Chapter Text
Teenagers say their world is ending all the time; for Peter, it was actually true — and it was even his fault. The multiverse was collapsing, people torn through the fabric of reality and dropped at his feet. The chaos they brought with them caused a different kind of devastation, the kind that left Peter Parker without his Aunt May, the kind that left him alone in a city where he’d already lost his parents, his uncle, and the mentor he’d come to rely on. It was a cruel, unjust irony that Peter was still standing when so many better, braver people had fallen, that he had to keep living when his heart was shattered and with precious pieces buried six feet under ground.
When Doctor Strange said that the only solution was a world without Peter Parker in it, the prospect had only brought relief. The world would be better without Peter, and the grieving boy wouldn’t have to continue a life that only seemed to hurt. For the first time, the omega ached to put down the responsibility weighing heavily on his shoulders.
And then the sorcerer asked for something the teenager wished he could refuse.
He asked for Peter to live.
For Peter to leave Queens behind and go to a universe where there had never been a Peter Parker. Never been an Aunt May. An Uncle Ben. A Tony Stark. Where Peter, uprooted and disconnected, could be re-potted in foreign soil far away from the people who loved him — the few of them that were left. A world without MJ, without Ned. Without Happy’s dry humor or Pepper’s quiet pride, without the AcaDec team, without the #5 squished flat at Delmar’s. A world where Peter had nothing, was nothing.
A world he couldn’t ruin.
“Why?” The word escaped his lips in a croak, a tortured sound that reminded him of searing pain, of dark dust, of Mister Stark, I don’t feel so good.
The man’s smile was gentle but stilted, holding strain and thrumming with tension. “It’s the only way. I did not foresee that we would follow this path here, but the branch forks in only two viable directions now. Either I wipe everyone's memory of Peter Parker and send you somewhere so far from our universe that the ripples of your influence cannot cross the distance — or we lose everything we sacrificed so much to save.”
They would lose everything Mister Stark sacrificed himself to save. They would lose Morgan.
“Then kill me.” Peter scrambled for a thin facade of neutrality, trying to wrest the emotion from his voice; it quaked traitorously anyways, betraying his fear and confusion. “It’s not worth the risk.”
“I’m not in the habit of murdering children.” The sorcerer’s tone was dry, but as he lowered a Sling Ring adorned hand to Peter’s shoulder, his expression collapsed into tightly controlled grief of his own. “And you are worth the risk, Peter Parker. Remember that on the other side. You, Peter, not Spider-Man, were always worth it. I’m sorry.”
Before another protest could spill from Peter’s throat, the palm against his shoulder pushed him sharply. He stumbled backwards, feet barely leaving the ground. Before he found his footing again, New York had vanished before him and left a grimy alleyway in its place. The sounds of this new city were familiar and strange at the same time, the cacophony of backfiring cars and bustling streets mingling with raised voices and chatter in an arrangement that reminded Peter strongly of home.
But everything was wrong — gray, dingy, distorted and dimmed as if through a filter. The shouts held genuine suspicion and fear, not the shallow but red-hot anger of a New Yorker’s temper. Amplified by his enhanced hearing, sirens echoed from all directions. The air was still a swamp of scents — alpha, omega, beta, territorial markings and hormonal bullshit. Not something he was particularly fond of, but at least it was something he knew. He wouldn’t be a freak here — not because he had a secondary gender, at least.
Step one. He thought, taking a shuddering breath as he reluctantly set aside the death wish that had seemed so reasonable only moments before, find out where I am.
Step two. An alpha’s anger flared nearby, a spicy, smoky scent that caused Peter’s nose to wrinkle in distaste, make more scent and heat suppressants. At Mister Stark’s insistence, he carried both on him at all times and knew how to produce more with various levels of access to the ideal materials. Unfortunately, their emergency scenarios had never included being in a different universe where chemicals might not even interact in the same way.
Step three. He made his way carefully towards the entrance of the alley, peeking out cautiously. Be Spider-Man, because this city clearly needs it.
As a 17-year-old without a single piece of paperwork to his name, Peter found himself doing odd jobs around Gotham, barely scraping together enough money to subdue the worst of his mutated metabolism. School was out of the question, as was any legitimate work. Thankfully, it seemed he’d landed in a city known for shadier business practices, something that kept him from starving on the streets, even if he was sleeping in shelters or web hammocks tucked in unassuming alleyways. He’d broken into a few science labs to make his suppressants and was now living an unassuming life as a “beta”, practically scentless.
It took Peter two weeks to meet his first Bat, and it hadn’t happened in his suit like he’d expected. He’d been sitting on the edge of a roof, legs swinging and mind wandering, when someone landed lightly on the cracked stone behind him.
Threat.
His Spidey-Sense screamed at the intrusion, but Peter barely reacted; most people on Gotham rooftops were vigilantes, not rogues. “Am I in the way?” he asked, lifting his chin from where it was resting lazily on one palm. “I can move.”
“You’re fine, kid.” The stranger was light on his feet as he approached the edge of the roof, sheathing the grapple at his belt with a click. As he neared, Peter twisted his head just enough to identify him. Black, blue, lithe, strong. Nightwing. “Just wanted to check on you. You’re sitting awfully close to the edge over there, and it’s a school night.”
“I’m done with school.” Peter replied smoothly — not a lie, and seventeen was hopefully old enough to pass as an adult, even with his baby face. “And I’m just thinking.”
“It just seems like you could do your thinking somewhere inside, or at least at ground level. Do you need a ride down?”
Peter snorted, watching with detached amusement as Nightwing prowled cautiously closer, hands open and visible, obviously broadcasting I am not a threat, you can trust me, don’t do anything rash, I’m here to help. “Worried I’ll find my own way down?”
“A bit.” The vigilante replied in a cheerful chirp, plopping down to sit beside Peter. The hypocrite.
“Don’t be. I just like looking out at the city. From up here, it’s not that different from—” Peter broke off sharply, baring his teeth in a rough approximation of a smile. “From a different world.”
“A different world, huh?” Nightwing asked, shifting closer with a curious smile visible under the stylized pane of his domino mask. The vigilante’s alpha scent was light, a cinnamon-laden musk that had Peter’s nose wrinkling instinctively. It reminded him too much of Natasha’s, though the assassin’s scent had been much stronger and much more aggravating, and he missed her and the other Avengers already. “I’ve been to other worlds before.”
Peter let out a soft hum to express distant interest, angling his head to allow a breeze to carry away the bulk of the other’s scent. “Oh?” He asked, unable to repress the humor in his tone. I’ve died on another planet. Peter couldn’t say, because he wasn’t Spider-Man at the moment. I’ve seen more worlds than I can name, and countless people died on them. I’ve reached out to different versions of my own world and ripped holes in the walls between them. This is a new world for me, and it’s all I have left. Sobering, Peter shrugged one shoulder casually, leaning forward to look out over the city. “When I was younger, I never imagined a world outside of Queens.”
“Do you miss it?” Nightwing asked, following Peter’s movements carefully with his own. It was obvious that he was planning to grab Peter if he shifted too much, and Peter was almost curious enough to let him. If he were in his suit, he’d see how long the pair of them could fall without one of them catching them both. “New York?”
“Every day.” Peter replied honestly, voice hoarse and tight with choked back emotion. “But I can’t go back. I’m … I’m starting over.”
“Thus, Gotham?” Nightwing offered gently, knowing how undesirable the city was to outsiders.
“Yeah.” Peter sighed, fingers flitting up to brush a single tear away from long, damp lashes. Nightwing flinched forward, ready to catch him as he came half-unmoored, but the boy didn’t sway. Lowering his hand back to rest on the edge of the rooftop, anchoring himself far more securely than the Gothamite could ever know, Peter leaned back towards the center of the roof to ease the other’s comfort. “And the rooftops.”
“Looking out at New Jersey, hoping for a glimpse of Queens?”
“Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, it looks like home.” Peter paused, weighing the words on his tongue before letting them spill off of it. “Maybe one day, it’ll feel like it, too.”
“I hope so, too, kid." Nightwing offered a warm, genuine smile. "Got a name, so I can give you a shout if I see you again?”
A pause. A grief-stricken glance. A name. A lie. "Ben.”
“Ben.” Nightwing rose to his feet, his body uncoiling elegantly, and offered a hand to Peter. “Maybe next time, we can meet on street level?”
Peter slipped his hand into the other’s easily, hauling himself to his feet. He balanced on the edge of the rooftop for a moment before hopping down, smiling faintly at the other’s audible sigh of relief as he did so. “Maybe. I don’t plan on running into any more vigilantes, though.”
Peter’s breath spilled harshly from his lips into the fabric of his mask as he flung himself around the corner of a building on a gleaming web. The catch and release of grapple guns echoed behind him, a flurry of Bats following his path. Occasionally, one would manage to slip by him, and his enhanced hearing and screeching Spidey-Sense would warn him and allow him the scant seconds to reroute, deftly avoiding his pursuers.
Still, the distance between himself and the team of vigilantes was narrowing by the minute, and their sheer numbers and ability to communicate between themselves would soon lead to his capture. Whenever they got too close to him, Peter could catch moments of strained panting and snatches of speech from the comms in the vigilantes' ears.
Meta … possible rogue … spider-like abilities … seems to … webs … tensile str— … pull back, Spoiler!
Peter had read a little about metas since landing in Gotham, and the most salient fact he remembered was that Batman had forbidden them in what was largely considered his city. Was Batman going to round him up like a feral animal and kick him out of Gotham? Or put him down like one?
“Spider.” A slim, black-clad Bat swung into view from a side street and fell into place beside him, matching his pace easily. He jolted away from her, and she followed the adjusted trajectory without complaint, meeting each coiling and snapping flex of his muscles with delicately controlled movements of her own that kept her in line with him. “Safe, Spider.”
Through her comms, a mix of voices cried out in protest. Black Bat, stand down! Disengage! Then one deeper voice, husky and gravely. Black Bat, we have not completed the threat assessment.
The vigilante tilted her head towards Peter, giving him a small but genuine seeming smile. I have, it seemed to say, as she moved closer to him. “Spider, land? Talk?”
Peter spared a quick glance for his web cartridges and then nodded, grimacing. “Just us?”
“Just us.” Black Bat agreed easily, sparking another wave of protests, and then made her way to the closest rooftop. When Peter landed beside her, she hooked her grapple onto her belt, a silent offering of an advantage should the other wish to flee.
The omega approached cautiously, sniffing carefully at the air. The other vigilante didn’t give off any scent, likely the result of an excellent suppressant — or a mutation of her own. “Big Daddy Bat isn’t a fan of metas in Gotham.” He said by way of greeting, his quips always as ready as his web-shooters. “Not exactly my favorite welcome from a coworker." As he approached Black Bat, the prickling hairs on the back of his neck settled; a subtle frisson of Spidey-Sense warned him that she was dangerous but not that he was in danger.
“Spider, vigilante?” Black Bat clarified, cocking her head in curiosity as she analyzed the other’s uncertain advance.
“Yeah, I’m…new in town. You can call me Spider-Man. I’m not trying to cause any problems with the Bat…flock? I just — well, you looked like you could use a hand, and spiders have eight.”
“Arkham breakout.”
“Yes.” Peter stopped a few yards away from her, reluctantly relaxing as the other Bats kept their distance, although they watched from nearby rooftops and could surely hear them from Black Bat’s tech. He missed the sound of Karen in his ear. Hell, he missed — no. He couldn’t let his guard down around the other vigilantes. “I dropped Clayface and Mr. Freeze back off. Heard your lot caught most of the rest, so I was just heading … home.”
“No home?” Black Bat asked, brow furrowing briefly in surprise before smoothing out again.
“I have a home.” Peter protested, taking a step back. It’s just a world away.
Black Bat moved forward to bridge the new gap between them, one small, gloved hand coming up to reach towards him. “Spider-”
“There’s no way home, okay?”
Her hand wavered and then fell. “Sorry, Spider.”
“Me, too, Black Bat.” Tears stinging his eyes behind a scarlet mask, the teen turned on his heel and raced off the edge of the roof, webs snapping out to catch him before the gathered Bats could rally themselves. Me, too.