tech stuff?" He hesitated to ask, not knowing if that was an invitation to keep the conversation rolling.
Tim had an ambiance about him, and Peter didn't know if it was the casual flaunting of wealth, the clearly expensive clothes he wore, or the way his bangs rested in the style many popular kids wore, but it left him unsure where the lines were with Tim.
"Does he like tech stuff?" Duke humorously said under his breath, settling into the bed as if he weren't just spasming like a gossiper who was filled in with drama related to years earlier.
Stephanie opened her mouth then quickly shut it in ascension.
"Yeah, keep ya thoughts to yourself," Jay said as Alfred finished re-wrapping him. "Learn to censor your dirty words."
Stephanie didn't clap back. She gave a Nintendo to Tim who chucked it at Duke, the other teen catching it almost as it made contact with his nose.
“Absolutely,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m more of a hacking and coding guy than real engineering. Same, same."
Peter unwound himself from the chair, sitting on the edge instead of curling in on his body protectively. "Cool! What type of stuff do you do?"
Tim shrugged, casual but clearly proud. “A lot of problem-solving stuff. I mess with systems that already exist—make them run better, or safer. Sometimes I build little programs just to keep an eye on things.”
“Like monitoring?” Peter asked.
“Yeah. Monitoring, alerts, failsafes,” Tim said. “If something goes wrong, I want to know before it becomes a real problem.”
It reminded Peter so much of Tony. Of all the failsafes he implanted in Peter's suit. Mr. Stark had gifted him the Spiderman suit under the guise that it was completely Peter's, so when the suit loyally reported his fuckups to Tony, he rightfully had it taken.
Peter screwed up a lot in his life. He failed a lot of people.
"Have you messed with Artificial Intelligence at all? My uhm—Uncle Tony—he was a real tech head too. I mean, I am, too. But he was," Peter let the awe slip into his tone. "He was a whole different level."
It was the first time he mentioned anyone from Before, and if Jay was surprised that Peter gave any detail about his life, he didn't let it show.
"You too? Man, it's a relief to be talking to someone with an ounce of sense,"
"—Fucker!—" Jay said despite the disapproving glare Alfred gave him.
"I messed with it a few times, but nothing serious. I think it'll be a few years before what I need is on the market." He bit his lip, as if digesting the information Peter told him.
Mr. Pennyworth began to redo the gauze on Stephanie's arm. Her wound the same gnarly, peeling red that was all over Jay's chest. It was definitely caused by the fire, Peter could tell.
As if realizing his mistake, Peter tried to divert Tim's attention. "I like to build stuff, too. Stuff that can do things. Little robots that can close doors. A set of hands that can dry dishes." While he spoke, his gaze never diverted from Stephanie. There was no doubt that Peter should be just as hurt as they were. But he wasn't.
She caught him staring at her arm, the corner of her lips lifting into a reassuring smile. "So, Tim." She turned her attention to the boy sitting next to her.
"What do you want?"
"Pete here placed first in Mario Kart."
Peter felt a blush heating his cheeks. Maybe he shouldn't have played Mario Kart to begin with. Stephanie was making a big deal out of it. Tim rolled his bottom lip in his mouth. He looked between Peter and Stephanie, as if trying to gauge whether she was being truthful.
"Seriously," Duke urged.
He had the same reaction as the other three. Elated but shocked at the same time.
"How did you beat Steph's score?" Tim was up from his chair in a flash, on the other side of the room before Peter had time to understand the question.
He brought a pair of slippers that Peter hadn't noticed by his bed. He quickly slipped his feet into them before settling back onto the chair.
Peter shrugged his shoulders. "Just did it." He kept himself firmly in the chair, a safe distance away from Tim.
He didn't tell any of them that, on his birthday two years after Uncle Ben died, it was the first time he got a new game for his Nintendo DS. Uncle Ben had always been the one to buy him the games, since he had an affinity for taking turns every now and then. He liked to see Peter win, but even more, he liked winning.
After he opened the gift, May revealed she had dragged Ned from his house and politely requested (bribed) him to help her pick out a game for Peter. He worked hard to be good at Mario Kart. Silly as it sounded, it felt like he was meant to make May proud in the way he couldn't with Uncle Ben anymore.
"Nice, man. Mysterious. Really keeps that whole aura about you." Tim said as he sat on the edge of Jay's bed.
"Be sarcastic with him again and I'll bite your head off." Jay warned, using a foot to kick Tim in the side.
Peter didn't tell him that he didn't mind Tim's dry sense of humor. Tony was a bitch all the time. That, unfortunately, was he default setting.
"Ow! Asshole. I wish that fire reached your muscles." Tim wasn't truthful in all accounts. Peter could hear his heart skip a beat. A lie.
"Fire clearly didn't do enough to you." Jay spat back.
Tim left it at that. "So, if you're in first, Peter, and Steph is in second…"
Duke perked up, "And I'm in third."
"Then that means Damian is fourth." There was an edge to Tim's tone. Not a bad one. An excited one. Like he could not wait to see what would happen.
They didn't have to wait long, because after he finished his sentence, another pair walked into the room. It was a child and a young man. A young man he recognized as Dick the second he saw his raven hair and blue eyes. There were fewer burns on some parts of his face, ointment making it shine as the overlight reflected from above. His bottom lip was nastily split, a red line running from the top to the bottom. Peter knew it would scab, and he outwardly winced at how painful it must be to talk or eat.
The boy had sharp, green eyes. As if they were assessing everything in the room as easily as breathing. He had a medium-sized bandage attached to his chin, but other than that, the only sign he had been in the explosion (Peter still wasn't sure what exactly happened, but that was all his mind could reason for literally being thrown into the air with a big boom). His shoulders were stiffened straight, chin tilted up with an air of superiority around him. Peter had seen that stance before.
The other night occurred to him. He knew Dick was Nightwing; that much was clear from the heartbeat that danced like a circus. As he honed his hearing onto the child, he heard the same steady heartbeat that Robin had. It was strong. Focused. Like nothing could deter him in an act of violence.
So this was Nightwing and Robin made civilian. Why were they here? How were they connected to Jay?
"I am what?" Said the boy.
Or—Damian.
"Fourth!" Stephanie and Tim shared gleefully at the same time.
"Pete played a round and got first. Since you were third—"
"I know how gaming ranks work, Brown." Damian hissed. "I do not care for foolish activities."
"Right," Duke aimed at Tim. "And he won't be staying up tonight trying to beat all of our high scores."
Tim scrunched his nose. "I am not dealing with a bratty Damian tomorrow because he stayed up past his bedtime."
Damian appeared ready to lunge at the teen.
Dick placed a hand on top of his shoulder, guiding him into the room as he shut the door behind him. "B, Babs, and Cass are just finishing up. I think the girls will go lie down after that, though."
"Young Master Damian. Master Dick," Alfred greeted. He was carefully washing his hands at a nearby sink. "Understandable for them to rest. It has been a long, tiresome few days for many of us."
"Tell me about it, Alfie." Dick sat in the chair next to Duke.
"How are you guys doing?" He directed the question to all four of them.
"Oh, great." Duke replied genuinely. "I should be brand new in a few hours." He clapped the top of his thigh, as if proving he was alright by a show of strength.
Peter didn't question the obvious exaggeration. It would be impossible for him to be completely healed in a few hours unless he had enhanced healing. Which Peter was trying to desperately avoid talking about, given his lack of injuries and the extensive ones on the people he was rooming with.
He was medically okay now, so did that mean Peter could leave?
Steph huffed out a sigh. "Fine. Nothing new with Gotham. I just wish I was in my bed. In my own room. By myself." She pointedly glared at Jay.
"Yeah? I wish I were close enough so I could rip your IVs out." Jay threatened.
"Master Jay," Alfred said. "Enough of the violent threats, please."
Jay nodded, but his jaw was screwed tight.
"Jay? You doing good?" Dick probed. The tone was too knowing for them to be unknown to one another.
"I'm fucking fine, dickwad. If I wasn't fine, do you think I would be sitting up and talking?!"
Peter could tell that Jay was starting to get pissed off. Maybe he didn't like Dick asking him so directly. Peter wasn't sure. He wasn't sure what about the question had ticked Jay off.
He rubbed the tips of his fingers in nervousness, Nintendo DS forgotten in his lap. He felt the urge to crawl into a dark corner and web himself a safe nest. He was in an unfamiliar place with people acting like they already knew him, his guide in the unknown setting counting down like a timer before all hell breaks loose.
Steph and Duke were nice. They had even let him play a round of Mario Kart! But knowing he was in the Wayne manor did little to alleviate the apprehension building in his chest. Knowing Dick and Damian were vigilantes, and being in a medical room in a literal manor didn't leave Peter guessing that hard.
During his deep dive at the library, he had come across the Bats that ruled Gotham, keeping every villain and petty criminal lord in check. It reminded Peter of Daredevil, with Hell's Kitchen being his city and all that. With keeping people in check came the watch over meta's. Most weren't accepted. The ones who managed to keep a footing in Gotham weren't known to have abilities. They hid it, like everything else that can easily be hidden in this gloomy city.
The point was, he knew Batman went through a rotation of sidekicks as he built his empire over Gotham. Dick and Damian were apart of that. Probably Duke and Stephanie, too.
If Peter's deductions weren't far off, Bruce Wayne was Batman, and all his wards and adopted children eventually became a part of his weird, culty, vigilante group. He didn't know if Jay was really friends with them, but by the way they spoke so naturally to one another left him thinking he was closer to them than they let on.
It was too much. At least in a web, he knew he wouldn't be able to see a thing, giving the illusion of being invisible to the outsider's eye. He reminded himself meta's weren't welcomed here.
When he zoned back in, Jay was controlling his breathing with his eyes closed. It settled Peter, somewhat.
Damian was still standing near the entrance, silent in his position.
"What about you Pete? I haven't seen you in a while." Dick was playing with a piece of yarn in his hands, twisting it around his fingers like he did it often.
There was an energetic thrum to his body that Peter knew the man never stopped moving. He shrugged. He was doing that a lot lately. Shrugging.
"Fine," What was he meant to do? Explode like Jay and point out the obvious? There were no wounds on his body.
"You had us all scared when you weren't wakin' up for a few days, Pete. We could barely monitor you." There was a sad dip to Dick's eyes. "The IVs weren't going in, and you weren't responsive at all—"
"Master Dick, Master Bruce wishes to discuss it together. If you could refrain from the topic altogether, please."
Peter didn't register anything after Mr. Pennyworth cut Dick off. There was a ringing in his ears, yanking him back into his reality. He brought it up. He really did it. Dick really brought up the fact that a regular needle doesn't work for his protective skin. Just a small hint into what Peter could do. Day after day his abilities were morphing into something more. Something more primal that he couldn't keep ignoring if he didn't want to damage his receptors.
He was a meta by the standards of this universe. A meta in the manor of vigilantes who enforced the lack of his kind in Gotham to begin with. A meta surrounded by those vigilantes who knew.
Damian was still standing by the only threshold, arms crossed as his glare blazed into Peter's soul. He widened his stance, a silent I know you're about to run.
And since Peter knew there was no way he was getting through him, Peter did the dumbest thing he could have possibly done. He flicked his wrist out in the same manner he would do with his web-shooters, natural silk shooting from his wrist for the first time Peter was conscious. The web connected to the ceiling, and he used the momentum to pull his body from the seat and into the air. He went over Damian instead.
"Pete?!" Jay didn't sound angry anymore. Just confused and shocked.
"Holy fucking shit!" Stephanie screeched.
Dick was no longer sitting. He was running across the room trying to catch up with him.
With his other wrist he managed to open the door, grateful the handle was one that went up and down rather than side to side. If they didn't know he was a meta then, they certainly know now.
He distantly registered how strange of a sensation actual webs felt coming out of his body. It warmed his wrists in a way that made him want to keep webbing. It felt soothing. Right.
But Peter couldn't web throughout the entire house. That would be ridiculous. On foot he pushed his strength into his calves, willing his body to move faster. His heart was practically breaking out of his chest, his mind shouting at him to find any sort of exit.
The only problem was, despite knowing he was at Wayne manor, Peter had no idea where he was. The endless hallways were lined with the same versions of paintings, prestigious men and women oiled and refined in a no doubt heavy frame.
Behind him, he could hear others chasing after him. But none were as fast as Peter who had two days to gather and store energy. He was practically bursting with it. He focused all his attention on his speed, using his strength to enhance how fast he was running.
He was surprised the slippers hadn't fallen off yet in his escape.
"Peter!" Dick yelled.
He saw a set of wooden doors that couldn't be anything else but the way out, and pushed them open. He was sourly met with a pristine library that was cleaner than the public one.
"Please, kid!" Dick shouted again.
Peter hurriedly closed the doors. If he couldn't find his way out, he could hide. Yeah. Hiding didn't seem that bad. He wasn't sure what the Bats did once they found a meta, let alone when one was in their home. Peter just really hoped he wasn't wrong about his presumptions. Even his spidey-sense could feel that something with their story was off, though. They weren't telling the full truth, in the least. Peter had no room to judge because he wasn't either.
But hell, warn a kid before you kidnap him next time.
Without wasting time, he ran to the desk across from him and scurried underneath it. It was designed to cover the legs of whoever sat in it, therefore shielding Peter's body from anyone who could walk in. He curled in on himself so tight that he could feel a rib threatening to pop out of place. From where he sat, he could see heavy drapes hitting the floor, shielding the room from the sun's rays completely. It did well to darken the crevice he was in, but strangely enough, the area was warm.
As if someone were just sitting at the desk.
He didn't think about it much as his eyes stung. He tried to hold the tears back—he really did. Right now wasn't the time or place to cry like the eight-year-old he was. But he couldn't stop them from hitting his cheek. One by one, the salty droplets fell out of his eyes until his face was soaking. Hiccuping sobs came from the depths of his hidden emotions, the lock he usually kept on them breaking with little pressure.
Everything was going to shit. Just as he was settling into the new routine of his life, something happened to upend it. It was the story of his life.
He should have known the second he met Barbara—when she gave him snacks and a comfortable place to sit. He should have known when he met Dick—when he had given hints on how to survive and food that had sustained Peter for some time. He should have known when he met Jay—when the man opened the soup kitchen early for Poor Peter and told him about places that Peter would have never found on his own.
Peter should have known, because nothing good ever stays.
In the middle of what Peter would admit to be a breakdown, the telltale sound of someone sitting on the floor near him pulled him out of his sobs. All he could see was their long legs, dressed in fancy pant suits that were probably more expensive than the rent Aunt May had to pay. The man was leaning against the drawers attached to the desk, shielding Peter from his upper half.
When he managed to work his crying into mere sniffles, a hand holding a box of tissues was approaching him.
He took the box swiftly, afraid it was a trick to unearth him from his hiding spot.
"Thank you," He sounded pathetic even to himself. So young. Vulnerable.
"You are welcome," A deep, crispy voice responded. It wasn't one Peter had heard before.
He used the tissues for their intended purpose, grateful for the relief of a wet face. If being caused to cry wasn't enough, Peter hated the action of it. His nose would get stuffy and it would be impossible to breathe out of as a frontal lobe headache would develop.
"Do you feel better?" The man asked.
"What?" Peter said before he had time to process.
"I heard crying helps with stress. Do you feel better?"
Weird. He said it like he never cried. Or that it was rare he did.
He thought about the question, seeing no harm in answering it since the man wasn't trying to capture him. Yet.
"No. Not really."
"Oh?" He heard the wrinkling of a packet before a pack of gummies was handed to him. The kind with cartoon characters on the package.
Peter didn't find himself caring. He tore into the gummies like a starved man, the absence of food catching up to him.
"Can I ask why you're crying?" The man prodded. His tone was so gentle. Like how Uncle Ben would talk to him after Peter would wake up screaming from a nightmare.
Safe. Trust. His spidey-sense filled in.
Peter felt so weak. So tired and hungry. He just wanted a hug from Aunt May. But no matter if he was in this universe or the next, he would never get to feel the way her arms would wrap around his shoulders. Would never get to sneeze again from the way her long hair and perfume would tickle his nose.
He wouldn't get to feel safe again, not how he felt in her embrace, but maybe this was a close step towards it.
"Mm," Peter sniffled, chewing on a gummy. "Everything, I guess. Nothing makes sense even though it should."
There was silence for a few seconds. Peter could tell the man was trying to choose his words carefully.
"I'm sorry you feel that way, kid—"
Peter didn't mean to cut him off, but the gummies felt like teasers to a true appetizer. Peter was hangry, and he was ready to get the fuck out of the mansion so he could eat. "And I don't even know what's going on! Jay said he's friends with Steph and Duke and that's why we're here, but why is a twenty-something-year-old friends with teenagers?! Everything is so loud and there's so many people! I don't know why I'm still here if I'm fine! I just want to leave and eat and—"
The chair blocking him in was rolled away.
"Want something to eat?" The man asked.
And if that wasn't a sentence that made Peter stop in his tracks. "From here?"
A snort. "Alfred would kill me if I went into his kitchen. And from what I gather, you don't really want to be around a lot of people right now. Have you been to Bat-Burger?"
And oh. Peter lost his Red Robin. Now that he noticed the absence of his toy, his hands felt achingly bare. He hadn't had the figurine for that long, but it proved to be the only thing that wouldn't be affected by Peter's luck. Guess he was wrong about that.
"Y-yeah."
"Do you like it?"
Hell yeah. "Yeah."
"Do you want to take a car ride with me to get you some? No obligation, kid. I can still pick a meal up and bring it to you here."
Against all better judgment, he said, "Peter. My name is Peter."
"Nice to meet you, Pete. I'm Bruce Wayne."
Peter didn't have time to register he was meeting the owner of the manor he was trying to get out of. That (if he was right) he was meeting Batman. Because all that mattered was they weren't strangers anymore, and Peter had no issues about riding with a non-stranger.
"Great! Let's go." He was starving and pretty sure only another figurine could cheer him up.