"You were right, this place is crazy photogenic," Peter admitted from behind the viewfinder of Tim's DSLR.
They were downtown in Old Gotham for the day. In-between delivering a surprisingly knowledgeable tour of the city, Tim had shown off some of his favourite spots for photography. Peter had been sceptical about the library, but in hindsight, should have trusted the local. The library wore all the classical old-world glamour he could hope for: neo-classical, tall white pillars (only a little stained with Gotham grime), an overabundance of stairs and a collection of mildly grumpy-looking statues. The mammoth building caught the slanting light just right in the late afternoon, casting sharp lines of shadow: perfect for black and white.
"When I'm right, I'm right," Tim replied, but he was distracted. He was trying to get the 'perfect picture' of the Gotham pigeons. Apparently, they had the kind of gumption (who even said that anymore?) that made them perfect to capture on film.
Real film, because Tim was loaded ('On both sides of the family,' he'd said like that was a perfectly normal thing to say. 'It's a curse.') and could afford things like two cameras and the extortionate costs of buying the real deal. Peter couldn't complain, though. He was content with the loaned DSLR (honestly, he'd just been planning on using his phone) and on any given day would much prefer playing around with a different mix of chemicals, anyway.
Mostly, Tim's technique seemed to involve chucking seed at the birds with one hand and taking pictures with the other. Mystifying in action but very entertaining to watch, as was proven by the small crowd of nonplussed Gothamites that had gathered at a safe distance from both the birds and birdseed. Eventually Peter turned back to his own model — the big old library — before the brief window of sunlight closed for good.
"What got you into photography?" Tim asked when they reconvened, each of them pleased with their respective collections.
"My uncle showed me the ropes. He had a Minolta 7000[1]. Real solid thing. The moment it was in my hands, it felt like it belonged there." Peter smiled, the memory bittersweet. When he and his aunt were dusted, the camera disappeared. "I loved that thing."
"A Minolta? Aren't they like, a piece of history?" Tim paused to snap a woman that strolled past with a pug in a stroller. "One of the first with auto-focus, right?"
"The first," Peter corrected. "More or less."
"Sick."
"He won it off a friend." Peter grinned. As a child he'd always found it funny. As an adult, he couldn't help but support the idea of the underdog. "Pretty sure he scammed it off them, though? My aunt said Ben was a total hustler at pool. His friend didn't know what hit him."
Tim cackled. "Cass is like that. Her smiles are full of lies. If she ever asks you to play poker? Run."
"Noted." Peter didn't remark that he suspected the entire Wayne family (and adjacent) were hustlers and wouldn't be at all surprised if he learnt every one of them knew how to count cards at the very least. They just gave the vibe.
As if they needed more money.
"Was he a prepper, too?"
Peter thought he controlled his momentary confusion well, masking it with the smoothed over, half-healed grief he always felt at the thought of Uncle Ben. "He — died. My aunt, too. Before we moved away from New York."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
Peter shrugged. "It's fine." He would've said he was over it, but that would have been a lie too large to stomach. Instead, he shifted the conversation back to Tim. "How about you? How'd you get into it?"
Tim's answering grin was secretive. Peter instantly knew there was an inside joke he wasn't privy to. "I was self-taught. One day I got it in my head I wanted to catch on film all the Gotham wildlife I could."
Well. Peter guessed it explained the pigeons.
"Hey," Peter asked before Tim could ask any more probing, personal questions. He eyed Tim's skateboard with naked speculation. "How good are you with that?"
"How good do you think I am?" Peter stared flatly and Tim swiftly gave in. "Okay. I'd like to say I'm pretty good? Steph might say otherwise but she's a troll who should not be trusted."
"Yeah… I think I got that impression."
"Why? You got an idea?"
Peter grinned. Wiggled his brows. Nodded pointedly at the steps, and more notably, the railings. "You game?"
The challenge was as clear in his voice as the delight was in Tim's bright blue eyes.
"Oh Pete," he said, practically bouncing on his feet as he hurriedly shoved his camera into his backpack. "You have no idea how game I am."
— + —
Peter had a good old time using Tim as he pleased, making a nuisance of themselves just as a pair of young adults should. He was pleased with the pictures he got. As promised, Tim was up for absolutely any suggestion, had zero fear or preservation instinct, and used the skateboard like an extension of himself. Delighted, Peter snapped shot after shot, each one better than the last. When he finally called it quits, Tim was red-faced and sweaty with exertion, dark hair plastered to his sticky forehead.
"That was brilliant!" he crowed as he skimmed through Peter's photos. "These — Pete, these are fantastic!"
Peter's grin was equally ecstatic. "It took a bit to get used to the settings, but I'm really pleased with the last ones. But seriously, where did you learn to skate like that?"
"Oh, here and there," Tim said dismissively, but he was beaming. "You want to try the park? When the sun passes through the trees on the western side of the Reservoir, it's — mwah!" He gave a chef's kiss and Peter nodded eagerly.
The park near Jason's was the closest to green space he'd got in Gotham. Though he was a little wary, too: he'd heard too that Ivy had played around with Robinson Park in the last year or so. Fears of the plants reacting to his presence like those vines at the zoo made him nervous. The last thing Peter needed was Tim wondering why the plants were trailing after him like imprinted ducklings.
Before he could respond though, he felt a plinkacross the web, moments before someone called out, "Tim?"
They both turned towards the voice. A woman with bright red hair was coming down the ramp from the library. She moved quickly on a pair of crutches.
"Babs!" Tim cried, if possible, brightening even further. "What're you doing here?"
They waited at the bottom of the access ramp. Up close, Peter thought she was somewhere in her late twenties. In loose jeans, a button-down blouse and thin glasses, she had an air of seriousness about her that was tempered by the subtle lines of strength in her shoulders and forearms. Despite her crutches, there was a smooth economy of movement to her walk that struck Peter.
Instinct had him glancing down. Sure enough, there was familiar scarring patched across her knuckles.
He forced his eyes up before either could notice.
"Peter," said Tim, "this is Barbara. She and her father are old friends of the Wayne's. Babs, this is Peter."
"Hi, Peter," she said warmly. Peter shook her offered hand. Her grip was strong, but not in a way that was intended to intimidate. When he let go, she turned back to Tim to answer his earlier question. "I was making the most of old faithful and getting some research done. You know how hard it is to study at home."
"Eh," Tim shrugged. "Can't relate."
"Of course," she teased. "Little obsessive neurotic that you are."
"Oi!"
Peter inserted himself into the conversation before it could devolve into an argument. "Are you a student?"
He had been eyeing the satchel Babs was carrying. The end of a laptop charger poked out the bulging zip, and he'd already spotted traces of black ink up the side of her hand.
Babara nodded. "I am! And I'm so close to finishing my masters I can taste it!"
"What are you studying?"
"Forensic psychology." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "Hey, that's not a Gotham accent, is it?"
"New York, originally." Peter found himself smiling self-consciously — moreso when he saw realisation cross her face.
"Ohhh! You're Jason's Peter, aren't you?"
Peter shot Tim a wry look. "Your family are shameless gossips."
"Oh yeah," Barbara snorted. "I hate to say it, but if you were hoping to avoid everyone being up in your business, you've shacked up with the wrong guy."
"It's true," Tim laughed and slung an arm over Peter's shoulder. "I found the best way to deal with it is to get up in everyone else's business. Payback and all that."
"And that's definitely not the exact same policy everyone else has taken either," Peter drawled. "Everybody wins."
"Well, except Jason," Tim admitted. "That's why we got so excited about you."
Given what Peter knew about Jason's general feelings towards his family, Peter wasn't sure how reassuring that was meant to be. He kinda got the impression that for all Jason enjoyed pulling one over their heads, he would also have rather not be subject to their scrutiny in the first place.
Not for the first time, Peter felt a sharp pang of guilt at the thought. Had Peter not been around, or never led Dick to misinterpret his place, Jason could have continued functioning on the peripherals of his family.
… Would he have been happier that way?
Barbara forced the conversation along before Peter could get morose. "What have you boys been doing? Taking pictures?"
"Oh yeah! Babs, you should see the stuff Pete took, they're sick!"
"They're not—"
"Don't be modest!" Tim commanded, though he was grinning. "Show her."
Peter relented — it was largely a token protest anyway. He stepped up beside her to show off his best pictures. Barbara was suitably impressed. "You've got real talent, Peter."
"Ah, it's nothing—"
"No, really. I love this one in particular—" she took the camera off him to go back a few. In it, Tim was silhouetted against the towering backdrop of the library columns. It was one of Peter's favourites, too. He was quietly pleased that she agreed.
"There's a photography competition coming up at Burnside College," Barbara murmured. "That's where I'm studying. It's open to anyone over eighteen. You should enter."
"I don't know…" Who even knew if Peter would be around to enter? Not that there would be much chance of him winning anyways, but Peter didn't like the idea of entering something he couldn't fully commit to.
Barbara and Tim, however, were unaware of this. They pushed the matter.
"There's no harm in entering," Barbara urged. "Entry isn't free, but it's also not much. It was ten dollars last year."
"I'll enter if you do," Tim goaded.
"I'll think about it," Peter hedged, holding back a grimace. He fully intended to do no such thing. Short of them entering him themselves, he was reasonably confident that would be the end of it. And predictably, they eased off with his 'capitulation'. He breathed a little easier as their attentions fell off him and he listened absently as Barbara and Tim gossiped about her father and his ongoing struggle to maintain a healthy diet.
Peter could relate. He could already feel his stomach complaining.
Eventually, Barbara announced she had to go and left with a hug for Tim and a surprise one for Peter that he absolutely did not freeze up in. She smelled faintly of orange blossoms and sandalwood, and her perfume momentarily threw Peter, reminding him so strongly of his aunt that he almost lost time again. Only sheer force of will and a judicious pinch of the tender skin in his elbow kept him present enough to say goodbye.
As soon as she was gone, Peter rounded on Tim and hoped he didn't look as manic as he felt. "Are you hungry?"
Tim's brows twitched in a micro-expression Peter wasn't astute enough to interpret. But when he spoke his face was smooth and unbothered. "Are you?"
Not a real answer, but if Tim was putting the ball in Peter's court, like hell if he wasn't going to run with it. "I missed lunch," he lied. "Kinda starving."
"There's a Batburger on the way, if that's your kind of speed?"
Despite learning of its existence at family dinner nearly two weeks ago, Peter still hadn't had the opportunity to try them. "Are they actually any good?"
Tim shrugged. "They're passable. Mostly it depends on where you go. Jokerised fries are a love it or hate it kind of deal. Mostly I go there because you can buy yourself a cup of Zesti as big as your head."
Peter almost asked what Zesti was, but fortunately realised that was probably something anyone who grew up in North America would have known and nodded dumbly instead. He was getting good at this lying thing. Maybe?
They chatted as they walked — the Batburger was right on the edge of the park, still a good two minutes away. But the further they walked, the more Peter noticed the strange looks Tim kept throwing at him. Like he was worried about something.
Peter bit back a sigh. Maybe he hadn't hid his slip-up as well as he thought. But he waited until they had ordered food (Peter got himself a serve of Jokerised fries and plain, just to try them out. No Zesti: a surreptitious Google revealed it had enough caffeine in it to make an elephant think it could fly) and were seated, to bring it up.
"Alright. Spit it out. You keep looking at me like I'm about to walk into oncoming traffic. What gives?"
Tim levelled him with an unimpressed look, and then countered with his own question. "Peter, are you… happy?"
"Happy?" Peter echoed. The question surprised him, but perhaps it shouldn't have. The Waynes (and adjacent) had proven themselves ten times over to be a nosy bunch. He mustered up a smile in an attempt to reassure. "I'm as happy as I can be."
Understanding flashed. Peter imagined his breakdown at the zoo had been passed on. Again. The Waynes were massive gossips. He shoved down the rising resentment, but Tim at least had the tact not to question him about it. Instead, he asked about Jason.
Peter frowned but again, he shouldn't have been surprised. "What about Jason?"
"Well… does he make you happy? Isn't he like, super grumpy? All the time?"
"Uhhh. No?"
Tim paused, burger halfway to his mouth. "Seriously?"
"Yeah?" Peter frowned harder. "Jason is like, hilarious? And super fun to fuck with."
Tim greened. "Please tell me you mean that in the figurative sense."
Peter just smiled and ate his fries. He'd decided that the Jokerised version were superior, if in ironically bad taste.
"Pete? Pete, please tell me you're speaking figuratively! Don't traumatise me, Peter! I'm trying to eat!"
This is fun. "You're being dramatic."
"And you're definitely an only child. No one wants to think of their brother doing the nasty!"
Peter rolled his eyes but moved on. "Look, I don't really know what's gone down between your family and Jace, but it sounds to me like that history's… I dunno, tainted things between you? But me and Jason? We're a clean slate. There's no pressure to be anything more or less than we really are, no history necessary." And thank God for that, because both of them were cagey about it. "Jason is… well. He's funny and he's charming and he's so kind — though I think he'd hate for me to say that – he's still an ornery bastard – but I know that he cares a hell of a lot more than he'd like most to know."
Tim suddenly looked impossibly sad.
Peter offered him a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry you don't get to see that part of him anymore."
"I… never did," Tim confessed. "By the time I joined the family, that Jason was already gone."
"… How old was he when he had his falling out?"
Falling out, Tim mouthed. But he quickly masked it with a mirthless smile. "Fifteen."
"Oh."
Oh indeed. Fifteen was too young to be estranged from your family. An ironic thought, Peter knew, to come from someone who at fifteen was desperate to join the Avengers and nearly got himself killed in the process, all the while keeping that a secret from his one surviving family member.
He moved onto his burger. It was… okay. Not even remotely close to the one from that diner in New York, but passable. The cheese was the right amount of melty, but the patties were a bit tasteless and it could have done with some more pickles (then again, everything could do with more pickles).
Tim blinked dumbly. "Is that it? You're not going to ask for more intel?"
"From you? No. That's Jason's story." He slurped at his soda and Tim winced at the noise. Peter slurped again, just 'cause. "I owe it to Jace to learn it from him. Not some third party. No offence."
"Ugh," Tim groaned and collapsed back in his seat. "It's like, the more I get to know you, the more determined to are to be an upstanding person. You're too wholesome! Definitely too wholesome for Jason or the rest of Gotham."
Peter was pulling a face. He knew he was. There was no helping it when all he could think of was That Day. When he lost everything and what he didn't lose, he gave up. Sure, it was better to erase himself than squander his humanity, but he'd not been prepared for how similar those two end results really were.
"I'm not, really," he said eventually, and forced on a grin to distract. "It's just that you're all terrible people."
"Ohhh," Tim smirked. "Them's fighting words, Peter."
"A face-off of goodness. How exciting. Shall we see who can donate the most to an orphanage?"
Tim threw a fry at Peter. He caught it easily, shoving it in his mouth with a grin. "If we did, I know who'd win."
"Yeah, mister 'son of a billionaire'. I bet you've been real hard done by. Ever get yourself a small loan of a million dollars?"
"Eh?"
Peter held back a heavy sigh. Alternate universe. Right. God. What was the point in living if he couldn't even communicate with others through the same memes?
— + —
Click [HERE] for text only
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Click [HERE] for text only
— + —
There was a man at Jason's door and Peter didn't know who he was.
Middle-aged, tall, handsome in a 'call me daddy' kind of way… he was an imposing figure set off by the neat, tailored suit and the mild smile he gave Peter when he opened the door.
"Hello," the man said.
"Hello," said Peter without thought, before he caught himself and registered what was happening. "Are you… here to talk about Jesus?"
"I'm… not." The man raised a brow. "Should I be?"
"… You're in Gotham," Peter said dryly. "The whole city needs Jesus. Or at the least, a messianic intervention."
The stranger grinned. "Alas. I am not. I'm Bruce Wayne? Jason's father."
Peter faltered. "Umm…. Could you, hold that thought?"
"May I come in?"
"No." The answer was immediate and instinctual. Equally, he couldn't stop the 'sorry' that immediately followed. "It's just — Gotham, you know? I don't know you and you're asking to come in? Big yikes."
Yikes, maybe-Bruce Wayne mouthed, but said aloud: "I suppose it's smart to be wary. You could message Jason?"
Peter, taking that as all the permission he needed, whipped out his phone, snapped a picture of maybe-Bruce Wayne, said "Please hold", and then shut the door in his face. Heart racing, he forwarded the picture to Jason with the caption is this your father.
There was a nerve-wracking minute of waiting, then Peter's phone range. He picked up on the first vibrate.
"For fuck's sake," were Jason's immediate words. "Did you let him in?"
"No. Should I? I'm not an idiot. Do you think I'd let any old guy claiming to be Bruce Wayne into your place? He's still outside."
Jason laughed. "Did you shut the door on him?"
"Well, I thought it was rude to talk in front of him!"
Jason laughed harder. "God, you are one of a kind, Petey. Hang on."
There was a clattering and the sound of heavy machinery at work. Jason had taken his motorcycle to a mechanic friend for the day. So of course his foster father would decide to turn up unannounced while it was just Peter and Dog manning the fort.
The clanging and banging abruptly cut off. Peter imagined Jason had stepped into an office. It was quiet enough now that Peter picked up Jason's muttered, "No goddamned chill. Back one fucking day and he pulls this shit."
"So… is that really Bruce Wayne?"
"Why do you not know what Bruce Wayne looks like, Pete."
"… Is that a trick question or…?"
A heavy, put upon sigh. "Just — yes. That's Bruce. In all his boundary-ignoring glory. Let him in and make him some coffee. The shitty kind."
"And the uninvited guest crackers?"
"Oh yeah, baby. Bring 'em out."
"Okay." Panic began to set in as he realised what Jason wanted him to do. "For the record, are you asking me to entertain your father? Me, Jason."
"Yes, I'm aware that's crazy talk. But that's what Bruce gets for turning up without an invite. Just be your usual, charming self—"
"Me, Jason!"
"And Bruce can suffer the consequences. I'll be back in thirty. Gotta reassemble the bike first."
He hung up before Peter could offer any counter arguments, such as just leaving his father out in the corridor until Jason arrived. Peter cursed loudly, then put the phone in his pocket and reluctantly opened the door again.
Actually-Bruce Wayne was still waiting. In fact, it looked like he hadn't even moved, though a charming smile was pulled up the moment the door swung open. Had he been invited, it probably would have worked on Peter.
"Everything okay?" Bruce asked. He had a very nice voice. Deep and soothing, with an accent that was leagues away from the roughened drawl of Jason's Crime Alley pedigree. He could have been a news presenter.
"Yep! Everything is A-okay! Yessir, all good here! Sorry about that."
Bruce Wayne did not offer an apology for coming over unannounced. "Not at all. As you said, it's important to be careful here in Gotham. I take it you're Peter?"
Peter's shoulders slumped with exasperation. Maybe, one day, he'd no longer be surprised by the information network that ran through the Waynes (and adjacent). But it would be nice to introduce himself to someone of his own volition.
But he collected himself and put on a pleasant smile. "Yep! Yes, that's me. Peter Parker, hi." He held out his hand and Bruce shook it firmly. "I'm sorry Jason isn't home yet. He took his bike out for a service or upgrade or something."
Bruce's expression fell marginally and Peter rushed to reassure him. "He said he'd be back in about half an hour? Would you like to come in?"
As he spoke, he stepped back and Bruce passed across the threshold happily, the man's phone pinging furiously as he did so. The onslaught of notifications went ignored as Bruce studied the apartment with naked curiosity. Peter was abruptly reminded that the man lived in a fucking mansion. His own bedroom probably had the same floor print as Jason's entire apartment.
Dog, who Peter had ordered to sit and stay before he'd even opened the door, wagged her tail at the man's entrance. Bruce regarded her carefully.
"She's friendly," Peter offered. "Would you like — uh…"
Bruce had already approached her, hand outstretched for a sniff. Her tail wagged harder, and Peter rolled his eyes as he locked the door. "At ease, girl."
Dog yipped and spun around Bruce, sniffing at his pants and shoes. Bruce allowed it to happen, stealing for himself a few scratches of her sizeable head, before resuming his survey of the apartment. It must have been the first time he'd been there. Bold move, that. Turning up uninvited to a place you'd never been before.
"This is a nice place," Bruce said when he realised Peter was watching him. He had turned his attention to the bookshelves, mouth curling up fondly. They were crammed now, sometimes double-stacked. Peter didn't know where they kept coming from; it seemed like every few days he'd wake up in the morning to find a few more books had manifested themselves onto the shelves.
"Curious," Bruce murmured.
"What is?"
"Oh, it's just… I would have expected more pictures of the two of you."
Peter grimaced. Crap. That probably was something they'd need to fix… "We're… not one for photos."
"Oh…" Bruce was frowning in confusion. "But I heard from Tim that you're quite the photographer?"
"We don't like having our pictures taken," Peter said flatly. Sure, Peter was guessing for Jason, but he thought it was probably correct. Though he imagined it was for a significantly different reason. He forced back on his smile. "Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee? Soda?"
"Coffee, please."
Peter retreated to the kitchen and busied himself with the coffee machine, just to give himself something to do. God, it smelled so good! Maybe he could have a little? Just a sip?
That's the devil talking, Peter.
Right. Jittering around like a cokehead was not the kind of impression you wanted to make on your fake-boyfriend's father.
Mournfully, Peter took a LaCroix from the fridge for himself. Jason complained they were gross and bougie as hell — and Peter didn't disagree with him — but hyper-sweet sodas didn't sit well with Peter anymore and sometimes he wanted something with bubbles. Anyway: Peter figured that if Jason could afford that many weapons, he could afford to split the bill on some semi-fancy sodas.
He saw that Bruce was still standing and invited him to sit, though Peter remained in the kitchen, using the coffee as an excuse. The man's presence had him on the verge of hysteria. Hanging out with Tim or Duke or any other of Jason's siblings was one thing: he could see them becoming good friends if he allowed it. But this was Jason's father. His semi-estranged father (from what Peter had gathered), but his father nonetheless. There was certainly no pressure from Jason's side to make a good impression, but Peter was alone with the man (had he mentioned he was Jason's father?) and something about Bruce's presence reawakened the people pleaser in him.
Besides: before Bruce came knocking at the door, Peter had just settled in for a good time with his soldering iron and some scrounged fabric for a new Spider-Man mask. He wasn't prepared to make a nuisance of himself when something so incriminating still sat in plain view in his bedroom. At least the bedroom door was closed.
Despite the minor relief, when Bruce chose to sit on the couch, Peter's soul shrivelled up a little. It left him with either the uncomfortably lumpy armchair or joining Bruce on the couch, which was a big hell no.
"So, Peter," Bruce said as he crossed his legs in that way businessmen did. He'd even popped open the button on his blazer as he sat down. Peter thought they only did that in movies or TV shows. "You're not a native, are you. How have you found Gotham so far?"
Peter snorted and leaned against the counter, praying the coffee never finished brewing. "It's been one hell of a change. Has its charm, though."
"Charms such as my son?"
His cheeks flushed hot. Jesus, the man really went for the throat, didn't he? "I suppose so. But we didn't meet in Gotham… so also, not?"
"Oh?"
Maybe Jason's siblings hadn't spilled all. Their esteem rose a little in Peter's eyes. Telling Bruce wouldn't be a problem, right? Peter contemplated the consequences but couldn't think of anything truly bad except egg on Jason's face when the truth inevitably came out and Peter was safe from their judgement, back in his own universe…
Screw it, Peter thought, then gave Bruce the sparksnotes version of his 'family history' and his fated meeting with Jason. Just enough detail to suggest it was an unhappy story, without giving too much to make it sound like an over-compensated lie. As he spoke, he made up Bruce's coffee (black, one sugar) and dished the crackers lazily onto a plate. The actions helped hide his facial expressions.
To his credit, Bruce appeared appropriately concerned and not at all sceptical of Peter's absurd story. By the time Peter was seated opposite in the lumpy armchair, soda in one hand, sad, stale cracker in the other (he'd taken one mostly in an attempt to prompt Bruce into doing the same, but maybe the man was wilier than he looked because he politely refused), he felt wildly out of his element and desperately hoped Jason would turn up soon.
"It seems like my son helped you a great deal," Bruce said at the end, smiling a warm smile that Peter wasn't entirely trusting of. Rich people, Mr Stark once told him, always have an agenda — even me, Pete — and plenty of them see those with less money as having proportionately less humanity. Bruce Wayne might have had a reputation for being a ditzy but well-meaning man who'd sunk a hell of a lot of money into Gotham, but he was still the figurehead of a multi-billion-dollar company, and as a billionaire in his own rights. People didn't get that kind of money by being dumb. And they definitely didn't manage it by being kind. Tony hadn't, for all that he'd tried to be better after Afghanistan. Bruce wouldn't have, either.
"Yes," Peter said, sincere despite his reservations. "Jason's been nothing but kind to me. I'm grateful to have stumbled into him."
And he was. Falling into Jason's living room was a stroke of luck Peter wasn't much used to experiencing anymore.
Bruce's smile softened, pleased with Peter's assessment. "What are you planning on doing here, Peter?"
Ugh. Why did so many people feel like they had to ask Peter that question? He was beginning to hate it. How was he meant to answer? Oh, right now just existing at all feels like a burden, how could I possibly do more? Or even better: oh, well what I'd really like to do is find a way to tear a hole in time and space and return to my own universe where no one even acknowledges my own existence because I erased it! Or how about: I'd love to go back and get my GED because I couldn't finish high school, or maybe I could return to a time when my existence hadn't killed the people I loved or endangered the lives of my only friends. Ha ha!
Yeah, that'd go down a real treat.
Instead of any that, Peter settled for a level, "Right now, I'm just happy working. Tech repair."
"You're good with computers?" Bruce asked, gaze intent on Peter in a way that felt familiar. Was it a dad thing? Or just a billionaire thing? It had been too long for Peter to tell. "You know, Wayne Industries offers degree apprenticeships. It's a paid for course: you work part time at WI and college. You'd graduate debt free, with experience and a degree under your belt."
That… sounded pretty damn good, actually. But… "Thanks, but something tells me you don't want some guy who never even finished high school."
Bruce winced at the gaffe but wasn't discouraged. "Well, a GED isn't too difficult to complete these days."
"Yeah. Duke offered to tutor me. For social sciences and English."
"He's a good boy," Bruce said, proud. "Smart, too. He'll do an excellent job; you can trust him there."
"Yeah, your family has been very…" nosy, "accommodating."
"Let me know when you're ready." Bruce seemed to be intent on carrying on the tradition. He spoke with all the confidence of someone who assumed Peter's application was a done thing. "I'll pass on the information to Jason for you."
"… Thank-you." Peter glanced at his phone. Only twenty minutes had passed. Another little piece of his soul expired as he searched for more to say. "So, um, Jason said you'd been on business trip?"
"Yes. Mexico, though it was Metropolis before that."
"What were you doing?"
Bruce launched into a vaguely interesting monologue about Wayne Industries' venture into Mexico. Peter paid attention, mostly because he was interested in comparing Wayne Industries to Stark Industries. He asked questions every now and then, but Bruce was happy to fill the air with WI's latest pet project.
Figurehead, my ass. You didn't learn that much about the intricacies of asset management just by being a pretty face.
And then, as Bruce was telling him all the goss about his interpreter, Ines (apparently, she was an accountant who'd been fired and blacklisted from her old job for noticing their cooked books), Peter's web pinged and seconds later there was the thump of heavy footsteps before the door burst open and Jason was there, glaring up a storm while Bruce smiled benignly from the couch.
"Jace!" Peter was off the armchair and crossing the room, buoyant with relief. He threw his arms around Jason, holding on a little tighter than he probably should have as he kissed Jason's scruffy cheek. Jason's arm curled around his waist to keep him steady. "You owe me!" Peter hissed in the man's ear, before he pulled back slightly to give a friendlier, "Welcome back."
Then the smell hit him, and his nose wrinkled unconsciously. "You stink." Cigarettes and motor-oil and something vaguely sulphurous. The scent wouldn't be especially strong to the average person, but Peter didn't have the average person's nose.
"Sorry, princess," Jason said in that way he often did when making fun of Peter for having standards. There was a fondness to it that didn't match the fact that all of Jason's attention — intensity amped up to eleven — was directed towards Bruce. "I didn't have the time to get rid of the smell. My guy likes to smoke. Bruce? A word."
Bruce was already standing but he didn't seem remotely concerned, even though the air in the room had thickened to the consistency of bitter molasses and Jason was taut like a frayed bow string on the verge of snapping. Peter meekly stepped away while Jason gestured for Bruce to join him outside the apartment.
Sit, Jason mouthed at Peter as he followed Bruce out. Peter returned to the lumpy armchair and Dog quickly sat on his feet. He gave her an absent head scratch but most of his attention was extended to the men outside. There was only a little guilt associated with his eavesdropping, but if they didn't want to be overheard, they shouldn't be so close to the door. So really it was their fault if it happened…
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Bruce? Barging in when you knew I was out." Jason spoke with a venom Peter had never heard before. He squirmed in his seat, guilty. Maybe Peter should have just pretended he wasn't home.
"I didn't barge in, Jason. I was invited in, with your permission—"
"You know that's no excuse! I told Peter to let you in because rejecting you would've given him a conniption!"
Rude. But also? True. Despite the clear proof that Jason had Problems™ with his father, that was still Jason's father. Peter couldn't just tell him 'go away'. He would barely have managed if Bruce really had been there to talk about Jesus.
"Has it occurred to you that perhaps I just wanted to meet the young man you're seeing? I was the last in the family to even learn of his existence, Jay."
"Hardly my fault you were away. If that really was the case, you should've just asked like a normal person!"
"Would you have answered if I did so?"
Silence. Peter could barely imagine Jason's expression. His tone was so angry; completely foreign to all the interactions he'd ever had with the man. Indignant? Sure. Exasperated? Absolutely. But this… resentful? Never.
What happened?
"You like to keep yourself separate, Jason," Bruce continued, filling in the heavy silence. "And I… understand. Why you do so—"
"Do you?"
"Jason—"
Bruce," Jason echoed, furiously mocking. "Do you remember what happened the last time we were both in Gotham? Because I sure as hell do. How could I not, when my own—"
Jason cut himself off, sharp and bitter.
When your own father did WHAT?
Guilt flooded in. Peter should have just refused Mr Wayne, never mind what Jason said. If this was what their relationship was really like, and that was the kind of emotions it dredged up in Jason, Peter would take the conniption.
Next time, I'll kick him to the curb, he thought meanly.
"Jay, lad, I—"
"Forget it, Bruce. What's done is done. I won't play happy family with you."
"I… Okay."
Peter quelled the sympathetic response dredged up by the raw sadness in Mr Wayne's voice. If Jason wanted ties cut with his father, then cut ties he would get. The least Peter could offer him was his solidarity.
"Don't come back here. Sure, as fuck don't come back here without an invite."
"Very well." Mr Wayne didn't apologise. Did he just not care enough? Or had he apologised before, and Jason had refused to forgive?
Instead of an apology, it was Jason that sighed and softened his tone. "There was another reason you're here, right? What is it."
"Nothing that can't wait. I really did just want to visit and meet Peter."
"Sure you did, B."
"Jason… I know there's a lot of old wounds between us. But I do love you, lad. I'm happy for you — I am. Happy you're connecting to people. I'd be… happy. If this was you back for good, this time."
There was a protracted silence. Then Jason laughed cynically. "Wow." The bravado and bluster was laid on thick. Peter could only guess at what Jason was thinking. "That must have hurt to say."
"Jay, please. I mean it. I really do."
"Fine," Jason bit the word out. "Go home, Bruce. I'm sure Alfie and the boys have been waiting eagerly for your return. They need you more than me."
"Alright… but, there was something else."
A puff of humourless air. "Of course there was."
"No, no. It's nothing like that. But the holidays are coming sooner than you think—"
"… I ain't doing Thanksgiving, Bruce. You know how I feel about that bullshit."
Mr Wayne chuckled. "Yes, I know. But the doors are open to you. Both of you. And it would be nice to have you there for Christmas. I know Alfred would appreciate it."
Silence from Jason. Peter thought the mention of Alfred was a bit underhanded: even Peter knew how Jason felt about Alfred.
Mr Wayne sighed. "Just… think about it? I'll take my leave. Tell Peter I appreciated the coffee."
"Bruce," Jason spoke lowly and Mr Wayne's departing footsteps paused.
"Jay?"
"The cup, Bruce. Give it back."
Cup…? What—
Peter gaped.
His glass! He'd left it on the coffee table when he'd finished his soda, and it was gone!
Stunned, Peter stared at the closed door. Why would Mr Wayne steal it? Was this a problem? Like an—an addiction?
Oh God, had Mr Wayne stolen from Jason in the past? Was that part of why Jason wanted to cut ties with him?
But… Mr Wayne was a billionaire!
Peter heard a heavy sigh and Mr Wayne's, "I can't slip past you," but he was reeling. He'd not even noticed, focused as he was on Jason at the time.
… Where had he even hidden the glass?
And somewhere in Peter's mini freakout, Mr Wayne must have left for good, because Jason was coming back inside, raking a hand through his hair and setting the glass down on the kitchen counter with a disgruntled sigh.
"I'm sorry!" Peter blurted out. "I didn't know your dad was a kleptomaniac!"
"Huh?" Jason stared at Peter like he'd said he'd consumed his twin in utero. "What?"
"The… cup?"
Jason's face pulled something complicated Peter wasn't capable of reading, and suddenly he was laughing. Loud and hard, a full-bodied, breathless laugh that both confused Peter and warmed him to his toes.
"I… is he not?"
Jason was breathless with laughter. Peter found himself smiling helplessly in return.
"I — oh shit, fuck," Jason wheezed. Peter waited patiently for him to gather himself. Eventually Jason calmed enough to talk about, though he had to prop himself up against the counter as if it was the only thing holding him aloft and still broke into bursts of odd giggles. "Oh Petey, I've not laughed so hard in years. Bruce is — he likes to collect things — heheh — sometimes, small stuff. Sometimes — hahahah! — sometimes big. He's a wi-wily one too, so — hahahah! — so watch out, 'kay? Keep — heeeh — keep an eye on those ha-hands of his."
"Kay…" Peter said, still mystified. "Jason, Mr Wayne is… a super weird guy, isn't he?"
This time, Jason really did collapse onto the floor with laughter.
— + —
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[1] For anyone interested, I thought this blog gave an interesting account of the Minolta 7000 https://kosmofoto.com/2021/05/minolta-maxxum-7000-review/
[CLICK HERE TO RETURN] Messages with Barbie. Time reads 4:55PM, Thursday 20th October
Barbie: FINALLY met Peter, no thanks 2 u. Its a sad day when I have to coordinate with T to meet the love of your life
Jason: are u going senile in your old age? We're not?
Barbie: well maybe u should. BTW have you ever seen any of his photog's? He's genuinely good
Barbie: do you think its a spider thing lol
Jason: Oh yeah. Cause spiders are well known for their photography skills.
Barbie: ughhhhhh I forgot how obnoxious you are. I take it back. Petey deserves better.
Jason: I know
Barbie: :((((((
[CLICK HERE TO RETURN] Messages with Timberly. Time reads 7:15PM, Thursday 20th October
Timberly: ok so don't be mad
Jason: you know I can never promise YOU that
Timberly: first off, we had a good day.
Timberly: Second, Peter wasn't lying. Bros got some sicc skills (did u no about his aunt + uncle????)
Jason: I know there's about to be a third, less fun point
Timberly: well I'm p sure Peter almost had a dissociative episode when Babs hugged him
Jason: Oh. Shit.
Timberly: hes really not doing well is he
Jason: not that its really any of your business…
Timberly: also, ar u aware hes selfharming? Check the inside of his elbow when he gets home
Jason Todd is calling
[CLICK HERE TO RETURN] Messages with Barbie. Time reads 2:35PM, Saturday October 22nd
Jason: FYI, Pete thinks Bruce is a klepto. Please encourage
Barbie: thumbs up x3
Barbie: JASON I CAN'T BREATHE WHAAATTTTTT