Title: From the Ground Up
Author: casswhatever
Universe: DC X MCU
Word Count: 36k
Status: Ongoing
Synopsis:
When he finally gets the door open, there's a man standing in the middle of his room. Red Hood. He looks incongruous in Peter's space, with his sturdy combat boots brushing against a dirty t-shirt that got left on the floor last night.
"Hey, that was pretty fast," he says brightly. "I'd love to see how fast you can go when you aren't taking detours to lose a tail first."
OR
That one where Peter ends up in Gotham after the events of NWH and is determined to stay on his own so that nobody can get hurt, but the Bats refuse to get the memo.
Rec Reading Site: Archive of Our Own
First Chapter:
Doctor Strange allows Peter to go home and pack first.
Peter knows, objectively, that this is a kindness. He walks into the apartment he has shared with May for most of his life, and his heart aches. It's too quiet here.
Everything is how she left it. He stops in the kitchen to stare at the magnetic list that May keeps on the fridge: eggs, milk, bagels, sugar. He was supposed to go grocery shopping tonight, but instead Peter forces himself to keep going towards his bedroom.
Doctor Strange has given him ten minutes. He has to hurry.
He grabs the duffle bag he used to use for gym class and starts throwing in clothes. Mr. Stark's old MIT Hoodie, stained with grease. Ben's leather jacket, which has always been too large for Peter but still smells like Aqua Velva, right at the collar. A nice button down shirt Pepper picked out for him because she said the light green brought out his eyes.
Once the bag is nearly full, he quickly changes out of his Spidersuit and tucks it into the bottom. He checks his watch–only three minutes left. Time to go.
Peter gets up and starts walking towards the door, only for his feet to carry him into May's bedroom instead.
It's a mess in here. It always is. She was usually too busy to keep the clothes off the floor or make her bed in the mornings. Her nightstand is covered in random trinkets, and the bookshelves are filled to the brim and then some, with books stacked horizontally in front of others where no space was left.
Peter picks up her copy of Pride and Predjudice off of the nightstand and slips it into his bag. It was always her favorite.
He wants nothing more than to curl up in May's bed, surrounded by her things, and go to sleep until she comes home, but he knows she won't. May is never coming home.
Peter isn't either, after today.
He swallows hard to keep himself from crying, and turns around to leave the room only to see, on the floor next to her dresser where it must have fallen, May's old family photo album. It goes into the duffle bag. Nobody else is left to remember the Parkers except him.
Peter forces himself to leave the apartment without looking at anything else. He lets his eyes unfocus and tries to think about nothing at all.
"I'm ready, sir," he tells Doctor Strange when he gets out of the door, what remains of his life slung over his shoulder.
Even after being there for three months, Gotham feels like a fever dream. Being Spider-man in Gotham feels wrong.
Peter does it anyway, because he doesn't know what else to do. Spider-man is all he has left. All he is, now.
He has an apartment. Kind of. It's two rooms, with a mattress on the ground, a beat up dresser he found on the side of the road, and a bathroom so small he can hold his hands out from the center and touch each wall with his palms. The water only ever runs cold, and he can't shower for too long or the drain will start backing up. There's a kitchen, kindof, but it's in the same room as his bed, and it's really just a small countertop with a sink and a microwave.
It rents by the week. He pays for it under the table, with cash he earns from repairing and selling broken electronics he finds in the trash, and he knows that he's lucky he has it.
Every day, he scavenges for enough money to be able to pay the next week's rent, and every night, Spider-man helps people as much as he can. Peter used to think Queens had a high crime rate, but it's nothing compared to Gotham. Everywhere he turns, somebody is getting hurt. He often finds himself having to decide which of the many crimes he can hear at the moment sounds the most urgent.
For every one mugging he stops, three more are happening at the same time, sometimes within earshot. He hates that he's almost grateful for it. He never has the free time to think anymore.
He doesn't work with the other vigilantes of Gotham often—they have bigger fish to fry than he does, and he has enough on his hands without getting involved in the multiple organized crime syndicates running amok.
He's being the Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man, just like Mr. Stark always wanted him to be.
Somewhat frequently, he sees Red Hood or Nightwing; they seem to patrol similar areas to him. Peter is always careful to avoid them. He can't let anybody else get involved in his life, this time around. He won't be able to leave again if something goes wrong.
Recently, though, they've been trying harder to catch him.
Tonight, he's just webbed a would-be burglar to a telephone pole, complete with a sticky note reading 'arrest me :)' on his forehead. The criminal is yelling incoherently through the webs covering his mouth, and Peter hums in response.
"Sorry, can't really hear you. I think we've got a bad connection. I'm sure the cops'll find you by morning, though! Probably."
More muffled noises in response.
Peter dusts off the palms of his gloves. "Have a nice night! I'm sure we'll be seeing eachother again soon." He turns around, reaching up to throw a web at a nearby building, and—
Nightwing is there, standing in front of him, waving.
Peter puts his arm back down slowly and misses New York achingly. His spidey-sense seems to be always buzzing lightly, here in Gotham, and he's starting to just tune it out a bit unless it gets really loud. He's easier to sneak up on than he ever has been, at least when there's no real danger involved. Every step in Gotham has felt like he's starting with the wrong foot.
He starts backing up and looks around for a clear exit, but there isn't one.
Nightwing puts his hands in the air and takes a step forward. "Woah, buddy," he says, "I'm not trying to hurt you. I just wanna talk for a minute." The man tied up in webs to Peter's left continues to make noise, but they both ignore him.
"I'm not interested," he starts, but then he hears somebody clearing their throat behind him and stops to look.
Red Hood. Fuck . "I was wondering," he says, casually, walking up to Peter from behind, "What's the deal with the webs? You don't, like, secrete those, right? 'Cause that seems fucking gross."
"They're synthetic," Peter says while looking upwards. There's a fire escape a few stories up that could work, if he's fast. He needs to get out of here.
Nightwing makes a noise halfway between a hum and an exclamation of excitement. "Some kind of polymer? I've tried to take samples a couple of times, but they dissolve within a few hours. I assume that's intentional." It is.
He can hear Red Hood closing in on him from behind.
"How old are you?" Nightwing asks, quietly, after he doesn't respond. "You seem… young." He takes another step forward. Within arm's reach, now.
Peter shoots a web up to the fire escape and immediately uses it to pull himself up into the air. He can hear the sound of a grappling gun being deployed as he swings away, and he goes faster, throwing out webs one after the other.
He keeps going until he can't hear them following him anymore, which takes several minutes, and then he lets himself drop down into the alleyway close to his apartment building where he's stashed his backpack. Patrol is over for tonight, he decides.
This alleyway is a dead end, so he hides behind the dumpster and strips out of his suit and into some normal clothes as quickly as he can. He should be in the clear now.
Peter doesn't know what time it is, as he starts walking back to his apartment, but he's guessing around 2am. It feels like 2am. The streets are nearly deserted. Peter can hear a few people scurrying around in the alleyways, but Gotham is always like that. It's dangerous to be out at night here. There are monsters hiding in the dark.
As he walks his way back home, Peter contemplates how much it might cost to buy a winter coat. He's been using Ben's leather jacket, but it's starting to get too cold for even that.
There's nothing that can be done for his spider-suit–the old one Mr. Stark made him had its own heating system, but this one is whatever he could make himself with a sewing machine and fabric he bought at a thrift store for about thirty bucks combined. Maybe, if he had access to a lab and proper supplies, he could repair most of the damage that had been done to his old suit, but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Usually he was fine, if he kept active enough on patrol. He doesn't know what he'll do when it gets worse. He can't– won't stop being Spider-man.
Originally, the plan had been to just push through this winter with what he has. He's barely been able to cobble together enough money to make rent regularly. He can't get a real job, because he's a sixteen year old who legally doesn't exist, and the work he can find pays next to nothing. Certainly not enough to afford anything extra.
He hasn't been using the built-in radiator in his apartment, yet, because he's not sure how he'll be able to pay for it, and he's starting to feel the effects of it. He's woken up to numb arms and legs a couple times in the past week, and it's only going to get worse.
More than anything, he misses having somebody else to worry about these things for him. He wants to call Aunt May or Mr. Stark and say ' Sometimes my hands lock up when I'm web-swinging, now, and I think it's because I'm more of a spider than I am a human. I don't know if I can function in the cold anymore." He wants them to yell at him for not telling him sooner. To say that he shouldn't take risks with his safety.
There's nobody left to care if he dies, anymore. He knows that's for the best, but it's taking time to swallow down.
By the time he gets to his apartment door, his fingertips are starting to go numb. The wind is hitting hard tonight. At least his spider-suit keeps it from directly touching his skin.
Peter thinks he might turn the heat on tonight. Maybe he can cut back his food budget a bit to pay for it. He can't eat anything if he freezes to death.
It takes his hands a bit longer than it really should to open the door. He has to blow on them for a few minutes until they'll bend properly, and even then they move slower than they should. He wishes he still had the knit gloves May made him last year.
When he finally gets the door open, there's a man standing in the middle of his room. Red Hood. He looks incongruous in Peter's space, with his sturdy combat boots brushing against a dirty t-shirt that got left on the floor last night.
"Hey, that was pretty fast," he says brightly. "I'd love to see how fast you can go when you aren't taking detours to lose a tail first."
Peter squeaks unintelligibly. It takes him a couple tries to get words to come out, embarrassingly enough. "I—I'm sorry?"
"You're the Spiderguy," Red Hood says, informatively. "Spider-man? Wanted to talk to you in costume instead of just unmasking you immediately, but you know how it is. You're a slippery guy. Can't actually find much more on you, oddly enough, but your landlord says you've been paying under the table with cash for about a month. He thinks you're a runaway."
For a moment, all Peter can see is Mr. Stark, waiting for him in his apartment back in Queens. It knocks the breath out of his lungs.
"I'm eighteen," he says, and it comes out choked. It's pretty close, really. Kindof. His seventeenth birthday is in about a month.
Red Hood laughs. "Okay, kid. Listen. This place is a shithole, and I've lived in a lot of shitholes, so I would know. The only reason you'd be here is if you don't have any other options."
Peter bristles. It took him a while to find this shithole, thank you very much.
"I know you don't trust us. That's fine. It's smart of you. You shouldn't trust anybody," he says, picking at a spot on the wall where a bullet hole has been messily patched with plaster.
"It isn't that," Peter says, because it isn't. He's seen enough of the Bats at this point to know that they're trustworthy enough. They want to help people, at least.
He's the problem. He isn't safe for them to be around.
"Sure. Whatever you wanna call it. Here," Red Hood says, and tosses something at Peter's head. He catches it reflexively.
It's a cell phone. A nice, expensive-looking phone with the kind of durable-looking case that's common in Gotham.
"I'm not taking this," he says, after a moment of blankly staring at it in his hand.
Red Hood ignores him. "It has my number and a few others programmed in already. Call one of us if you're ever in a tight spot. You don't have to worry about paying to keep it in service. That's already been handled."
"I–I can't–"
"You're going to die if you keep trying to do this on your own," Red Hood says, making direct eye contact with Peter through his mask. "Heroes in Gotham have to work together or they get killed. Trust me."
Peter swallows and slides the phone into his back pocket. He doesn't have to use it. He won't use it.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
Red Hood nods and then looks at him for a long moment. "The Public Library is hiring. If you're looking for a job."
Peter shakes his head. "I can't do that." He doesn't exist, legally. He doesn't even have a social security number.
Red Hood scoffs and starts heading for the door. Peter realizes he's still standing in the way at the last minute and takes two mildly frantic steps to the left.
"Try anyway," he tells him as he leaves.
Peter sits in his room alone for a long time, staring at the wall.
Against his better judgment, Peter goes to the library a few days later. He's been here plenty of times since landing in Gotham, especially in the first couple months when he didn't have a place to stay. He used to spend a lot of his daytime hours here, reading up on the history of this new world and trying to catch his bearings. It feels strange to come back here now that he's more settled in.
It reminds him of how lonely and desperate he was when he first came here. He doesn't want to think about that.
He walks up to the front desk, takes a deep breath, and says, "I, uh, heard that you guys are hiring?"
The librarian, Barbara according to her nametag, looks up at him. Her eyes seem very sharp and focused as they fit over his face. "We are. I'm looking for an assistant. You'd be mostly doing odd jobs for me like organizing the shelves, putting away returned books, and cleaning. Starting pay is eighteen bucks an hour, and it would be about thirty-five hours a week."
This feels unreal, like an illusion that's about to break. Peter stares at her blankly for a moment, waiting for her to say "but, of course, you wouldn't qualify."
"I haven't been in Gotham long," he pushes out, through the frog in his throat. It comes out sounding strangled. "I don't have all of my paperwork right now."
Barbara smiles, seemingly entirely unsurprised. "That's fine. Why don't we go back to my office for a moment?"
He follows her numbly as she turns her wheelchair around and tries to focus on walking slower so that he isn't hovering too close behind her as she moves.
When they arrive in her office, a nice room with dark wooden paneling on the walls and an enormous desk in the middle, she begins rifling through the file cabinets in the corner.
Peter stands awkwardly in the doorway.
"Would you say you've 'fled to Gotham in search of asylum,' or do you prefer 'forcibly relocated due to forces outside of human control?'"
His breath gets caught in his throat and he coughs until his eyes are watering. When he's done, he looks up to see Barbara eyeing him patiently, still waiting for her answer.
"The, uh. The second one," he says stiffly.
She nods and pulls out a form before wheeling up to her desk, laying it down with a loud smack, and gesturing to a chair across from her. "Go ahead and sit down. This is gonna take a minute to fill out."
Peter sits down. The chair is very padded and nice. He feels distinctly out of place, like he might ruin these fancy things by touching them too much.
"The city of Gotham has several programs in place to help displaced children," she says firmly. She has this way of looking at him that Peter understands to be unique to Gotham: all business, no room for pity. "Do you have a safe place to stay currently?"
He swallows. "Um, yes, ma'am."
"Alright. Please fill out this form as accurately as possible. If you don't have any parents or appropriate legal guardians, you're going to be considered a ward of Gotham."
Peter looks down at the pile of paper in front of him blankly. His brain feels like molasses. He didn't think he would get this far.
"I don't want to be put in foster care," he says slowly. "I have a place. I take care of myself."
"How old are you?"
"...eighteen?"
This earns him a deadpan stare, and he grimaces, folding immediately.
"Okay, sixteen, but I'm seventeen in a little less than a month–"
Barbara wheels herself back over to the filing cabinets in the corner and, after a moment of searching, retrieves another pamphlet to slap onto the desk in front of him.
"Technically, you're just barely old enough to voluntarily live on your own," she states, business-like. "This form will place me as your sponsor, for as long as you keep working here or stopping by regularly. If I have reason to think you're in danger, or if you stop showing up with no warning, I'll be mandated to report it to the authorities, but otherwise, nothing changes."
Peter stares blankly down at the paper in front of him. This feels wrong. Too easy. His spidey-sense is quieter here than it has been in weeks, but the human part of his brain has no problem filling in the gaps.
Somebody has clearly spoken to Barbara about him ahead of time. Did she actually have a position open in the first place, or was this just so that the Bats could try and keep an eye on him?
After a long minute in which Barbara doesn't even try to interrupt his thinking, Peter starts filling out this sheet as well.
If it gets to be too much, he tells himself, I'll quit.