Peter was frowning.
He knew he was frowning.
He knew he needed to stop frowning.
…
He continued to frown.
Peter couldn't help it. There was something… unsettling about the PC Sandra asked him to repair. A job she would usually entrust to Conrado, but today had passed onto Peter because he was 'much faster'. It was an observation that might have been fine — if undiplomatic — had it not been made directly in front of Conrado.
The man in question — only a few years older than Peter, with a fantastic head of thick, dark hair but slightly overweight and obviously carrying a complex about it — had been glaring daggers into the side of Peter's head ever since. It grated on Peter, but he could weather a little animosity. After the Erasure he'd experienced his fair share of toxic workplaces (turned out some people who hired legal non-entities did so with poor intentions. Who knew!). Peter could even handle working with some mildly dodgy dealings. Sure, he was Spider-Man but he'd come to realise some time after Mr Toomes that the law may be black and white, but reality was not.
Long and short of it: he could handle a lot of things. But what Peter couldn't handle was being complicit with something actively dodgy… dodgy like the 'diagnostic program' Sandra had him run on the laptop before starting on the repairs. It should not be pulling so much memory from the processor.
(Had Peter ever mentioned he'd shut down some of his past workplaces? Because he had. And he hoped hoped hoped this wasn't going to be another notch in that belt. Not when Jason had so kindly secured him the job in the first place.)
"What's wrong, Parker?" Conrado jeered. He'd been relegated to repairing a bunch of phones with broken screens or dead batteries or whatever and had taken it as the insult Peter suspected Sandra meant it to be. "Too slow for you?"
"I'm just doing my job," Peter said calmly. He was the picture of composure, though he'd only justmanaged to hold back the retort 'Are you?'
Conrado's upper lip curled up in a sneer but turned back to his work. Peter held in a sigh. This was nothow he wanted his day to go. He liked working at NRE. Yesterday, Justin had even recommended Peter start consulting directly with customers. Peter was proud of that. He liked that he'd proven himself capable within his first month of working there.
(And wow but wasn't it amazing he'd managed to keep his job for so long? It definitely had nothing to do with him not patrolling as Spider-Man yet. Nope. That definitely wasn't the reason…)
But… Sandra and Conrado were really beginning to grate.
Peter didn't quite understand what happened. At the start, Conrado had been fine. A bit standoffish, but helpful. Sandra had always been friendly — toofriendly — even if sometimes, she'd get this… look. But it was fine. None of that mattered when he could just get down to work, and on occasion take home the appliances Justin deemed unsellable.
In the past week or so however, Conrado had turned increasingly hostile. Peter didn't think it was anything he'd done. It was just his general existence that appeared to grate on Conrado's nerves. And Sandra's fawning had not helped.
Determined to ignore Conrado's attempts to set Peter's head on fire with the power of his stare, Peter returned his attention to his air-gapped laptop. The diagnostics…
He shot a glance at Sandra, but she was still happily flicking through something on her phone, doing a fat load of nothing. And Conrado was at the wrong angle to see his screen. It was the same for the security cameras in the corners of the room: neither were placed to be able to catch anything Peter looked at on the laptop.
Heart thundering at what had to be an incriminating volume, Peter made himself a backdoor into the program and began to hunt…
He was not happy with what he found.
— + —
Lunchtime.
A glorious time for Peter, who made use of the half-hour to scarper off to the convenience store and buy himself both lunch and a flash drive. He walked and ate, rather than return to eat in the kitchenette with Sandra and Conrado. They said nothing of his swift departure: this was Peter's usual habit.
The day was one of those miserable days Gotham had mastered, with light misting drizzle and slate grey skies. The city felt closed in and cornered. Really, it wasn't that dissimilar to spring in New York, but there was something about Gotham… a sentience that seeped out of the cracks in the pavement and saturated the rain-soaked air. It both unnerved and thrilled Peter, and he'd started spending his nights listening to the city (in bed — he'd learnt his lesson, thank-you Jason), searching for a pulse he knew wasn't there but sought out anyway until he fell asleep… only to wake with the taste of blood and exhaust fumes on his tongue.
When he returned to work, Sandra and Conrado were laughing over her phone. Sandra beamed at Peter's re-entrance and Conrado sobered, but he didn't scowl. Peter counted that as a win.
"Pete! I was just showing Connie my bridesmaid dress. Have a look!"
She thrust the phone towards him and Peter crossed the room reluctantly to obey. On screen was a photo of Sandra in a pale green dress. It was tight around the chest but flared out from the waist. She was smiling in the way a lot of women (and men) did on their Tinder profiles.
"Um… you look nice?"
"Do I?" He held back a wince. Wrong answer. "I thought it was an awful choice, but my sister's been insisting on mint green!"
Peter didn't know what she wanted him to say. "Maybe the colour's a little pale?"
"It makes me look like an anaemic frog! Don't you think I should have something darker?"
"… Like a… dark green?"
"Green? Petey, it's a good thing you're pretty—" Peter bit back a grimace, "because fashion is clearly not a strong suit. I've been trying to get Irene to go for jewel tones — like sapphire or garnet — but she says it wouldn't suit the spring wedding. But really, look at the difference!" She flicked through her album, landing on another picture; same face, different dress, this one a deep blue with spaghetti straps and a lower neckline. "The difference is night and day!"
Honestly, the only thing Peter could think about the dress was that she'd be cold if it was a spring wedding in Gotham. He said as much, and Sandra laughed him off with a pat on his shoulder. He took a small step back, but she followed, showing him another photo. "Don't I look so much better in this one?"
'This one' was a strapless number in a burnt orange, even tighter than the green. The heightened angle showed off far more cleavage than he was comfortable seeing from his boss. Peter barely looked at it.
"Sure," he said weakly. Sandra stared, expectant. She wants more. Peter struggled to find anything to say; he just wanted to get back to his job. "It's… I think the blue was nicer?"
"I suppose," she sighed, disappointed that he wasn't playing along. Sandra moved back to Conrado, who evidently was far more capable of giving praise.
Peter retreated to his workstation wearily. There was a new ache in the tender flesh behind his temple that promised to bloom into a splitting migraine. His skin felt like it had been stretched taut across a frame of blunt razors. He just wanted to focus on his work and get home so he could bury himself in his dark room until the feeling of too-muchness faded.
But first…
Peter glanced back at Sandra and Conrado. They showed no signs of ending their lunch break any time soon. Sandra had moved on to retelling the tale of her most recent date — apparently a minor disaster — while Conrado listened with a faint smirk but a commiserating tone.
With a pulse that suddenly rocketed and well aware of the cameras dotted around the room, Peter slipped out his new flash drive and inserted it into the air-gapped laptop.
Laughter nearly made him jump but he strangled the reaction. Wondering if it would help, Peter tapped into the web: the connection was easy these days, though it was still a conscious action unless there was a direct threat to alert him.
The moment he connected, he could feel them. A pair of bright, fizzing lights; they reminded Peter a little of the sparks from Stephen's portals. Two conflagrations of life just to the right of him. At first glance, they would have been blinding but Peter had been learning how to dim them so he could make out the delicate threads connecting them to him. At present, they were cold and dormant.
Experimentally, he coughed — loud and obtrusively — but kept his left hand over the flash drive. There!He felt the connective thread activate — a shivering buzz of awareness now between them as Sandra and Conrado turned their attentions on him.
Peter tried to gauge what the differences in the buzzing threads meant but couldn't discern their meaning. There had to be some way of differentiating though, else how was he picking up on threats?
"Are you okay, Peter?" Sandra asked, voice sickly sweet in a way Peter had become familiar with. Caring, but… not caring at all; not towards Peter but the performance of concern itself. He hated it. No one spoke to him like that anymore. Not since he was a kid. Not since his parents — and later, Ben — died.
But he forced on a smile and cleared his throat. "Yeah. Just a tickle in my throat. Sorry."
"I hope you're not coming down with something! Let me know if you want anything. Maybe a lemon and honey tea?"
"Sure. I'm fine for now, though. Got a La Croix at lunch."
She smiled and turned back to Conrado. The web connection fizzled back into dormancy.
There was a smile threatening to break out, despite his growing headache. That was something he could work with. Imagine how useful it would be when trying to sneak around… if Peter could actively sense when someone was looking at him…
On second thought… maybe that was a bit of a daunting idea. Useful? Sure. But it would take some getting used to if he didn't want to turn into a paranoid mess.
Well… it was a Future Peter Problem.
For Present Peter, his main concern was hoping the software he was after could be copied to his flash drive.
He had to work quickly, clicking through, and — yes! He could copy, it was a fine, thank Thor that even 2016 Earth G had enough development to have decent storage capacity. And they hadn't even copy protected it! Was it a matter of apathy, incompetence or arrogance?
Peter maximised the original program while it slowly copied over and returned to his work, all the while feeling his throat tighten with nerves and guilt. But aside from a few passing glances, he was ignored. Evidently, Sandra had found Conrado to be more receptive to her attentions, despite her snide comment about him that morning.
And then, just as it finished, the connection went live again and Sandra came to join him. She peered over his shoulder, too close for comfort. Peter swung around in his seat to look up at her, hoping it would be enough to keep her eyes off his screen.
"Are you sure you don't want anything?"
"I'm really fine." Peter eyed Conrado as he brushed passed them, but he was in a better mood than this morning. Peter didn't dare say anything about his brewing headache. Let that out and he'd never hear the end of it. "It's just the Gotham air, you know? Still acclimatising."
Sandra giggled and pet his shoulder in what was probably meant to be a comforting way, but his skin crawled, radiating from that single point of contact. As subtly as he could, Peter moved in his seat, which tugged his shoulder away from her touch.
"You'll grow immune to it soon enough," she promised. "That fresh Gotham air grows boys big and strong. Like that housemate of yours. Now he'ssomething to look a!."
Don't scowl, don't scowl, don't scowl—
He forced on a polite smile. Sandra had seen Jason maybe a handful of times, on the odd occasion he chose to pick Peter up from work. Usually on the days they had to do their groceries. "He's, um. Definitely tall?"
"He more than just tall, Pete. God, his biceps are like melons! Is he single? Does he want a sugar mama?"
"No." Peter firmly tamped down on his indignance on Jason's behalf. "He's not single."
Nevermind that he technically was and that his non-single status was entirely fabricated with Peter. But it worked great in this instance, as Sandra huffed a heavy sigh and left Peter be with a grumble about 'all the good ones' being taken.
Don't think about it.
He resettled in his seat, only to catch Conrado's speculative stare. Peter tilted his head in question.
"Just housemates," Conrado said. It could have just been an observation, but his tone had Peter's cheeks heating up. Conrado's lips quirked into a smirk but without another comment, he turned back to the screen repair he'd been halfway through before lunch.
It's fine. People were meant to think they were dating. No need to feel embarrassed.
… Peter couldn't shake the blush.
With a bitten-off sigh, he swung back to his desk. He checked the web, but neither were paying him any attention now. With as much care as he'd taken inserting the drive, Peter removed it, still wary of the cameras.
The flash drive burned a hole in his pocket, smouldering with the same level of discomfort as the guilt Peter felt as he continued to actually do his job.
He wasn't 100% sure he knew what it was that 'diagnostic' software did, but he had a strong suspicion he wasn't going to like the outcome when he looked it over tonight.
— + —
The end of the workday brought Peter no relief. His migraine had progressed to the point of being closeto debilitating and Peter still had to get home. The thought filled him with despair, but he bravely slipped on sunglasses anyway, even though the sky was still grey and moody, and walked slowly to not jar his head too much. Hoping it would help, he'd cut himself off from the web entirely about an hour ago, but the migraine continued to progress at a familiar pace. Every footstep sloshed the painful goo inside his skull and left him faintly dizzy.
Had Jason not warned him about the cabs — especially the ones in Park Row — Peter would have bit the bullet and hailed one, to hell with the money. As it was, he was tempted to do it anyway but couldn't bear the thought of having to fight his way out if he ended up choosing the wrong one.
At about the halfway point, Peter thought he might not make it. His head felt like someone had squirted expanding foam through his ears and into his brain. Even with his headphones on, the city sounds were excruciating daggers of noise and Peter walked practically blind, eyes slitted to limit the light as much as possible. It was only spite and sheer force of will that kept him going: Peter wasn't going to let Gotham take him out from a damn migraine.
It was a miracle no one attempted to mug him while he stumbled along like a drunkard. But maybe he emitted strong enough 'don't fuck with me' vibes that nobody wanted to try their luck.
Whatever it was that kept the opportunists away, Peter was grateful… until he realised just how many fucking stairs he'd have to climb once he reached Jason's apartment block.
He could have wept. Stumbling around was bad enough… having to lift his leg more than an inch? Surely it was impossible. For a while, Peter stood in the entryway and contemplated giving in. He could just call it a night in the foyer, right? There were enough people by now that recognised him: they wouldn't just think he was some poor homeless person who'd hoped to shelter the night there…
Then a car honked loud from the street and the drill it pierced through his brain chased Peter up the stairs. By the time he finally reached the sixth floor his head was spinning, he was out of breath, and he all but fell through the door, nauseous with relief.
Jason, lounging on the couch with a book, sat up in alarm as Peter kicked off his shoes. "Pete?"
"Migraine," he grit out and stumbled over to the windows to close the blinds and turn the apartment dim and cave-like. "Don't get up." He waved off Jason's aborted attempt to stand and conducted a semi-successful controlled collapse into the couch beside him.
"Painkillers?" Jason, bless him, kept his voice quiet and low. It was a soothing baritone against the too-muchness of the city.
"Useless," Peter sighed. He tried to sink deep into the cushions, but Jason's couch was only so plush. "Burn through 'em too fast."
"… This happen often?"
Peter frowned. It was difficult to syphon through his crumbling thoughts. "Maybe… once a month?"
He thought, maybe, they'd been less frequent before the Erasure. But maybe he and his aunt had just managed them better? Or maybe he'd just had access to better painkillers. But that time was hazy now with grief. A different eon, lost to Peter's mistakes and the accommodations of a man who never should have made them.
"Why didn't you call me? I could've picked you up."
"I… huh."
A gusting sigh from Jason. "Didn't even occur to you, did it?"
"Not at all."
"You know, you can ask for help."
"…"
Another heavy sigh. "What do you need?"
"Nothing." Peter conducted another controlled demolition sideways, seeking out Jason's warmth until his aching head fell into Jason's lap.
The man huffed. "You good?"
"Yeah," Peter lied. "You keep doing your nerd thing."
"What, reading?"
"Yeah, nerd."
"At least I'm the classy nerd of the two of us."
"Star Wars is totally classy."
"Episodes I to III would suggest otherwise."
"Boring. Did you get your hot take from Cinema Sins?"
"Watch it, Petey. Your ear's miiiighty close to pinching distance."
"Ugh. You do that and I might just vomit on those nice sweats of yours."
As though in apology, Jason laid his hand over the top of Peter's head, cradling his tender skull, thumb rubbing softly along his hairline. The other rested gently on his shoulder, holding up his book. Peter couldn't see the title, but his tired eyes caught on the line Why should I? I've done nothing to be ashamed of. I am not ashamed — I am only beaten[1].
He wished he could relate.
He closed his eyes.
"How was work?"
Guess Jason wasn't going to continue reading, then.
"Not great," Peter admitted.
"Because of the migraine? Seriously, next time, message me. If I can't pick you up, I'll find someone who can."
"S'nothin'."
"It's obviously not."
"S'fine," he said again, but his migraine seemed to have knocked something loose inside his mouth, because he let slip: "M'boss gives me the ick."
Even though he'd not been doing anything, Peter still noticed the way Jason locked up. "… Justin?"
"Sandra."
"… I see." As out of it as Peter was, he still picked up on Jason's quiet, "The ick?"
"She's touchy," Peter grimaced, already regretting the admittance. "It's not really an issue."
"Kinda seems like it is."
"S'only 'cause of the migraine. M'fine."
Jason wasn't convinced. He didn't say anything but Peter didn't have to look at him to tell he wasn't.
"It's fine," he repeated. He took care this time to enunciate clearly. "It isn't a problem. Just don't want to be touched."
Jason froze up again. Peter rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it. "You're fine. Obviously."
"Obviously," Jason echoed, voice soft and faintly absent, but he didn't remove his hands so Peter counted it as a win.
"I chose this," Peter murmured.
Jason's hand on his head settled, weaving into his hair. "I see."
Peter breathed in slowly. Jason was wearing freshly laundered sweatpants. They still smelled faintly of detergent, but it was an inoffensive scent. Citrus. The kind of flowery smell his aunt called a 'white floral'. The heat of him seeped through the soft fabric and warmed Peter's cheek.
There was a light tap on his nose. "Lift your head a little."
Peter complied reluctantly, and Jason gently pried off the sunglasses he hadn't even realised he still wore. They were tossed who knew where. Not Peter.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Peter inhaled and exhaled, unconsciously matching Jason's breathing. He narrowed in on the hand passing gently through his hair and the man's slow, calm heartbeat. The world turned quiet, reduced to a handful of apartment walls and Jason and Dog.
He fell asleep.
By madamenyxillustrations
— + —
It was late in the night when the Red Hood oozed inside. The studio apartment was dark and quiet in the way that only apartments at three in the morning can be. All that could be heard was the soft breath of its single occupant and the even softer crsp of boots landing gently on threadbare carpet.
And then the world went bright and loud.
The flick of a switch. A circuit completed. A barked, "Sandra Cowell, wake up!"
A shriek.
The woman who had once been sleeping flew out of her warm bed — too big for a single person alone, too big by half — and launched herself across the room, away from the flicked switch, away from the hulking threat that exuded shadows and menace even in a harshly lit room (her ex took the light shades with him. She never got around to replacing them).
When she realised who was there, she froze.
"Oh my God? R-Red Hood? I—"
"I don't want to hear it."
She didn't make him hear it. Sandra Cowell remained quiet (a rarity). It was the right call. What the Red Hood wanted, the Red Hood got.
Or at least, that was the story she'd heard around Gotham. Sandra had no intention of testing what happened if he didn't get his way. That sword hung pride of place behind his left shoulder and that crowbar behind the other and those guns were in easy reach of enormous arms that could kill her without ever touching an instrument of violence at all.
Yes, she'd heard plenty of stories about the Red Hood's propensity for violence. About his brutal deployment of punishment (or justice, depending on the soul who told it). It occurred to her now, what those tales never mentioned, was how inexpressive a creature like the Red Hood was. No eyes no mouth but it must scream.
The Red Hood took her silence as permission to do as he pleased, and what pleased him was to slouch — there was no better way to put it — across her studio apartment and drop into her armchair, ankle crossed at the knee. A demon of leisure.
(Later, she would wonder how he managed to still look so insouciant in her armchair with those weapons strapped to his back. But in the moment, all she was was suitably intimidated.)
"Do you know why I'm here, Sandra?"
She swallowed, mouth foul-tasting and bone dry. "Is it — is it because of my ex-husband?"
The Red Hood was ominously silent.
"I've not spoken to Karol in — in months!"
The Red Hood uncrossed his legs. Leaned forwards, elbows to knees, just as a father might to their son in an earnest conversation about life.
The effect was very different here.
"It-it's only been a few times!" she spilled, desperate and terrified of the man who sat in her home as though he owned the place. "Just a few stolen goods here and there, I swear!"
Perhaps someone less experienced may have taken Sandra Cowell at her word. But the Red Hood — as with all unfortunate members of the Bat-clan — learnt long ago that silence could be an excellent catalyst for truth-telling. Of course, the intended motivator was very different when used by the Red Hood rather than a Robin. But it worked nonetheless.
"Laptops, phones, a-a phone system, once! I knew he wanted me to fence them, but I needed the money!"
"How many times, Sandra?"
His voice was as unnerving as his silence. Sandra didn't know which she preferred less.
"Just — maybe — a-a dozen?"
"A dozen is not a few, Sandra."
She hated the way he said her name. The undercurrent of danger and contempt layered into it.
"I didn't keep track! Didn't want to think about it."
"Give me his number."
She did so without hesitation, scrambling back to her bed and nearly sobbing when she realised she'd knocked her cell under the bed during the terror of her awakening. With a tremulous voice, she recited her no-good ex-husband's number — no honour among thieves, indeed — and when the final number died on her tongue, she dared to look up.
The Red Hood still was sitting, still was sitting, on that ragged shitty armchair just beside her bathroom door.
At first, her voice failed to escape in anything but a rangy croak. She swallowed her fear and tried again.
"Is there… is there anything else?"
"For now…"
Oh God. "'For now' what?"
The Red Hood laughed and — oh. Nevermind. That was the sound she preferred the least. Like… glass. Like shrapnel. Like bloody hands searching in the dark for a hope that would never come.
She flinched when the Red Hood stood but he made no move towards her. Instead, he reached for the light switch by her front door.
"I'll be in touch," he promised. Her chest convulsed with despair. Was this how those who made deals with the devil felt when they realised all bargains came with a cost? It was not a feeling she enjoyed.
Then the devil tilted his head.
"I'll be watching," he said, as if she wasn't already expecting it. "Keep those wandering hands to yourself, Sandra Cowell. This will be my only warning."
Then the Red Hood flicked off the flight and her apartment was submerged in a darkness so complete she wasn't even certain which aspect of her life he was warning her of.
[1] From the novel The Chrysalids by John Wyndham. It's a sci-fi novel about children with mind-reading abilities.