Peter Benjamin Parker did not exist.
Sure, there were a few Peter Parker's kicking around north America. A cursory search found a lawyer Peter Allen Parker from South Dakota, and a teacher Peter John Parker from Toronto, both in their mid-thirties. There was a Peeta Christine-Lee Parker in LA — a student around his age — but her parents and extended family didn't match at all. Peter Benjamin Parker didn't pull up any results except a single, archived obituary of a 56-year-old man from Arkansas who'd died in 1936.
While Jason had left him alone for 'errands', Peter lounged on the couch and ran a half-hearted search for any traces of a Richard or Benjamin Parker, a Mary Fitzpatrick or May Reilly and came up with equally fruitless results. A few names that rang true, but further digging brought up zero matches for hisfamily. It didn't take long for him to give up: even if he did go hunting for them, if Peter Benjamin Parkerdidn't exist here, there wasn't much point in finding people who were in effect, complete and utter strangers.
Not unless he really was planning on taking that four PM psychotic break.
Peter checked the time and sighed. Left alone for forty minutes and he was already bored. He scratched at his wrists and firmly ignored the reasons why the skin there itched so badly. There was no way he was going to think about them any time soon.
His eyes travelled around the apartment and landed almost immediately on the boxes of books.
'Don't touch my weapons,' Jason said…. Presumably, he didn't count his books in that category.
Peter nodded, decided. The choice was simple. He could spend the next hour or so wallowing in existential horror and fall further down the rabbit hole as he categorised all the ways this universe was irreconcilably different from his own, or he could keep himself busy by doing Jason a solid and sorting out his bookshelves.
There'd been enough moving in his life to know that if they'd not been unpacked before now, they'd stay in that box forever.
Decided, Peter rolled off the couch onto his feet and meandered over to the kitchen. There was a box cutter in the utensils drawer — along with a handgun and scatterings of bullets that Peter avoided. He figured a box cutter didn't fall under 'weapons' except in a secondary category.
The blade snked up and down as he surveyed the boxes. What would be the most satisfying and tedious? By colour? Or genre and author…
"Genre," he murmured, and attacked the boxes with vigour.
— + —
Jason returned with Dog to find Peter sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of books and a half-filled bookshelf. At the sight, Dog yipped excitedly and she bowled into him, knocking over one of the carefully curated book towers.
"Woah!" Peter laughed brightly as he struggled to avoid being licked in the face.
Jason chuckled and hung up Dog's leash. "Been busy, I see."
"I got bored," Peter said. From the doorway, the only part of his face visible over the top of Dog and her furiously wagging tail were his eyes and a chaotic cloud of brown curls. "Thought this'd be safe…. I left your weapons over there."
Jason ignored the naked judgement in Peter's voice and followed his pointed finger to the haphazard mountain of guns and knives piled on the couch. He returned his gaze to Peter.
"I used a glove," Peter said defiantly. Now that he looked, there was in fact an oven glove tossed beside his weapons. "Technically not touching."
A sudden clarity washed over him as he understood what living with Peter was going to be like. The guy was a smartass, that was clear. Evidently all it took was the slightest feeling of security and he was mouthing back as good as the worst of the Bat-clan. Any kind of rules Jason wanted to put in place would need to be carefully worded. He didn't have a shadow of a doubt that Peter would take any hint of ambiguity and exploit that loophole with impunity.
"Well kudos for that," Jason drawled, sighing as he shut the door with his foot.
"Why you thought to store your knives with the modern classics is beyond me—"
"I picked you up a mattress—"
"And don't even get me started on the poetry! Flash grenades, Jason! Poetry doesn't deserve that! I don't even understand poetry and I know it doesn't deserve that!"
"It's a Gotham firework. It's a kind of performance poetry," Jason said with mock haughtiness. "I wouldn't expect you to understand."
Peter levelled him with a flat stare, but quickly cracked a soft smile. It made him look awfully young, erasing the haggard lines on his too-thin face.
"You said you got a mattress?" Peter titled his head in question. He gave Dog a final scratch before springing up. "How'd you get it here?"
"Stole a truck."
Peter paused as he approached the Jason.
"I'm joking."
"See, you say that. But your tone suggests otherwise."
"It's a family vehicle. I got permission." Jason jangled the keys in proof.
"They could have left those in the car."
"In Gotham? That's as good as giving permission. Now c'mon. I don't want stuff lying around too long or folks might actually get ideas."
Peter slipped his sneakers on and gestured to the door. "After you, oh knight of dubious poetry taste."
Jason chuckled and let them out, locking the door behind him. As they took the stairs down — no way was he going to trust the elevator — he asked about Peter's mess.
"Hey, you're not planning on sorting those books by colour, are you?"
"So what if I was?" Peter asked breezily. "It's not like they were doing anything otherwise."
Jason almost grabbed the boy, then thought better of it. Startling a meta was a bad idea. Thank-you Kori for teaching him that lesson. "Uh uh. I'm nippin' this in the bud now. Ground rule number one: books are sorted by author, not aesthetics."
Peter peered up at him, blinking innocently. Jason would eat his old helmet if that look hadn't gotten the guy out of mountains of trouble in the past. He had the kind of big, brown eyes with heavy lashes that would have left any adult capitulating when he was a kid.
"But… I thought rule number one was no touching the weapons?"
"Rule number three, then."
His grin was broad and cheeky. "You're actually a massive nerd, aren't you?"
"C'mon." Jason muscled past Peter, who snickered.
"Your guns don't fool me! I've seen your poetry collection!"
"Yeah, yeah. I like my literature," Jason drawled and turned back to stare up at the teen in challenge. "It's the foundation of culture."
"From the man who puts mayo on fries? I'm not fooled."
"I told you, it's how they do it in Europe—"
They continued their banter down the five flights of stairs. Jason was struck by how easy it was to speak to Peter. Sure, he clearly had his issues — there was no forgetting that single, broken sob that escaped the gas station restroom — but he was quick-witted and bratty in a way Jason found surprisingly endearing. So what if Peter was probably one step away from a breakdown? Jason could hardly blame him for that; things would have probably ended far uglier had he been in Peter's shoes. That he could get back up and start joking — defence mechanism or not — said a great deal about his resilience. As much as he was reluctant to think it, Peter reminded him of the many kids Bruce had brought under his wing over the years.
But… there was no weight of expectation or history hanging over Jason and Peter. Nor was Jason afraid of hiding so many fundamental parts of himself like he had with Isabel. That ship had sailed within seconds of their meeting, when Jason had pulled a gun on Peter, and Pete had fucking folded the thing in half. If the portal hadn't been a sign of something wild to come from their acquaintance, then that certainly did.
Bickering with Peter reminded him of Roy. The comparison ached. Fuck, he missed Roy. Sometime Jason would wake and could barely breathe with the shock of it, or would go to message the idiot and realise there was no one there to answer. He'd wallow. Allow the grief to crash over him, just for a second. Then he'd force himself to clean house with brutal acceptance and move on[1].
Death was a revolving door among their crowd. He'd told Bruce the same when he'd broken the news, and he meant it. And a tiny part of him lived with the hope something would happen to bring Roy back.
Shit, but he wanted a fucking smoke.
The mattress and suitcases full of clothes were still in the truck when they walked into the muggy summer afternoon. Peter tried to insist on taking the mattress, but Jason put his foot down.
"Take the damn suitcases, Pete. Carrying the mattress'll only draw attention to yourself."
Jason hauled it out before Peter could complain and locked the truck. Peter grumbled behind him and made a show of carrying the suitcases like they weighed nothing, all the way back up to Jason's apartment.
If Jason was sweating by the time he reached the door, it was because it was pushing into the mid-eighties today, not because he was out of breath. When he glanced at Peter, he was annoyed to see that he wasn't affected in the slightest by the six-storey climb.
He held out the keys and Peter slipped around him to unlock the door and hold it open. The mattress was left to lean against the couch while Peter came back in with the suitcases, locking the door behind himself.
"Did you steal these, too?" Peter asked with false brightness as he weighed them up.
"Yup. Same place."
"What's in here?" He bounced one of the cases in his arms like it was a beach ball.
"Fine china. They're family heirlooms."
Peter looked momentarily guilty, before he realised the suitcase hadn't made a sound from the bouncing. "Is it clothes?"
"It's clothes. Too small for me now but should fit you just fine."
"Oh…" Peter's face pulled a funny, but not unexpected expression. Jason remembered feeling the same when Bruce had taken him in. The conflicting mix of bruised pride, gratitude, anger and contempt. As he'd suspected though, their status as Jason's hand-me-downs soothed the ego enough for Peter to accept them without protest.
"Thank-you," Peter said, and set the suitcase down carefully.
"It's nothing. You'll need to air 'em out. They stink of mothballs."
"Oooh. Grandma-core. Sounds fun."
Grandma-core Jason mouthed to himself as he turned to the spare room. He felt every one of those five years of difference between them. Heaven forbid if Peter was to meet Tim, Duke or Steph. He could only imagine what monstrosities they might inflict on the English language with their memeing.
"By the way," Peter called after him while Jason hauled the mattress into the spare room.
Fortunately, there wasn't much inside but a desk and another untouched bookshelf. He'd have to look around for a wardrobe tomorrow. A cloud of dust burst up as he dropped the mattress onto the floor. He winced. Guess he should have vacuumed beforehand.
But, with the job done he looked up expectantly at Peter, who was digging his thumbnail into the doorjamb, any prior trace of ease gone.
"Um. I… do you have a laptop or something I could borrow?"
Jason hummed. He did but didn't exactly trust Peter yet with his own personal device. Probably never would. He rubbed his thumb over his lips as he thought.
"What do you want it for?"
The teen's eyes skittered sideways. "Um. I. Uh. Need an identity?"
"And you could forge one?"
"What, like it's hard?" Peter scoffed, joking and defensive at once.
"And you could cover your tracks?"
Peter nodded firmly, but his expression remained a little sketchy.
"Are you sure?" Jason pressed. The last thing he needed was Peter doing a half-assed job and siccing the feds on them for identity theft or fraud. He could have offered to have used Tim's program, but it would have been difficult to explain how he'd attained it.
Peter's expression steeled. He nodded again. "The security isn't as good as where I — uh…" His eyes flicked around the room. "As when I'm from."
Jason took note of the change in conjunctions. It was convenient to let Peter think Jason thought he was a time-traveller, but there weren't a lot of the usual hallmarks of your standard time-traveller to go on (and wasn't it fucking hilarious that Jason was qualified enough to say 'your standard time-traveller'). In his mind, the biggest and most telling discrepancy was that Peter had no idea about the existence of Gotham. The most likely scenario was that Peter came from some alternate universe. But with Peter so damn squirrelly about the whole situation, Jason wasn't going to push the subject and risk alienating the guy — or worse, making him run.
Again.
He crossed his arms. "I've got a spare laptop, but the screen is broken. I'd have to get it fixed."
It'd been an impulse buy, months and months ago. Bought because it was cheap and he'd liked the specs on it, not long before his banishment for shooting the Penguin. The laptop was in one of the boxes he'd yet to unpack — he just couldn't remember which one.
Rather than be disheartened by this, Peter immediately brightened. "I could fix it! I'm handy with electronics. I'd just need some tools."
Jason smiled in approval. "I've probably got some."
If he did have any, he knew for a fact they'd be a spare set from Roy somewhere. More than likely, they'd be in the same box as the laptop.
He spent the next twenty minutes looking through the few unpacked boxes — really, he shouldn't've been such a lazy fuck when he'd first moved in — while Peter was tasked with sorting through Jason's old clothes into two piles: what fit, and what didn't. Those in the latter, Jason would drop off to Jennie to disseminate among her array of minions. The rest were for Peter to do with as he pleased.
By the time he finally uncovered the stupid computer — and lo and behold, there was a set of tools in the same box — Peter had two roughly equal-sized mountains of clothes on either side of him in his newly furnished bedroom.
"You really are a book nerd," he complained when Jason appeared in the doorway, bearing the fruits of his labour in one arm. "Look at this!"
Peter held up a white tee — a little yellowed with age around the collar — that bore a print of a raven, perched on a bust of Pallas.
Jason grinned lazily. "That you know exactly what that's referencing is telling, hypocrite."
The shirt was immediately launched at him, and Jason let it fall impotently to the floor. He stepped over it and set the laptop, its charger, and the case of tools on the desk. "If you can get her working again, she's all yours."
Peter's answering smile was tremulous. He set the sweater he'd been inspecting down in his lap.
"I… thank-you," he said eventually, and Jason shifted on his feet, uncomfortable. But Peter was looking him straight in the eye, and there was nowhere for Jason to look without losing face. "For the clothes. The bed. That—" he pointed at the desk. "You didn't have to do any of this. I know you're only doing it because you want to keep an eye on me, but you didn't haveto. So… thanks."
Jason scratched the back of his head. Without the burden of a bitter history to muddle the moment, he felt restless and awkward in the face of Peter's sincerity. Undeserving of his gratitude. "It's — fine. Not like I've spent money or anything, anyway."
Peter smiled back, so sweetly that Jason had to leave.
"I'm gonna make dinner," he said as he turned away.
"Do you want help?"
"No," he said firmly, and left Peter to it. He tried to tell himself that he wasn't running away, but suspected he wasn't fooling anyone.
— + —
Peter had fixed the laptop and was in the middle of setting up a new account when Jason announced dinner. When he emerged from his new bedroom (it was uncomfortable to refer to it that way when he had no idea how long he might be stuck here, but could think of no better term), he winced at the book towers he'd left behind.
"I should've finished the first job I started," he said sheepishly. "Sorry."
Jason waved off his apology as he served rice into two bowls. "I'll fix it later. Don't trust you not to throw a spanner in the works, anyhow."
"Who? Me? Never!"
The man was having none of it. He'd evidently clued in quickly to Peter's games. "Sit down and start eating, squirt."
He could have made a snide comment about Jason overcompensating for something with all those muscles, but there was a hot meal set down on the breakfast bar and yet again Peter was hungry. Not to mention, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd eaten something homemade that hadn't been slapped together by himself. And Peter was no cook. He'd tried to follow along to YouTube recipes, but always got distracted or misjudged the cook time, ending up with food that was undercooked or burnt or on more than one occasion, both.
The bowl of chili attacked his senses with heady wafts of spiced meat and Peter descended upon it without ceremony. Jason snickered at his enthusiasm and nudged a tub of sour cream towards him.
"Try not to inhale it," he teased.
Peter spooned a healthy dollop of sour cream on top and stirred it up with the chili and rice. "It's so good," he said, having swallowed his mouthful. "So good."
Jason blinked rapidly, as though unused to the compliment, and looked away to tuck into his own meal. Peter suspected he was pleased, though.
They ate in comfortable silence, interspersed by the odd begging whine from Dog and Jason's soft chastising. When Peter was reduced to scraping down all traces of chili from the bowl, he raised a question that had been on his mind while mending the broken screen.
"Say… how easy is it to find work around here?"
Jason set down his own bowl and glanced back at Peter, wary. "It depends on what kind of work you're looking for."
"In my experience, there's not been much luxury of choice. But money is money, right?" Peter grimaced in remembrance of the many menial jobs he'd taken on since the Erasure but didn't elaborate further. He didn't see much merit in explaining how he already knew why he'd have an easy time breaking into the various government websites he'd need to craft a new identity.
"It is easier," Jason mused. "But you gotta be careful, too. You stumble across fronts all over the place here. And you don't wanna end up a henchman — or worse, a goon — or you'll find yourself at the end of someone's fist sooner or later."
Henchman???
Crime capital of America. Right.
"If you're good with fixing electronics," Jason spoke slow, as though sounding out the idea before voicing it, "then I might be able to talk to someone. Though they'd want to see you prove it."
"… No resumé?"
"Those don't hold much stock around here unless you're working somewhere real fancy," Jason drawled. "Most of the decent jobs, you gotta know someone."
"Nepotism! Great."
"Good news for you, I'm someone in the know," Jason chuckled. "I'll make a call tomorrow."
Again with the helping. Peter didn't know how to properly thank the man. Having money of his own would make life infinitely easier, though. For one, he'd be able to buy himself more food, along with the materials needed to make web fluid; he'd done a stock take last night and was disheartened to learn that he was running on a limited supply. Not exactly a surprise when he'd lost his backpack to the dimension tripping.
And of course, there was the need to build himself a new mask.
What confused person had stumbled across that precious piece of tech? He couldn't even remember what universe it had been lost in, but he was reasonably certain he was still holding it when he fell through the portal. Yet another reason he suspected there'd be no one to go looking for him.
Despite his plans, Peter didn't have any immediate intentions of adding himself to Gotham's hero roster. But the life always dragged him back into the thick of things, and Peter would rather be prepared than caught unawares.
"Thank-you," he said eventually, ruthlessly smothering the rising distress at the thought.
Again, Jason looked uncomfortable at Peter's words. But M— his aunt hadn't raised an ungrateful brat. Kindness deserved acknowledgement, and there was no doubt in Peter's mind that Jason had been nothing but kind so far. Gruff, certainly, but kind.
"I'll be out again tonight," Jason suddenly said.
Peter blinked at the change of topic. "Oh. Um. Okay?"
"Family stuff," Jason followed up, as though neither of them could tell he was being evasive.
"Again?" he asked, just to see what the man would do.
"It's an ongoing issue. Also, I'm a bouncer at a night club. Get used to late nights without me."
The corner of Peter's mouth twitched without permission. "Is this a gang thing? Are you part of a gang?" He leaned in close, whispering as if their only audience was someone other than Dog. "Do you need help getting out?"
Jason grinned. "As much as one of my brothers likes knives, no. It's not a gang thing."
"Shame," Peter tutted with disappointment. "I was hoping for something interesting to spy on."
"Yeah. Don't do that."
"Aw. Afraid I'll reveal your secret?"
"Afraid you'll end up skewered, more like. For a meta, you're way too soft."
His smile slipped. When he blinked, he felt the sharp weight of the goblin glider in his hands. Heard the crunch of a cheekbone shattering beneath his fist. Saw an old man's haggard face grin up at him with manic glee, so pleased with himself at having driven Peter to the brink of murderous violence.
"Soft…" he echoed and looked away.
He hadn't felt soft when he'd nearly skewered Osborne with his own glider.
The stool screeched across the floorboards as he stood. His pulse raced with the memory and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach with remembered shame and disgust. So close. He'd been so close to making himself a murderer. The rage he'd felt — at Osborne, at Peter 2… he'd been ready to tear them both apart with his bare hands before he came to his senses — too late, too late to stop Peter from being hurt.
"I'm gonna get back to work," he managed to get out, aware of the eyes on him. "Thanks again for dinner."
He moved just slowly enough to not classify it as running away. Work. He needed work. Needed to bury himself in a project to escape—
"Peter."
He paused at his door. Turned back. Jason had swivelled in his stool to study him, inscrutable.
"Remember the curfew."
Peter nodded. Smiled wanly. "No going out after midnight, right?"
The weak attempt at humour worked. Jason huffed with wry amusement, and the feeling of butterfly wings pinned to a display board dissipated. "I said nine, you mook."
"Ten. Got it."
Jason scoffed. "Alright smart alec. See if I save your ass again." He got up and piled the dishes in the sink. Peter resolved to wash them after he'd got a hold of himself again. "I'm heading out in an hour. Won't be back until late. If you need anything, help yourself. Just don't—"
"Touch the weapons," Peter finished. "Got it."
"Yeah… I saw how you interpreted that," Jason drawled, but he didn't look like he minded so Peter counted it as a win.
Peter pointed to his room. It felt strange to think of it that way. "I'm gonna, uh…"
"Forge yourself a new identity. Sure." Jason waved him off, and that was all the permission he needed to finally retreat, back into the room that wasn't his, in the universe he didn't belong to.
No break downs he reminded himself. Or at least, not until I'm alone.
[1] In RH:O Vol 1, after Jason's been banished from Gotham, Roy leaves him to go to a rehab facility, where he's killed in a speedforce explosion. It's a whole thing but not integral to the plot, except that at this point he's dead and I am sad (of course, he's resurrected by Infinite Frontier, because no one ever dies for realsies in comics). Batman is the one to break the news to Jason and they hug it out, which I have Feelings about considering he beat the shit out of Jason in LITERALLY THE LAST FUCKING VOLUME