Peter sleeps in a guest bedroom that's bigger than his and May's entire apartment was.
*Was.*
Past tense.
Because that apartment doesn't exist anymore. May doesn't exist anymore. Peter Parker doesn't exist anymore.
He lies on top of the covers, still wearing Bruce's borrowed clothes—sweatpants and a t-shirt that hang off his frame. The bed is too soft, the pillows too many, the silence too complete.
His phone sits on the nightstand. 2% battery. He should let it die. There's nothing on it anymore—no contacts, no messages, no photos of May or MJ or Ned. The spell erased all of it.
But he can't quite bring himself to turn it off.
It's the last piece of his world he has left.
Peter stares at the ceiling, counting cracks in the plaster. Anything to avoid closing his eyes. Because when he closes his eyes, he sees it:
*May stumbling backward, hand pressed to her side.*
*"May!"*
*Blood spreading across her shirt, too fast, too much.*
*"I'm okay. I'm okay."*
*But she wasn't okay.*
*She was dying, and he couldn't stop it.*
Peter sits up, breathing hard. His heart pounds against his ribs. The Spider-Sense hums low and constant—not warning him of danger, just reminding him that everything, *everything* about this place is wrong.
He gets up. Paces. The room feels too small and too large at the same time.
On the dresser, there's a framed photo. Bruce and Alfred and a young man—early twenties maybe, dark hair, bright smile. There's another kid too, younger. The four of them are standing in front of this house, and they look...
Happy.
Like a family.
Peter picks up the frame, studies their faces. The young man must be Jason. The one the Joker killed.
He wonders if Bruce keeps photos like this in all the guest rooms, or if this room was Jason's once. If Bruce is trying to preserve something, keep the memory alive.
Peter understands that impulse. He'd give anything for a photo of May right now.
But there are no photos. No memories. Nothing but the ghost of her voice in his head:
*With great power, there must also come great responsibility.*
His hands shake. The frame slips from his fingers—
Peter catches it with reflexes faster than thought, setting it back gently on the dresser.
He can't stay in this room. Can't stay still. His skin feels too tight, like he's going to crawl out of it.
He needs to move. To do something. Anything.
Peter opens the door quietly and slips into the hallway.
The mansion is dark, silent. Moonlight filters through tall windows, casting everything in shades of blue and gray. Peter moves on instinct, following the pull of *down*, back toward the cave.
The study's grandfather clock is actually a door. Of course it is. Peter finds the mechanism—because Batman wouldn't make it too hard, someone might need to get down there in an emergency—and the clock swings open.
The stairs descend into darkness.
Peter goes down.
The cave is empty. Batman—Bruce—must be out patrolling. The computer screens still glow, casting flickering light across the stone walls. Surveillance feeds from across the city. Peter watches them, seeing Gotham for the first time.
It's worse than he thought.
Even at three in the morning, there's violence. He sees a mugging in progress on one screen. A building fire on another. What looks like a drug deal gone wrong. Police cars racing through streets that look like they haven't seen maintenance in decades.
And in the center of it all, a signal in the sky.
A spotlight, shaped like a bat.
Peter stares at it. "Someone's calling for him."
He finds the comm system by trial and error. Presses what he hopes is the right button.
"Batman, you there?" A gruff voice crackles through. "We've got a situation at Dixon Docks. Multiple hostages. The Penguin's crew. Could use some backup if you're available."
Silence.
The voice sighs. "Right. Well, if you get this, we're going in anyway. GCPD out."
The comm goes silent.
Peter stares at the screens. Dixon Docks. He can see it on the surveillance—a warehouse, armed men outside, trucks being loaded with crates marked with various corporate logos. Stolen goods, probably.
Hostages.
His Spider-Sense tingles.
*This isn't your city*, Bruce's voice echoes in his memory. *You don't know these criminals. You go out there playing hero, you'll last maybe a week before someone puts you in the ground.*
But there are hostages.
And Peter is Spider-Man.
*Was* Spider-Man.
*With great power—*
"This is a terrible idea," Peter mutters to himself.
But he's already moving, already looking for his suit where Alfred said he'd put it to dry.
He finds it hanging in an alcove near the vehicles—cleaned, mended, the tears sewn up with thread that almost matches the fabric. Alfred works fast.
Peter runs his fingers over the repairs. The suit still looks wrong, still feels wrong. It's torn and scorched and it smells like smoke and blood and failure.
But it's his.
He puts it on.
The familiar weight settles over him like a second skin. The web-shooters power up with a soft hum. Everything still works, mostly. Good enough.
Peter pulls the mask over his face.
And just like that, he's Spider-Man again.
For better or worse.
He heads for what looks like a motorcycle—sleek, black, definitely designed for vigilante work. Then he pauses. He can't steal Batman's bike. That would be...
Actually, Batman threw a weapon at his head earlier, so maybe they're even.
Peter swings a leg over the motorcycle.
The controls are intuitive enough. Throttle, brake, clutch. He's never actually driven a motorcycle before, but how hard can it—
The engine roars to life with a sound like a dragon waking up.
"Okay. Okay, that's loud." Peter grips the handles. "Alfred's definitely going to hear this."
He should stop. Should go back upstairs. Should wait for Bruce to come back and tell him this is insane.
But the surveillance feed shows GCPD officers stacking up outside the warehouse. And Peter knows how this goes—they'll breach, and someone will get shot, and—
He twists the throttle.
The motorcycle launches forward like a bullet.
Peter nearly loses control immediately, overcompensates, fishtails, somehow manages to keep the bike upright through sheer luck and enhanced reflexes. The cave tunnel blurs past. Then he's outside, cold air hitting his face, Gotham spreading out before him like a diseased organism.
"I have no idea where I'm going!" Peter shouts over the engine.
But his Spider-Sense does. It pulls him through the streets, guiding him toward danger like a compass pointing north. He weaves between cars, takes corners too fast, definitely breaks at least a dozen traffic laws.
No one stops him. Half the streetlights are out. The few cops he passes are busy with other problems.
Gotham is drowning, and there aren't enough lifeguards.
Peter sees the docks ahead. He kills the engine a block away, leaving the motorcycle in an alley. Then he's shooting webs, swinging up to the rooftops, moving the way he knows how.
The warehouse looms ahead. Armed men outside—four, no, six. Automatic weapons. Body armor. These aren't street thugs. They're professionals.
Peter's Spider-Sense screams as he approaches.
He ignores it. It's been screaming since he got to this city. He's learned to filter it into background noise.
The police are stacked at the front entrance. Peter counts eight officers. They're outgunned and they know it. One of them—older, grizzled, wearing a trench coat—is arguing with a younger cop.
"We can't wait for Batman," the younger cop says. "Those hostages could be—"
"If we go in blind, we're all dead." The older cop pulls out a cigarette. "Give it five more minutes. He'll show."
"What if he doesn't?"
"Then we improvise."
Peter drops down behind them, silent as a shadow.
"How about I help with that?"
Every gun turns toward him.
Peter raises his hands. "Whoa, hey! Friendly! I'm friendly!"
"Who the hell are you?" The older cop doesn't lower his weapon.
"Spider-Man. I'm a—I'm here to help with the hostage situation."
"Spider-Man." The cop looks him up and down. "Never heard of you."
"Yeah, I get that a lot today. Look, I have powers. Enhanced strength, agility, precognitive danger sense—"
"Another meta." The cop spits. "We don't need metas. We need professionals."
"I am a professional! I've been doing this for two years! I've fought aliens, I've helped save the—" Peter stops. Wrong universe. "I know what I'm doing."
"You're a kid in a costume."
"So is Robin!"
"Robin works with Batman. And Batman isn't here." The cop finally lowers his gun. "So either help or get lost. We're going in with or without you."
Peter's Spider-Sense flares. "Wait, if you go through the front—"
"We don't have a choice. Hostages are on the clock."
"Then let me scout first. I can stick to walls, get in through a skylight or vent. Figure out their positions, feed you intel—"
"We don't have time for—"
An explosion.
The warehouse front blows outward in a ball of fire and shrapnel. Peter's reflexes kick in—he webs two officers and yanks them backward, out of the blast radius. The others dive for cover.
When the smoke clears, the warehouse entrance is gone. In its place: armed men, and at their center, a short, rotund figure in a top hat and tuxedo, carrying an umbrella.
"Gentlemen!" the figure calls out in a posh British accent. "I believe there's been a misunderstanding. These docks are private property. You're trespassing."
"Penguin," the older cop growls. "We have a warrant."
"A warrant? How quaint." The Penguin opens his umbrella, revealing a gun barrel hidden in the tip. "I'm afraid I'll have to file an objection."
He fires.
Not bullets. Some kind of energy weapon. It tears up the pavement where the cops were standing, forces them back behind their cars.
"Return fire!" someone shouts.
"Hostages!" another cop yells. "We can't—"
Peter doesn't think. Just acts.
He's already swinging, already moving. He webs the Penguin's umbrella and yanks it from his hands. It spins through the air—Peter catches it, tosses it away.
"Hey there!" Peter lands in front of the Penguin, between him and the cops. "How about we talk this out? Maybe over some fish? I hear penguins like fish—"
The Penguin's fist slams into Peter's face.
Or tries to. Peter's Spider-Sense screams a warning. He dodges, but barely—the Penguin is *fast*, faster than a man his size should be. And his fist is metal. Cybernetic, maybe, or armored.
"You're not Batman," the Penguin snarls.
"Nope! I'm Spider-Man! And you're under arrest—"
Three of the Penguin's men open fire.
Peter's world narrows to pure instinct. Web here, dodge there, flip over a burst of gunfire. He takes down two gunmen in three seconds—web one to the ground, disarm the other with a kick that definitely breaks the guy's wrist.
But there are more. So many more.
They keep coming out of the warehouse, armed and armored, and Peter realizes with sinking dread that this isn't just a robbery. This is a full operation. Military-grade.
His Spider-Sense screams. He jumps—a rocket-propelled grenade streaks through the space where he was standing. It hits a police car. The explosion throws Peter backward. He hits the ground hard, skids, rolls to his feet.
"Kid!" the older cop yells. "Fall back!"
"Can't!" Peter webs two more gunmen. "Hostages inside, remember?"
"You're going to get yourself killed!"
Maybe. Probably.
But that's never stopped him before.
Peter charges the warehouse. Gunfire follows him. His Spider-Sense guides every movement—duck, weave, jump. A bullet grazes his shoulder. Another his leg. The suit absorbs most of it, but he feels the impacts like punches.
He makes it inside.
And freezes.
Because the warehouse isn't full of stolen goods. It's full of weapons. Crates and crates of military hardware—assault rifles, grenades, something that looks like a rocket launcher. Enough firepower to start a small war.
And in the center, tied to chairs with bags over their heads: seven hostages.
"Oh no," Peter whispers.
His Spider-Sense explodes.
Peter throws himself sideways as the floor where he was standing erupts in gunfire. He looks up—catwalks above, three more gunmen.
"Really?" Peter shoots webs, yanks them down. They hit the floor hard. "How many guys does the Penguin have?"
Too many. Way too many.
Peter webs his way to the hostages, tearing the bags off their heads. They're terrified, gagged, eyes wide with shock at seeing a guy in a red and blue spider costume.
"It's okay," Peter says, trying to sound calm. "I'm here to help. I'm going to—"
The Spider-Sense screams.
Peter looks up.
And sees the ceiling explode inward.
A massive dark shape drops through the hole, cape billowing. Batman lands in a three-point crouch that cracks the concrete. He rises slowly, and even from across the warehouse, Peter can see the fury in his posture.
"You," Batman growls, pointing at Peter. "Get the hostages out. Now."
"I was just—"
"NOW."
Peter doesn't argue. He starts cutting the hostages free with precise web-shots while Batman goes to work on the remaining gunmen.
And Peter realizes something: Batman doesn't fight like a hero.
He fights like a monster.
Every movement is brutal, efficient, *terrifying*. He doesn't pull punches. Doesn't give warnings. Just appears behind his targets like a nightmare made solid and dismantles them with clinical precision. Bones break. Bodies drop. Within thirty seconds, the warehouse is full of unconscious criminals and one very angry vigilante.
"Can you move?" Peter asks the hostages.
They nod frantically.
"Okay, come on. Let's—"
The Penguin appears in the doorway, flanked by six more men.
"Batman," he says pleasantly. "And a new friend. How delightful."
He raises his hand.
The floor *erupts* with gunfire.
Peter grabs three hostages and jumps. Batman grabs the other four. They both move for cover as bullets shred the air where they were standing.
"Back exit!" Batman barks.
"Where?"
"Behind the crates, left side, GO!"
Peter doesn't argue. He half-carries, half-drags the hostages toward the exit, webs providing cover as bullets tear through crates. The hostages are screaming, crying, stumbling.
"Almost there," Peter gasps. "Just a little—"
A door ahead of them crashes open.
More gunmen.
"Oh, come ON!" Peter webs the door shut, then the walls for good measure. "How many people work for this guy?!"
"Penguin runs one of the largest criminal enterprises on the Eastern Seaboard." Batman appears beside him, hostages in tow. "You just attacked one of his major operations without backup or reconnaissance."
"I was trying to help!"
"You almost got these people killed."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Batman doesn't wait for a response. He pulls something from his belt—a detonator. Presses it. Explosions rock the warehouse, controlled charges that collapse sections of the building. Escape routes sealing. Trap doors closing.
"Move!" Batman shoves the hostages toward an exit Peter hadn't even noticed. "That way! Police are outside!"
The hostages run.
Peter starts to follow—
His Spider-Sense screams.
He looks up.
The ceiling is collapsing.
Not from Batman's charges. From something else. Structural damage from the RPG earlier. The whole building is coming down.
And Batman is standing directly underneath it.
Peter doesn't think. Just acts.
He webs Batman and yanks him backward, then throws himself between Batman and the falling debris. Tons of concrete and steel slam down onto Peter's back. His legs buckle. His vision whites out from the pain.
But he holds it. Holds the ceiling up through sheer stubbornness and enhanced strength, arms shaking, back screaming.
"Go," Peter gasps. "Get out."
"Peter—"
"GO!"
Batman moves. Peter hears his footsteps retreating, hears him gathering the last hostage, hears the exit door slam open.
Then silence.
Peter is alone under collapsing building.
His arms start to give out. The weight is too much. Even with super-strength, he can't—
*With great power, there must also come great responsibility.*
May's voice. Clear as day.
Peter's teeth grind together. "I know, May. I know."
He heaves.
The debris shifts. Not much. Just enough.
Peter throws himself forward, rolling as the rest of the ceiling crashes down behind him. The warehouse collapses in a roar of dust and destruction. He scrambles through the exit door a second before it's buried.
Then he's outside, gasping, every muscle screaming.
The hostages are safe. The police have them. The Penguin's men are either unconscious, arrested, or fled. The warehouse is rubble.
Mission accomplished?
Batman looms over him.
"That," Batman says, voice like gravel, "was the stupidest thing I've ever seen."
"You're welcome?" Peter offers weakly.
"You could have been killed."
"But I wasn't."
"You had no plan. No exit strategy. No backup." Batman pulls Peter to his feet roughly. "You just charged in like an idiot."
"It worked though, didn't it?" Peter pulls his arm free. "The hostages are safe. That's what matters."
"What matters is you almost died for people you don't know in a city you don't understand."
"That's what heroes do!"
"This isn't your world, Peter!" Batman's voice rises. "You can't just—"
"Can't what? Help people?" Peter's hands clench. "That's what May taught me! With great power comes great responsibility! I have powers, there were people in danger, so I helped! That's what I *do*!"
"Your aunt is dead because you 'helped'!"
The words hang in the air like poison.
Peter feels something break inside him.
"I know," he whispers. "I know she's dead because of me. I know it's my fault. I know if I'd just stayed away from the Goblin, if I'd listened to her, if I'd been faster, she'd still be alive. I KNOW."
His voice cracks.
"But she also told me that if you can help people, you have to. You have to try. Even when it's hard. Even when it's dangerous. Even when you're scared." Peter's hands shake. "So yeah, I charged in without a plan. Because people needed help and I could help them. That's what she would have wanted."
Batman is silent for a long moment.
Then: "Get on the bike."
"What?"
"You stole my bike. At least learn to ride it properly." Batman stalks toward the motorcycle Peter abandoned. "Come on. Before GCPD asks questions I don't want to answer."
Peter follows, numb.
They ride back in silence. Batman drives. Peter clings to his back, trying not to think about anything.
By the time they return to the cave, dawn is breaking over Gotham. Gray light filtering through gray clouds. A gray city waking to another gray day.
Batman parks the motorcycle and dismounts. Peter follows.
"I'm sorry," Batman says quietly. "About what I said. About your aunt."
"It's true though."
"It's not." Batman pulls off his cowl. Bruce Wayne looks exhausted. "I was angry. I took it out on you. That was wrong."
"You were right though. I could have gotten those people killed."
"But you didn't." Bruce walks to the computer. "You saved them. Against the odds, without backup, using nothing but instinct and powers. That takes skill."
"Or luck."
"No." Bruce pulls up footage from the warehouse—body cam video from GCPD. He plays it. Peter watches himself fight, sees how he moves, how he protects the hostages even while taking fire. "That's training. Whoever taught you, they taught you well."
"Tony Stark. Iron Man. He was—" Peter's voice catches. "He tried to teach me to think before I acted. To have a plan. Guess I'm still not great at that."
"You're young. You'll learn." Bruce fast-forwards through the footage. "But Peter? If you're going to operate in my city, you need to understand something."
"What?"
Bruce looks at him directly. "Gotham will try to break you. It breaks everyone eventually. Your aunt told you that with great power comes great responsibility. She was right. But here's what she couldn't tell you: that responsibility will cost you everything. Your safety. Your happiness. Your sanity. Maybe your life."
"So what, I should just give up? Hide?"
"No." Bruce's expression softens slightly. "I'm saying choose carefully. Because once you start down this path in a city like Gotham, there's no going back. You become what the city needs. And the city always needs more."
Peter thinks about May. About MJ and Ned. About Tony Stark bleeding out in the grass. About everything he's lost.
"I don't have anything left to lose," he says quietly.
"Everyone thinks that." Bruce turns back to the computer. "Until they find something new worth losing."
---
Peter sleeps until noon. When he wakes, his body is one giant bruise. Even his enhanced healing can't quite keep up with the beating he took.
He finds Alfred in the kitchen, preparing lunch.
"Ah, Master Peter. Feeling better?"
"Feeling like I got hit by a truck."
"From what Master Bruce told me, you got hit by considerably more than that." Alfred sets down a plate—sandwich, soup, more food than Peter could possibly eat. "Sit. Eat. Then we'll talk about what happens next."
"What do you mean?"
Alfred sits across from him. "You can't go home. That seems clear. Which means you need to figure out how to live here. In this world. In this city."
"I don't know how."
"No one does at first." Alfred pours tea. "But you have options. Master Bruce has offered to let you stay here while you figure things out. You'll have a room, food, safety. In exchange, you'll train. Learn this world. Learn how to survive it."
"Train to be what? Batman's sidekick?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps just train to stay alive long enough to find a way home." Alfred's eyes are kind. "This isn't your world, Peter. But it's the world you're in now. And you can either learn to navigate it, or let it destroy you."
Peter stares down at his hands. They're shaking slightly.
"May would want me to keep helping people."
"I'm sure she would. But she'd also want you to survive. To live. To find joy, even in dark places." Alfred reaches across and squeezes his shoulder. "You honor her memory by living, Peter. Not by dying for strangers."
"Heroes don't think like that."
"No," Alfred agrees. "But survivors do. And right now, you need to be both."
Peter picks up the sandwich. Takes a bite. It still doesn't taste like anything.
But he eats it anyway.
One bite at a time.
One day at a time.
Just like Alfred said.
Because May would want him to survive.
And because somewhere, somehow, he has to believe there's a way back home.
He just has to live long enough to find it.
Outside the window, Gotham sprawls—gray and cruel and broken and somehow still breathing.
And in the cave below, a bat costume waits in the shadows.
Peter doesn't know what he's going to become in this world.
But he knows he's going to try.
For May.
For himself.
For great power, and great responsibility, and everything in between.
One day at a time.
One fight at a time.
One breath at a time.
—
Bruce stands in the Watchtower's observation deck, staring at Earth rotating below. It's been three days since Peter Parker appeared in Gotham. Three days of watching the kid try to process grief while living in a mansion that isn't his, in a world that isn't his, surrounded by people who aren't his family.
Three days of Bruce seeing Jason in every hesitant smile, every desperate attempt to help, every moment of poorly-hidden pain.
He should send Peter away. Should find somewhere safe—Metropolis, maybe, or Central City. Anywhere but Gotham. Anywhere the kid won't get himself killed trying to prove something to a ghost.
But he can't quite bring himself to do it.
"You're brooding."
Bruce doesn't turn. He'd heard Clark coming—heard his heartbeat, his breathing, the soft displacement of air. Superman doesn't sneak. He just *arrives*.
"I'm thinking."
"That's just brooding with extra steps." Clark floats up beside him, cape settling as he matches Bruce's position. "Alfred called me. Said you needed to talk."
"Alfred talks too much."
"Alfred worries about you." Clark looks at him. "So do I. What's going on?"
Bruce is quiet for a long moment. Through the reinforced glass, Earth turns—blue and green and white, peaceful from up here. You can't see the violence from orbit. Can't see Gotham slowly eating itself alive.
"There's a kid," Bruce finally says.
"There's always a kid with you."
"Not like this." Bruce pulls up his wrist computer, transfers a file to the observation deck's main screen. Peter Parker's face appears—young, haunted, wearing a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Peter Parker. Seventeen. Enhanced strength and reflexes. Dimensional refugee from another Earth where he was a superhero."
Clark studies the image. "Another Earth? Like the Multiverse?"
"Exactly like the Multiverse. A spell went wrong. Ripped him out of his reality and dropped him in Gotham." Bruce pulls up more files—footage from the warehouse fight, medical scans showing enhanced physiology, Alfred's notes on the kid's psychological state. "He lost everything. Family, friends, his entire world. Everyone he knew forgot he existed."
"God." Clark's voice is soft. "That's—Bruce, that's awful."
"It gets worse. His aunt died three days before the spell. He watched her bleed out. Held her while she died." Bruce's jaw tightens. "The guilt is eating him alive. I can see it. Every time he looks at me, every time he tries to help someone, he's trying to make up for a death that wasn't his fault."
Clark is quiet for a moment.
"You see Jason," he says gently.
"I see all of them." Bruce pulls up another image—Dick, young and angry and desperate to help. Then Jason, broken and furious. Then Tim, brilliant and self-destructive. "Every kid I've ever trained. Every child who thought they could fight monsters and paid for it."
"Peter's not your responsibility, Bruce."
"He's in my city. That makes him my responsibility."
"Is that what this is about?" Clark turns to face him fully. "Responsibility? Or is it guilt?"
Bruce doesn't answer.
"You couldn't save Jason," Clark continues, voice careful. "You couldn't prevent what happened to Dick, or Barbara, or—"
"I know that."
"Do you?" Clark's eyes are too blue, too perceptive. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're about to train another child soldier because you can't let go of the ones you lost."
The words hit harder than any punch.
"He's going to help people whether I train him or not," Bruce says quietly. "I saw him at Dixon Docks. He charged into a firefight to save hostages without backup, without a plan, without any idea what he was walking into. He almost died. Multiple times."
"So you want to train him to survive."
"I want to give him a chance." Bruce's hands clench. "Gotham is going to kill him, Clark. If I don't teach him, if I don't give him the tools—he'll last a month. Maybe two. Then I'll be standing over another grave, wondering if I could have prevented it."
"Or," Clark says gently, "you train him, and he dies anyway. And then you have to live with the fact that you gave him the skills to get himself killed."
Silence.
Bruce stares at Earth, watching it turn.
"After Jason died," he says, voice low, "I swore I'd never take another partner. Never put another child in danger. Dick was already Nightwing by then, out on his own. Tim—" He stops. "Tim forced his way in. Figured out my identity, showed up at the cave, refused to leave. Said Gotham needed Batman, and Batman needed Robin. I tried to say no."
"But you didn't."
"But I didn't." Bruce's jaw tightens. "Because he was right. And because I was tired of doing it alone. So I trained him. Gave him a costume. Sent him into the same city that killed Jason."
"And he survived."
"So far." Bruce pulls up another file—Red Robin's recent patrol reports, the close calls, the injuries. "But for how long? How long before I'm standing at another funeral, listening to Alfred try not to cry, wondering if I'm a hero or just a man who sends children to die for him?"
Clark is quiet for a long moment.
"You didn't send Jason to die," he finally says. "The Joker killed him. That's not your fault."
"I trained him. I gave him the tools. I let him go out there."
"You also gave him a home. A purpose. A family." Clark's hand rests on Bruce's shoulder. "Jason wasn't some kid you plucked off the streets to use as a weapon. He was your *son*. You loved him. You tried to protect him. The fact that it wasn't enough doesn't make it your fault."
Bruce wants to believe that. Has spent years trying to believe it.
But every time he closes his eyes, he sees Jason's broken body. Sees the crowbar. Sees the Joker's smile.
"Peter reminds you of him," Clark says. It's not a question.
"Same age. Same anger. Same desperate need to prove he's worth something." Bruce finally turns to look at Clark. "Same guilt. He thinks his aunt's death is his fault. Thinks if he just helps enough people, saves enough lives, maybe it'll balance the scales."
"That's not how it works."
"Try telling him that."
"Have you?"
"Yes." Bruce remembers the warehouse, the words he'd thrown at Peter in anger. "He didn't listen. Just like Jason never listened."
Clark sighs. "So what are you going to do?"
That's the question, isn't it?
Bruce pulls up the file again. Peter's face stares back at him—young, lost, trying so hard to be brave.
"He asked me to train him," Bruce says. "Not directly. But I can see it. The way he watches me suit up. The way he studies the equipment. He wants to learn. Wants to be ready for the next fight."
"And?"
"And I don't know if I can do it again." Bruce's voice is barely a whisper. "I don't know if I can put another kid in a costume and send him into Gotham knowing he might not come back. I don't—" He stops. "I promised myself after Jason. No more sidekicks. No more child soldiers. No more gravestones with birthdates that should have been followed by decades of life."
"But?"
Bruce looks at Clark. Really looks at him. At the man who wears his heart on his sleeve, who believes the best of everyone, who has never had to bury a child.
"But he's going to do it anyway," Bruce says. "With or without me. He has powers, he has a suit, and he has a dead aunt telling him to use those powers responsibly. He's not going to hide in the mansion while people die. I know that because I wouldn't either."
"So you want my permission?"
"I want your advice." Bruce turns away from Earth. "You have a son now. Jon. If he wanted to be a hero—if he wanted to put on a costume and fight monsters—what would you do?"
Clark's expression softens. "I'd be terrified."
"But would you train him?"
"I—" Clark hesitates. "I don't know. Lois and I have talked about it. Jon's powers are manifesting more every day. Flight, strength, heat vision. Eventually he's going to want to use them. And when that day comes..." He trails off.
"You'll have to decide if you trust him. If you trust yourself." Bruce's voice is quiet. "That's where I am with Peter. Do I trust him to learn? Do I trust myself to teach him without getting him killed?"
"What does your gut say?"
Bruce thinks about Peter holding up a collapsing ceiling. About the kid throwing himself between Batman and danger without hesitation. About the way he looked at the hostages—not like they were a mission, but like they were *people*.
"My gut says he's going to be a hero whether I help or not," Bruce admits. "He's already a hero. He just doesn't know how to be one in a world like this."
"And you think you can teach him?"
"I think I can give him a chance to survive long enough to figure it out himself."
Clark is quiet, considering.
"After Jason died," he finally says, "you blamed yourself. You still do. That's why you're hesitating now—because you're afraid Peter will end up the same way."
"Yes."
"But Bruce—" Clark's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Jason's death wasn't because you trained him. It was because the Joker is a monster. You gave Jason love, skills, purpose. The Joker took him anyway. That's not on you."
"Then whose fault is it?"
"The Joker's. Only the Joker's." Clark's voice is firm. "You can't control every variable. You can't prevent every tragedy. All you can do is give people the tools to survive and hope they're enough."
Bruce closes his eyes. "What if they're not?"
"Then at least you tried. At least you gave him a chance." Clark's voice softens. "Peter's already lost everything. His family, his world, his identity. If you push him away now—if you refuse to help him—what does he have left?"
Nothing. The kid would have nothing.
Just like Bruce had nothing after his parents died.
Just like Jason had nothing before Bruce took him in.
"He's going to die in Gotham," Bruce says quietly. "If I train him, if I let him be a hero here, this city is going to break him. It breaks everyone."
"Maybe." Clark doesn't sugar-coat it. "Gotham is... Gotham. But Bruce, he's already broken. His aunt is dead. His entire universe forgot him. He's in a strange world with no friends, no family, nothing familiar. If you can give him something to hold onto—a purpose, training, maybe even a family—isn't that better than leaving him to drown?"
Bruce thinks about Alfred's words: *You honor her memory by living, Peter. Not by dying for strangers.*
But the kid is going to fight anyway. He's going to put on that suit and swing into danger because that's who he is.
The only question is: will he be prepared?
"If I do this," Bruce says slowly, "it's not because I want a partner. It's not to replace Jason or give myself a second chance. It's because that kid deserves better than to die alone in an alley because no one taught him the difference between bravery and suicide."
"I know."
"And if he dies—if Gotham takes him like it took Jason—"
"Then it won't be your fault." Clark's voice is steady. "You'll have given him every chance. That's all anyone can do."
Bruce stares at Peter's image on the screen.
Seventeen. Orphaned. Lost.
Just like Bruce was, once.
Just like Jason was.
"I'll train him," Bruce decides. "But on my terms. He follows orders. He studies. He doesn't go out alone until I say he's ready. And if he can't handle it—if the training is too much, if Gotham is too much—I'll find him somewhere safe. Metropolis, maybe. You'd keep an eye on him?"
"Of course." Clark squeezes his shoulder once, then lets go. "You're doing the right thing, Bruce."
"I hope so."
Because if he's not—if this goes wrong, if Peter ends up like Jason—
Bruce doesn't finish the thought.
He just saves the file, closes the screen, and heads for the Zeta tube.
He has a kid to train.
God help them both.
---
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