Gotham was a shithole.
Or at the least, the district they were in — Park Row, colloquially known as 'Crime Alley' according to Jason — was.
He hated to admit it (and he would not admit it out loud), but Jason was right: it was an entirely different city than Peter was used to. The closest he could compare it to was Manhattan after the Battle of New York, or the absolute meltdown the world fell into immediately after the second battle with Thanos. Even then, Park Row had a grimness that New York at its worst could never hope to replicate.
There was a distinct feeling of disrepair to the place: potholes big enough to break an ankle or pop a tire with; windows barricaded or blockaded with sheets of plywood; graffiti tags scrawled across just about every patch of wood or metal or brick they could touch; and a general sense of griminess that no amount of heavy scrubbing could ever dream of removing.
The people they passed either ignored them, eyed Jason and Dog with wariness, or watched them with a speculative eye that made Peter's tingle itch. He spotted concealed (or in some instances, unconcealed) weapons on an alarming number of Gothamites, though for most, his senses only lightly buzzed with awareness. Those, he suspected, were carrying for purely defensive purposes, which certainly said something about the calibre of the city he'd found himself in.
Jason led them to a little park several blocks away from his apartment. To call it a green space felt generous: most of the grass had been left to grow long and was now on its way to dying, the long strands turned golden from the late summer heat. In a corner, there was a children's playground, covered with graffiti much like of the rest of Park Row. The blue plastic slide had definitely been set on fire once before, but there were still a couple of children clambering over the jungle gym and one particularly stubborn girl using the swing set — though it screeched in protest with every peak of her swing. There were no parents in sight, but he did see a couple of teens lounging on a bench nearby and keeping watch.
They were both smoking.
Jason let Dog off the leash, and she made an immediately beeline for the children. The girl on the swing squealed with delight when she saw her and flew off the seat with a flourish, immediately rushing to pet the dog. Her tail wagged so fast it was nothing but a blur of tan.
"Oi! Jen!" Jason shouted. Both Dog and the girl's heads swivelled at the call. He chucked a ball at them, and Dog leapt up to catch it. She offered the now slobbered tennis ball to Jen, who took it without care and lobbed it into the tall grass. Dog was off like a shot, while a couple of the braver children joined the girl.
"Why extend the effort when you can use child labour?" he smirked when he saw Peter's look.
"It's your dog. Shouldn't that be your job?"
"Naw." Jason walked away from the children, following the path that circled the circumference of the park (if it could be called that. Really it was just a line in the long grass that had been tread upon enough to mark out a route). Peter followed closely. "They don't get much of a chance to be around animals. Friendly ones, that is. It's good for 'em."
"Aren't you worried someone might steal her?"
"Heh. They could try. Pretty sure Dog would tear out their throat before she let herself be taken."
Peter's brows rose. Was it smart to trust her to the tender mercies of children, then?
Jason caught his dubious expression and rolled his eyes. "She's fine. Jennie'll keep the other kids from being too rough with her."
As they circled the field, Peter munched on the crackers and sweated in his double layers of suit and clothes. He wished he had some water to wash them down with, but it was better than nothing. It filled his empty stomach and temporarily sated the never-ending black hole that was his appetite. That was enough.
Peter's standards for 'good food' had dropped quite substantially since the Erasure. Every day was a battle between what calories he could fill himself with and an enhanced metabolism exacerbated by his Spider-Manning. It was a battle he frequently lost, and he knew his body had been showing the signs of that failure for months.
These days… Well… He took what he could get.
Now that he was outside, surrounded by the September warmth, he felt a little more grounded. A little more alert. Despite this, Peter couldn't help feeling struck by a sense of unreality as he ate.
A new universe.
A world utterly alien and yet utterly familiar.
The grasses his hands brushed through felt tangible. The warm air that filled his lungs felt authentic. The sounds of the city were ordinary and routine (okay, maybe not that distant gunshot… but maybe it was just a firework?). All the same things he'd experience in New York.
And yet… he couldn't escape the sense that it was all terrifyingly ephemeral. Blink once too many and it would disappear and he'd be falling through realities again.
He needed to go back. Staying here was out of the question. But how? Was there a Doctor Strange here? A Sanctum? Though he was reluctant to trouble the man (even if he didn't know who Peter even was — here or in his own universe), he was probably Peter's best bet for returning home.
Even if New York hadn 't felt like home for six months.
Of course, getting to New York was another problem entirely. Peter had woefully little cash: probably only about ten bucks. Maybe fifteen if he counted up his coins. He had no idea yet where Gotham was in New Jersey, but it was a safe bet to say that wasn't enough to get him to New York (then again, how much was a bus ticket here? Surely there'd be a bus that would take him, right?). Hitchhiking was an option, but not a smart one. Stowing himself away on a train headed that direction was probably his safest bet, but that still meant he'd have to work out which train would get him there, or he'd be even more lost than now.
Getting to a library was the best choice. Unless things were different in Gotham, chances were he'd get free Wi-Fi and access to a computer. Maybe he could even sort out the problem with his phone and retrofit it to the networks here.
"So… you're from New York?" Jason asked, breaking Peter's chain of thought.
He glanced at the man. Tall and hulking, his eyes hidden by sunglasses and sporting at least one lazily concealed weapon, Jason struck an intimidating figure. But he also had a dog that loved children, and a half-filled bookcase with titles from Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters. He'd held a gun to Peter's head, but he'd also made Peter tea and cleaned up his vomit. He didn't really know what to think of the man. Even his tingle chose to stay quiet on the matter.
"Yeah," he said, remembering Jason had asked him a question. "Queens."
It wouldn't hurt to tell him, even if it was Queens from a different universe.
"You got someone who could pick you up?"
"No," he said, realising too late that he probably should have lied. But he was eighteen. It's not like he needed an adult to help him. "I can get back on my own."
Jason hummed. A glance his way showed Peter that he wasn't quite satisfied with the answer, but before he could ask more, they'd reached the children again. Jennie and Dog bounded towards them through the long grass, Jennie's thin brown hair flying about her head in a halo as she ran. Bits of dead grass clung to the strands and her clothes as though she'd gone rolling around on the ground with Dog.
"Sup, Jay-boy!" Jennie shouted, and Peter held back a laugh at the unfortunate nickname. Jason didn't seem to mind — looked more resigned than anything — and he shot the girl a lazy salute.
"Jen-ster. How's your ma?"
Jennie came to a stop a few feet away, eyeing Peter with the same assessing look half the Gothamites they'd passed had. He smiled awkwardly back and the girl — who couldn't be older than ten — returned it with a look of extreme cynicism that was jarring on someone so young.
"She's fine. Working tonight, so she wanted me outta the house while she slept. Who's this?"
"Pete," Jason said, and clapped a heavy hand on Peter's shoulder. He tried not to jump out of his skin at the touch. "He's from New York."
"New York?" Jennie titled her head but was unimpressed by Peter's exoticism. "What you doing here?"
"Just, ah, passing through," he said. Jennie nodded with approval. Evidently a wariness towards outsiders in Gotham started early, though he felt a little offended by the attitude.
Jason and Jennie started chatting. Though his questions were innocuous and polite, it was clear Jason was checking in on her and the other kids. Peter got the impression he had taken over the role of watchdog, since their parents were nowhere to be seen. Again, he wondered what the man's deal was: armed but non-threatening — or at least, not to the children. Was he a cop? Part of a gang? Ex-military? He held himself like someone used to violence, and the calluses on his hands could just as well be from fighting as from hard labour.
Unease stirred in his gut. What was he doing here, wasting time dog walking while he was so far from home? Peter shouldn't be there! It might have been a different case had he been dressed as Spider-Man, but he wasn't. He had his own neighbourhood. His own people to watch over, and every second spent here was another second Queens went without its own protector.
"I gotta go," Peter breathed. Couldn't stand there watching Jason speak to Jennie like he was her big brother, or protective uncle. It was all too normal. It set his teeth on edge and his pulse hammering with panic.
Peter didn't do normal. Not anymore.
Jason glanced at him in question. Peter took a step backwards.
"Pete?"
Peter just shook his head, turned tail, and ran.
Jason swore and called after him. Peter heard thundering footsteps follow through the grass. Dog barked excitedly as she gave chase, clearly thinking it was a game.
Had Peter been normal, he might not have made it. Jason was tall and used to running, but Peter was fast. He put on a burst of speed — enough to get away but not draw attention to his unnaturalness — and leaped over the waist-high chain link fence at the end of the park, deaf to the cries of his name.
His feet pounded on the concrete beyond, but the solid ground only allowed him more speed. It wasn't long before Jason's shouting and Dog's barking disappeared — perhaps they'd given up, or perhaps he'd lost them — but Peter didn't slow down until he was certain he was no longer being followed. His tingle was still a wary hum in the background, but it was no more or less than it had been before. Gotham was just that kind of city, it seemed.
Peter rested on a wall by a convenience store as he fought to calm himself. His hands shook. His pulse hammered, panicky in his throat though he'd not run far or fast enough to merit it.
Peter didn't belong here. Peter wasn't safe here (and here wasn't safe from Peter). It was pathetic. Less than two hours and Peter already wanted go home.
Peter had wanted to return home for a long, long time.
If a house disappears and there 's no one left to mourn it, was it ever even a home at all?
Tears prickled in his eyes and he thumped his head sharply against the brick. Stared angrily up at the sky, the grey clouds hunkered in close to the city.
Focus, Parker. Library first. By his estimation, it was early afternoon. Jason had told him it was a Saturday, so unless things were really dire, chances were there'd be a library open somewhere in the city.
Whether or not there was a library in Park Row was another question entirely. But Gotham couldn't all be like Crime Alley — though Peter was sure he was probably still in the district. There had to be multiple libraries or internet cafes — hell, even a McDonalds, now he thought about it! — that would offer him free Wi-Fi. Then Peter could work out how to get to New York, and that would be that.
Simple.
He scrubbed his face and straightened, then walked into the convenience store he'd been loitering outside of. The old man at the counter eyed him warily — something Peter was quickly getting used to. He felt the man's eyes track him as he bee-lined for the fridges at the back, where he picked up a large bottle of water and the most pathetic tuna sandwich he'd ever laid eyes on, but it had protein and fat and carbs and was cheap, so it would have to do.
Peter offered the man a smile as he reached the counter. Where there would normally be candy bars for people to impulsively purchase, there was instead a row of gas masks by the til, which was… disconcerting. What the hell went on in Gotham that gas masks were something they'd sell in a convenience store?
He kept the question to himself and placed his bounty down. Prices seemed on par with New York — veering just into this side of expensive, and Peter handed over his cash nervously: were things divergent enough here that even the tender was different? But the man barely looked at the money and handed him his paltry change without comment.
"You need a bag?"
Peter nodded, and summoned the courage to ask him where the closest library was.
"Library?" the man asked dubiously. He scratched his head as he thought. "There ain't no library here or in the Bowery. Closest is probably in Burnley, to the west." He eyed Peter up. "You lost, kid?"
Peter held back a grimace at the moniker but shook his head. "There's no internet at home," he lied. "But I've a tonne of homework to do. Figured I'd give it a try."
The man nodded approvingly. "Good kid. Yer education's important. Get you outta this shithole. Here—" He pulled out his own phone and tapped through to maps. Peter looked over the directions intently and took a photo with his own phone for good measure. He thanked the man profusely and was rewarded with a gruff smile.
"Keep outta the gangs, kid," the old man ordered as Peter left, and he bit back a laugh. The only way Peter was joining any gang was if he was going undercover.
He left feeling a little lighter, weighed down simply by a blue plastic bag with his lunch.
The feeling did not last. Not even a block away from the convenience store, his senses flared on high alert moments before someone barrelled into him from behind and shoved him into a narrow access street.
Peter yelped and swung his bag — heavy with the bottle — at his assailant, but they dodged and blue plastic flew wild. He was shoved against the wall, his head slammed against the rough brick.
Something sharp pressed into his ribs. Peter froze at the unspoken threat. All they'd have to do was use a little more force and the knife would split between his ribs and pierce his lungs. He let the hands pat him down and cringed when they found his phone.
"Jackpot," the person — a man — wheezed.
"C'mon, man. It won't even work for you—!" Peter tried and was summarily shut up with a slammed head on the wall for his troubles. His ears rang — no. His ears were… growling?
"Hand over the phone," a deep voice said behind him, their tone laced with threat.
Peter frowned, half-dazed. "But I already—?"
The knife against his ribs disappeared, and his mugger stepped back. Peter belatedly realised the voice wasn't talking to him. He turned just in time to see his would-be mugger reluctantly hand over Peter's phone to Jason.
Jason, who had another gun aimed at the man — thin and waifish, skin sallow and hanging off his frame like he'd lost a lot of weight far too quickly. The mugger backed away, hands in the air.
"Drop the knife," Jason ordered. His tone was almost bored.
The knife clattered to the ground. The growling was coming from Dog, hunched threateningly beside Jason.
In truth, Peter found her bared teeth and raised hackles the most shocking part of it all.
"Now, fuck off," Jason drawled. The mugger didn't need any more permission. He scarpered, leaving Peter, Jason and Dog alone to the alley. As soon as he was gone, Dog was at ease and began nosing at Peter anxiously.
Still watching the mugger's exit, Jason handed the phone back to Peter and he immediately pocketed it, immensely relieved to have it back. That phone was his lifeline. And he'd not been lying: no one else would have been able to break into it without Peter's help. Without him, it was little more than a hunk of plastic, glass and wiring.
"Th-thank-you," he rasped. Jason grunted, still not looking at him as he crouched to pick up the discarded knife, folding it closed and slipping it into his left boot.
"Sorry," Peter said, and stared down at Dog, shame faced.
"Why didn't you fight back?"
Peter glanced up at the taller man. His temple throbbed. When he rubbed it with the back of his hand, it came away bloody. Damn head wounds. "Eh?"
"You're strong. Stronger than him." Jason finally turned to look at him, and he inspected Peter's head with a deep frown on his face. His touch was light — barely there. Peter's heart rabbited anyway. "Why didn't you fight back?"
"Because…" Because Peter Parker isn't enhanced. Peter Parker has to hide himself, for Spider-Man's sake. He couldn't answer with that, so he said the next best thing: "They're not strong. It'd be unfair."
"Unfair," Jason said flatly, unimpressed. He showed Peter his hand, fingertips bright red with Peter's blood. "They're playing unfair. You play by their games and you die. You defending yourself is what's fair."
Peter had nothing to say to that. He watched absently as Jason squirrelled away his gun and pulled a hanky (seriously? A guy like Jason carried a hanky? The dichotomy hurt Peter's brain) from a pocket in his jacket. The man went to touch him again, then paused as though suddenly remembering himself.
"Ah. Can I?"
Peter nodded, and Jason cleaned off the blood carefully. He hummed thoughtfully as he worked. "It's only shallow. Hold this."
He followed Jason's instructions meekly and held the hanky against the scratch. "How did you find me?"
Jason smirked. "I just asked people if they'd seen a lunatic running like the hounds of hell were following 'em."
Peter squinted at him around the hanky. Even from what little he'd seen of Gotham, he found it unlikely that any local would be willing to answer a question like that. Further prodding probably wouldn't give him an answer though. Maybe Jason just let Peter think he'd out-run him?
No… that was pretty unlikely.
"Well… thanks," he said reluctantly. He did not say 'you were right', though Jason's answering smirk said that he read that into his response anyway.
"You're done with your freak out, then?"
He grinned back. "Third time's the charm, right?"
"Ah. So I should expect another around dinner time?"
Peter giggled, definitely bordering on hysterical. "Yeah… that's probably accurate."
"I'll be sure to lock the door. Or are you planning on crawling out the window this time?"
Laughter burst out him without thought. "It's not out of the realm of possibility."
"Right. Lock the door. Barricade the windows. Tie you down with Dog. Speaking of—" he handed Dog's leash over to Peter. "Maybe this'll keep you from running off again, yeah?"
The temptation to stick his tongue out was strong, but Peter valiantly managed to withhold it. He gestured to the mouth of the alley. "Lead away, my knight in denim armour."
Jason barked with laughter and modelled his denim jacket roguishly, popping the collar with a wink. "Come along then, princess and noble steed."
The man began to march away, but Peter paused as a thought occurred to him. He had just noticed the imprint of his handgun, tucked into the back of Jason's black jeans. "Sorry about the gun, by the way."
Jason turned and stared, gaze narrowed as he took Peter in. Peter wondered what he saw.
"No you're not," Jason said eventually.
Against his better judgement, Peter laughed, but it was a soft and fragile thing. "No, I'm not."
Jason nodded once, then turned back around and Peter followed without complaint.
Dog trotted along beside him, entirely unaware of the unspoken truce set out between her owner and his new guest.
— + —
Jason definitely didn't want to be here, but with his own special set up trashed by Roman last year, he didn't have much choice. He wanted answers and at least he could trust Barbie to be moderately discrete.
Peter was asleep back at the apartment, conked out with Dog not long after dinner. Jason was reasonably certain the kid wouldn't run off while he was gone but had made sure the hidden cameras were on and the motion detectors were activated to alert him to any movement.
He praised himself again for managing to stick that tracker on Peter. The boy had screamed 'flight risk' the moment they'd walked out his door. Without it, Peter would have probably been lost — the guy could run. He comforted himself with the reminder that he'd hidden another tracker in Peter's shoes. If he didpull another runner, Jason'd be able to track him down again.
With great reluctance, he knocked at the door. Almost immediately, he heard a clunking and the snkof deadbolts pulled back. The door swung open.
"I heard you were back in Gotham," Barbara said. She only looked moderately unhappy to see him, which, frankly, felt like an improvement from some of their past encounters.
"Figured I'd come and say happy birthday," he said, and held up the cheap bottle of red wine he'd bought on the way. He'd even taken the time to stick a plastic bow on the neck.
Barbara was using crutches today. He'd heard the neural implant wasn't working so crash hot anymore[1], but it was one thing to know it, another to see it. When Barbara caught him looking, she glared, daring him to say something, but Jason gestured behind her instead. "Can I come in?"
"No," she said, but stepped back to let him inside anyway.
"Always knew how to make a guy feel welcome," he drawled as he stalked past into her apartment. Barbara shuffled and clunked behind him, but Jason was under no compunctions that the woman was any less of a threat. He'd seen her deck a man and break his kneecap all from the comfort of her wheelchair before.
Jason dumped the wine on the kitchen counter and took in the apartment. Clean lines, wide spaces suitable for a wheelchair and every window had a blind spot to hide in. There were several birthday cards lined up along her kitchen counter and an enormous bouquet of flowers — no doubt from Bruce — sitting pride of place on her dining table.
"Why are you here, Jason?" Barbara asked. She leaned against a crutch but showed no signs of discomfort. "I would've thought you'd be too busy sorting out your empire to see any of us."
She said the word 'empire' with naked irony, though her expression remained neutral. He grinned back crookedly.
"I've been delegating for a while now." Though he'd noticed signs of things creeping back, which he'd have to nip in the bud soon before anything could get out of hand. "It's been a relatively clean transition home."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't think you'll be forgiven that easily."
"What? For Cobblepot?" he drawled. "He's alive and licking his wounds somewhere[2]."
"After you nearly killed him!"
"'Nearly' being the operative word there—"
"And imprisoned him for months!"
He shrugged, unrepentant. "Considering he should have been in prison, I hardly see how that's a problem. I worked by B's rules, even if they're shit."
And he'd not trusted Jason's process. Which was… predictable. Frustrating. Hurtful. But predictable.
For a while there, Jason wasn 't even sure if he was going to let the Penguin live at all.
"He was starving!"
Well. Miguel really had spilled all. He wondered who to? Maybe Drake? Red Robin and Bunker had worked together as Titans, from what Miguel had told him. Jason hoped the guy was doing okay. His 'betrayal' had been disappointing, but not unsurprising. He was clever and likeable and had been thriving at the Iceberg Lounge, but it wasn't a shock that Jason's more… brutal forms of justice might have rubbed the man the wrong way.
"He was on a weight loss plan," Jason said, smirking.
Babs threw a glass paperweight at him.
Jason deflected it easily. It bounced off the back of the sofa and landed with a heavy thud on the floor. The hum of conversation from the downstairs neighbours suddenly fell quiet.
They both stared at it, then at each other. Barbara's lips twitched, clearly against her better judgement, and Jason grinned back in response. His hand was throbbing.
"Still got a mean swing, Babs."
"Of course," she said haughtily, and hobbled into the kitchen to pull out two wine glasses. "Now, why don't you tell me why you're really here."
Jason sat on one of the stools and accepted the glass of wine. It was as disgusting as he'd expected it to be for five bucks. Bitter and drying, but still better than half of the swill he'd had from bottles fifty times the price.
"I had a surprise guest."
"Had?" Babs pulled a face as she sipped at her own glass. "Someone we know?"
"No." He pulled out a little baggie, feeling like a bit of a drug dealer. Inside however, was the blood-stained hanky he'd used to mop up Peter's head wound. "They're definitely not from around here."
Understatement of the century. Jason had a pretty good idea about Peter's origins, but he wasn't about to share them with anyone else. Not even Peter. He kept mum, even when Barbara shot him a suspicious look.
"They're not a hostile," he clarified.
"That doesn't offer much comfort, Jay."
"Just… can you check their DNA? See if they're human, or alien."
"Alien?" She set down her wineglass. "Jason, just who have you found? Are they in Gotham?"
"No," he lied. "I came across them just before I got here. They left with Artemis when we split ways."
Barbara wasn't buying it, but she didn't press further. That was what Jason appreciated about her. Sure, she could be an absolute cow — especially when she had the cape on — but he could trust her to be discrete as Oracle. Provided, of course, her assistance didn't pose a threat to Gotham.
Of course, if Peter was a threat to Gotham, he wouldn't be around long enough for Barbara or anyone else to even get close. Jason would make sure of that, one way or another.
"You know I'll have to tell B if there's anything dangerous going on," Barbara warned as she inspected the blood-stained baggie.
"I'll let you know if they're in Gotham."
"… I'm sure." Her flat stare made it abundantly clear that she didn't believe a word. God bless Barbara for letting it slide.
He glanced at his watch. It wasn't even nine yet. "Well. Better get back."
"Are you on patrol tonight?"
"Probably." Though he didn't want to risk being out too long and Peter deciding to make a run for it again.
Barbara hummed. "Wait here," she ordered, and disappeared into a room at the far end of the living space. He could see several computer screens in the quick glimpse he had before she returned. She tossed him an earpiece, which he tucked into his jacket.
"Since it seems like you're back to stay… however long that lasts," she said. "You may as well keep in contact."
"We'll see," Jason muttered. Barbara rolled her eyes, uninterested in his hesitance.
"It'll be good to have another hand, as always. Most of us are wary about encroaching on your 'territory'."
He raised a brow at her tone. "From what I hear, you've been multiplying by the day. Give it a year and there'll be more vigilantes than civilians."
She laughed softly. "Maybe. And yet it never feels like Gotham gets better."
Jason thought about the Crime Alley of his childhood and shook his head. The streets were brutal, but they'd been monstrous as a child caught rough sleeping. "They are better. Not by much, but they are."
Her expression softened. "I'll take your word for it. And I'll let you know about those DNA results."
"Sure. Keep yourself safe, Barbie."
"Bye, Jay."
He left her to it and checked his phone as soon as she shut the door behind him. Peter hadn't moved, still stuck in a dead sleep. He let himself sigh with relief.
— + —
Text only[HERE]
[1] I've not read a lot of Barbara Gordon's recent comics, but according to her wiki: "as a consequence of her long-term overuse of the neural implant, it has become strained, and resultingly her mobility varies from day to day, ranging from her peak ability to operate as Batgirl to being wheelchair-bound." Also see here: https://www.cbr.com/batgirl-death-metal-oracle-implant/
[2] In the Red Hood: Outlaw run, Jason shot the Penguin for framing his father. Later, after he returns to Gotham after being banished by Bruce, he takes control of the Iceberg Lounge and imprisons the Penguin in his own panic room, while he, Miguel Barragan (AKA Bunker) and a few others ran the casino. Eventually Miguel learns Jason had been imprisoning the Penguin and sets him free in disgust.
[3] Text Messages — Saturday 24th September — 10:04PM
Babs: Hey you know how J is back
The Pretty One: Yes!!! I've been meaning to break in and make him make me waffles
Babs: RIP Alfs waffles
The Pretty One: he probably won't shoot me, rite?
Babs: I think hes got someone with him
The Pretty One: !!! O rly!!
Babs: you should say hi sometime
The Pretty One: I SHOULD!!!