Peter's reconnaissance the night before last helped him find Hood's safehouse with only a small amount of doubling back. He landed on the sloped roof and was immediately aware of several cameras around him, hidden from sight but not Peter's senses.
Feeling vulnerable — he didn't exactly know what Jason's security system entailed but his mind had unhelpfully summoned images of pop-up gun turrets — Peter stumbled on jellied legs to the entry point — a rooflight into what he assumed was an attic — and swiped Jason's card through the reader embedded in the seal of the window.
He waited with bated breath, but the reader didn't do anything dastardly like electrocute him. Just flashed green once and Peter heard the internal locks disengage. Gratefully, he hauled the window open and dropped inside. Pain erupted up his thigh and Peter collapsed with a cry as his leg gave out from under him.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back and watched as the window automatically closed and locked. For a time, Peter lay on the cold laminate floor and allowed him to feel sorry for himself, but his thoughts turned too quickly to things he wasn't allowed to feel sorry for, and he forced himself upright.
Though there were no lights, Peter's eyes could make things out better than most. He had entered an empty room, bland and unfurnished. The only point of entry — other than the rooflight — was a single door that — when Peter gave a cautious rap of his knuckles against — revealed itself to be iron plated.
"State your name and purpose," a deadpan, electronic voice piped up. Peter jumped back in surprise and cursed as he jarred his leg again.
The camera watching him was perched a foot above the lintel and was far smaller than anything he thought 2016 Earth-G was capable of producing. Peter eyed it warily.
With good reason. As the demand went unanswered, Peter's senses spiked with alarm. Something was about to happen, and intuition told him it had to do with Jason's excessive security system.
"Uh… Spider-Man?" he tried.
"Name not recognised—"
The alarm shrieked against his neck—
"Peter Parker!" he yelped, then swallowed, and repeated his name in calmer tone. "Jason told me to wait for him here."
Everything calmed. "Guest authority recognised," said the security system. The locks disengaged.
Feeling even more nervous than before, Peter gingerly pushed open the door. Who knew what would have happened if he'd failed to answer in time — perhaps the gun-turrets weren't too far off as guesses went. But he was grateful to slip into a space that was just dark and cool and smelled faintly of Jason.
Again, the door closed and locked automatically. Peter tried not to feel like a caged bird. It was an irrational thought: there was little chance of anything in here containing him. If he really wanted to leave, Peter could just punch straight through the walls or curtained window and he'd be free.
He flicked on the switch by the door, and the space revealed itself to be a moderately sized apartment — smaller than the one he shared with Jason, clean and far less lived-in. There were no pot-plants, no artwork on the walls, no sign of a place shared with a dog. Not even a fiftieth the number of books, and what there were, were piled neatly beside one of two ratty Ikea armchairs set out in front of a long coffee table. There was a TV mounted to the wall opposite, but as Peter went looking — too curious to help himself — he found no signs of a remote. Was it lost? Or just unnecessary?
The kitchen was equally sparse: only a bar fridge under the counter, which only contained a bunch of protein drinks similar to the kind Peter drank; a carton of long-life milk; three blocks of cheddar cheese (one opened); mayo and a bottle of soy sauce. The tiny freezer had a single bottle of vodka, nearly full, and a bag of frozen peas.
Peter thought about it for only a second before he helped himself to one of the protein shakes. It was strawberry flavoured and tasted even more like cardboard than the chocolate ones did, but it served a purpose, and he figured even if Jason was mad at him, he wouldn't object to be down one terrible drink.
He sipped the shake, interspersed with disgusted grimaces, as he investigated the rest of the apartment-slash-safehouse. The cupboards had the kinds of single-meal non-perishables Peter was familiar with. Canned soup, microwaveable rice and the like. The sorts of things that could be heated quickly after patrol and explained why Jason rarely ate when he came home from his 'night shift'.
Finished with the protein shake, Peter binned it (a little trashcan under the sink), tugged his mask down again and turned to the two other doors. One smelled strongly of Jason; the other of metal and gunpowder. Sure enough, when he tried opening the door to the latter, that robotic voice spoke up: "Guest permissions do not allow access."
He left the door alone: who knew what kind of security Jason had installed to keep people out of what could only be the armoury. A bit ironic if you asked Peter… considering how much Jason had left lying around their apartment.
Door number two, please.
This one opened easily, no lock engaged. Inside was a bedroom, though the bed looked like no one had slept in it for months, blankets drawn down in military-crisp corners. There was a bathroom off to the left, and a dresser that Peter beelined for. Blood had dried hard into his suit and he wanted out of the sensory nightmare before his skin healed into it. That was an experience he'd like to never have again, thank-you very much.
Dressing himself however, was easier said than done. With his leg untreated, there was no way Peter was wearing anything but boxers on his lower half, even if the black sweatpants he found in the bottom drawer were very soft. He settled for one of Jason's standard hoodies — this one a dark blue — and limped with his loot into the bathroom.
He flicked the light on.
He immediately flicked it off again.
Too much. Too bright. The tiles too white, and though they bore no resemblance to the grimy tiles of the indoor pools, Peter couldn't shake the overlay of memories, too fresh to have been softened into a blade that couldn't cut.
What did you do, Pete? You could have killed him!
Breathing out slow, Peter undressed in the pillowy dark, pairing his boots and gloves beneath the sink and leaving his bloodied pants — tugged down with a bitten-off yelp of pain, just like a band-aid — in the shower to rinse off later. His top he left on, and threw Jason's hoodie over it all.
The mask remained where it was. Peter couldn't bear even the thought of exposure of naked lighting.
Couldn't bear to look at himself.
He fumbled in the dark — there wasn't even a window for his enhanced vision to rely on — and found what felt and smelled like a first aid kit in the cupboard under the sink. Big, like the one his Aunt used to own. For all your bumps and scrapes, she joked when Peter was little. When he was bigger, it was restocked. This time for the kinds of things that made her eyes go tight with worry, no crinkle of comforting smiles to be found. His aunt still joked, but there was no running from the pain in her gaze as she stitched him together with nurse-steady hands.
He fled the bathroom with the first aid kit in tow and ended up back in the living space, sitting on the cool wooden coffee table, rather than stain the — admittedly shitty — armchairs with his blood. With clumsy fingers, he opened the kit and the nostalgia of antiseptic nearly bowled him over. His hands trembled through his search for a dressing and bandages. A cursory inspection of the wound — a gash only about three inches long on the outside of his right thigh — had him deciding he could get away with stitches, provided he took it easy.
Of course, Peter hadn't taken it easy getting here — some of the blood on his pants had been fresh — but that was whatever.
He tore into the dressing and slapped it over skin too grimy for the stark white gauze. That needed to be cleaned. A reasonable thought to have, while Peter clutched at the bandages. But the kitchen sink suddenly felt impossibly far away, and thinking about the water made him think about a pair of pools and the sound of frenetic splashing juxtaposed by deathly still waters and—
Peter lost time again.
— + —
"You should have told him."
"I don't want to fucking hear about it, O."
"I might not have seen what he did, but I heard, Hood. You promised he wouldn't be a danger."
"And I fucking promised I'd deal with it! Well, this is me dealing with it."
"What do you think Batman's going to do when he realises they're one and the same?"
"I don't give a flying fuck. If that fucking sanctimonious bastard so much as touches him, I'll tear him a-fucking-part."
"… You're serious."
"As a kid in a coffin."
"Ouch."
"Don't cross me on this, Oracle. This is myjurisdiction."
"… You have to know that's not true."
"He's in Park Row, isn't he? That makes him mine. Batman can call this his city all he wants, but he wasn't born here. He didn't starve on her streets. He didn't half freeze to death during her winters. No, he lives up in his castle, safely tucked away from everything and everyone he claims to protect."
"And what does that mean, Hood? For Spider-Man?"
"… I guess I'll decide that as soon as I find him."
"As if you haven't already made your mind up."
"Oracle—"
"No. I know you, Hood. You're mad and you're scared, and you're mad that you're scared. Just… don't do something you'll end up regretting."
"Give me a little credit." The rumble of an engine abruptly died. "Didn't I already stop him from doing that?"
The transmission cut off.
— + —
Jason was certain that every joint audibly creaked as he launched himself off his bike and set up the standard security measures on her. The pain was tempered by the anger that stewed away in his gut, set off by Batman like it always was but kept alight by Babs and his own uncertainty about Peter.
Because Jason was worried. About Peter. About what Peter could do to others if he got like that again. About what Peter might do to himself.
Because that show of violence wasn't one born from necessity. It was birthed by rage. And a temper and vigilantism didn't make healthy bedfellows. Coupled with meta powers like Peter's? … It spelt out nothing good. It was the exact sort of thing Batman would use to justify chasing him out. His way or the highway.
The one positive… Peter had snapped out of that rage almost immediately. Jason hadn't even needed to get heavy handed in order to stop him. That he could do so… Jason was on the fence as to what that could mean.
Was Peter truly that mercurial? It seemed… unlikely. Live with someone for long enough and you draw a good picture of the kind of person they are. Jason couldn't think of another time he'd seen Peter so angry. In fact, the only other time that came to mind was the nightmare Jason made the mistake of interrupting.
Which probably meant anger at such a scale was uncommon for Peter and triggered by trauma. Not good for someone hoping to make a name for themselves in Gotham. If Peter wanted to be of use, he'd have to learn how to get a hold of those triggers, instead of beating the ever-loving shit out of the next rogue that looked at a Gothamite wrong.
Not that scum like Valentin deserved the mercy, but Peter? Peter did. While Jason was perfectly willing to carry the weight of murder in his heart — certainly if it meant there were less murderers around — he understood perfectly well that wasn't a burden anyone should be ready to take. And Peter was firmly in that category. It was plain as day, right down to the horrified sounds Peter made when he realised what he'd almost done.
Still… Jason understood the anger. He didn't need to see what the man had done in that room to know it would've been no skin off Jason's back to kill Valentin. If Batman had been just a few seconds later, he would have. No point privileging the life of a beast over the rest of Gotham. Not when he'd only pull the exact same shit again the next time he got out.
Shouldn't have flinched.
Jason grit his teeth as he input his security code into the garage door. He shouldn't have fucking flinched. But try as he might, he couldn't escape the crushing weight of daddy dearest's disapproval. If only the tearing of the batsymbol from Jason's chest really could have freed him from the burden of that relationship.
Anger and exhaustion made his tread heavy as he clambered up the stairs. He tore off his muzzle but left the domino on, wiping off the sweat that gathered on the heated skin beneath. There was nothing like the moment the masks came off, but tonight the relief was marred by the guest he knew waited for him upstairs.
The door to the safehouse apartment was locked, but his security system showed that Peter had entered through the rooflight, as expected. It was silent in the apartment when he opened the door, but the lights were on.
"Peter?" he called, voice clipped by his mood.
No response. Jason took out his Jericho — better safe than sorry — and entered slowly, only to freeze the moment he rounded the corner and entered the living space. He lowered the pistol.
Peter was sat on the coffee table, rather than one of the armchairs Jason had picked up from Craigslist. He'd helped himself to one of Jason's hoodies, but seemed to have decided that pants were a step too far — both for being borrowed or worn. For the briefest of seconds, Jason was caught by the creamy expanse of skin, before he realised Peter was still wearing his mask.
And he hadn't reacted to Jason's entry.
Irritation battled with concern. He stepped properly into the space. "Peter."
The mask kept Peter inscrutable. There was the briefest of twitches, but Peter remained where he sat, staring at the kitchen.
"Take the fucking mask off," Jason growled, and did the same to his own, dropping it to the floor. "I wanna see your face for this conversation."
Peter turned to him now but made no attempt to follow Jason's orders. My, wasn't that familiar.
Infuriated, Jason stormed over, grabbed the mask with both hands and yanked it off Peter's head. He tossed it to the floor. Peter blinked up at him, face caught with surprise. His hair was an absolute mess.
"Hey there, Spider-Man," Jason sneered. "You with me at last?"
"Ah," Peter said distantly, a dreamy smile on his face. "You lose."
Artwork by by Thosedamnedghouls (Tumblr)
Artwork by madamenyxillustrations
The anger was immediate and blinding. "You think this is a fucking game? You fucking hypocrite!" Jason snarled and hauled Peter up by the front of his hoodie. Peter let him, still trapped in that dreamy state. He wanted to shake Peter's shoulders until reality rattled back into him. "You get up me just for breaking some asshole's leg, and then you pull shit like that? You're a fucking meta! The fuck you think woulda happened if you'd aimed for the head?"
"I would have killed him." Peter almost absent-mindedly grabbed Jason's forearms to support himself, the hoodie big enough he could have slipped straight out. The compliance only fuelled Jason's anger.
"You would have fucking killed him! You're a fucking liability! You think Gotham needs someone like that? You didn't listen to my orders. You didn't do your research. And then you go and nearly kill someone!"
"I don't see the problem," Peter said. His voice was calm, devoid of affectation. It sent Jason's hackles up even further. "Isn't that what you'd prefer, Jason?"
"It is," he hissed. "But just 'cause I'm happy with a little bloodshed doesn't mean I need some impulsive little shit turning up and copying me! Do you know what it feels like to kill someone, Peter?"
Peter sucked in a breath, and finally, finally it felt like he was coming back to himself.
"No," he said, suddenly hoarse. Those dark eyes latched onto Jason and refused to let go. "But I know what it feels like when they die anyway."
Jason's fists tightened on the hoodie. "Pete—"
"Do you what it's like to hear someone's heart stop, Jace? 'Cause I do. Ben. Mr Stark. My aunt. I may as well have killed them."
They were more names than Jason had heard since Peter fell into his living room, and evidently a significant source of that cancerous guilt that was eating Peter away from the inside. Jason's anger died an abrupt and fiery death.
With a heavy sigh, Jason set Peter down, though he didn't let go of the hoodie. He suspected if he let go, Peter would topple right over.
"You're inexperienced, Pete. Not evil. But Gotham doesn't need sprinters. Working for this city is a marathon. You can't afford to be like you were tonight. That's how you get killed."
"And what a loss," Peter muttered sullenly. Jason could have slapped him.
"It fucking would be, dipshit!" Unable to help himself, Jason tugged Peter in for a hug. "There's so much good in you Pete, it hurts to look sometimes. Don't go spoiling that."
Hot breath puffed against his neck, and then Peter wrapped his arms around Jason too, tight enough he could feel Peter's whipcord arms even through his body armour.
See Babs? No regrettable actions here.
by Onxymystkes 😭😭😭 (Tumblr)
And then Jason saw what Peter had left on the coffee table. The first aid kit from the bathroom, sterile bandages and the discarded packaging of an antimicrobial dressing.
He wrenched himself back and Peter blinked up at him in surprise. "You're hurt?"
"Huh?" Peter frowned like he couldn't remember.
"Jesus, Pete," Jason sighed as he saw the culprit of his concerns. The lack of pants suddenly made a lot more sense. Peter had slapped the dressing on the outside of his thigh but hadn't gotten any further before he'd slipped out of reality. "Did you even clean it?"
Peter's silence was damning. Jason cursed.
"Is that the only one?"
"Yes."
Jason didn't think he could believe him. With brisk, business-like hands, he gave Peter a once over, waiting for even the tiniest signs of pain but none were forthcoming. Fine.
"Sit the fuck down," he ordered.
"It's fine—"
"It ain't fucking fine," Jason snapped. He stalked over to the kitchen. Pulled out a bowl, and a bunch of washcloths. Back with Peter, he grabbed one of the saline washes from the kit. "Don't you know anything about proper wound care?"
"… I heal fast."
"That doesn't—!" Jason cut himself off before he could fall into a rant. Peter's self-worth was in the pits: falling into a lecture about taking care of himself would be less than helpful on a night like tonight. Instead, he knelt on the floor by Peter's leg. "I'm taking off the dressing."
"But—"
"I don't wanna hear a fucking word."
Peter looked away, but Jason thought he might have been smiling faintly. He let Jason peel off the gauze to reveal the damage.
The original wound wasn't too bad. Definitely a gunshot wound, but it was shallow and not too long. Still, Peter's actions had aggravated it, and it was notpretty, the skin around the gash red and inflamed. He imagined Peter's crawl through the ceiling hadn't helped either.
"This'll need stitches, you know. You want some painkillers?"
"I'm not a kid—"
"I know. Don't mean you should feel pain."
Peter sighed and shrugged. "They don't last long enough."
"I'll give 'em to you when I start sewing, then." It wasn't too big: if he was quick, he might be able to get it done before the drug was completely metabolised. Jason made a mental note to invest in some of the painkillers the JL used for their metas. There had to be something there Peter could use. If Peter was as careful with his body as he'd been tonight, he expected they'd be in demand.
Silence fell as Jason got to work, flushing out the wound with the saline. The sound of their shared breathing and the drip drip drip of bloodied saline into the bowl filled the space between them. When satisfied he'd cleaned it as best he could, Jason set the bowl aside and dabbed the skin dry.
Peter's skin wasn't unblemished. Jason had noticed it weeks back: Peter did have scars, but they looked old, melted into the skin until he couldn't be sure which came from Peter's cape work, and which were the signs of general wear and tear from a childhood well spent.
Peter's breathing hitched when Jason pulled out the needle, forceps and localised anaesthetic.
"I told you—"
"Just humour me. I'll work quick." Jason squinted up at Peter as a thought occurred to him. "You're not allergic to lidocaine, are you?"
Peter shook his head. "I wasn't before."
Before whatever made him part-spider? Jason hadn't forgotten that pithy comment about radioactive spider bites, but it seemed too far-fetched a cause for his meta abilities. Now they'd come clean about their identities, Jason would finally have a way of bringing up the spider DNA woven through Peter's body. The curiosity had been a killer.
He worked with little fanfare: just sprayed the anaesthetic around the wound and began sewing Peter back into one piece. Haste made his work messier than he'd like — Alfred wouldn't have approved — but it was only as he was tying the knot on the final suture that Peter's muscles twitched beneath his hands.
"Done." He sat back on his heels, pleased with himself.
Peter offered a shaky smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do I get some candy, doctor?"
"I might have some chocolate," Jason mused. He couldn't remember if he'd restocked his candy stash.
"If it's one of those protein shakes, I'll pass."
"Oh? Help yourself to my kitchen, did you?"
Peter's eyes crinkled into a true smile. Finally. "As they say: mi casa es su casa."
"Oh, I see how it is," Jason drawled. He dropped the used needle and remaining thread into the bowl with the saline and smeared the wound with antiseptic cream. "You go on one vigilante play date with a guy and suddenly what's mine is yours, huh?"
Peter sobered. "… You're not mad?"
He frowned at the change of mood, trying to parse out Peter's line of thought. "… That you're Spider-Man?"
Peter nodded mutely.
"Naw. I already suspected you'd been doing something similar before you came here." Jason grinned. "You made quite the impression."
Peter groaned and dropped his head in his hands. "It was the web-shooters, wasn't it?"
"It was the web-shooters," Jason agreed, saving the term for later investigation. "Are you mad?"
"At you?" Peter asked, peeking between his fingers. "For not telling me you were Red Hood?"
It was Jason's turn to nod.
"No. I… know why you did it. After all…" Peter swallowed nervously. "It's not just your secret to tell, is it?"
Knew he was clever. Jason felt oddly proud and set about distracting himself from the thought by putting a new dressing over the sutures. "No mob theories anymore?"
"No," Peter agreed. "No rich people fight clubs, either."
That startled a laugh from Jason. "So that's what you were thinking, eh?"
"That's what I was thinking," Peter murmured, still smiling.
As he began wrapping Peter's thigh, Jason figured he'd push the matter from before. "Peter… that anger…" he glanced up. "Have you done anything like that before?"
"… Yes…" Peter admitted. "Just — just the once. He killed my—" he broke off, gaze distant. Jason feared he'd started dissociating again, but no, it seemed the truth was just difficult to voice. "He taunted me." Peter's eyes slid back to Jason's. "I fell for it."
"But you didn't finish him off, did you?" Jason was confident in this judgement. Peter may have been haunted by guilt, but not that kind of guilt.
A shake of his head confirmed Jason's deduction. "I was stopped. I… don't know what would have happened if I wasn't… Jason," Peter clutched Jason's forearm, tight but not enough to bruise, and Jason stopped his bandaging. "I think I would have killed him. If I'd not been stopped."
"Would he have deserved it?"
Peter's mouth fell open with surprise, as if he expected Jason to tear him a new one again. "What?"
"This man. You said he killed someone — someone important to you. And he was taunting you about it? Seems to me like he deserved anything that came his way."
"No." Peter was shaking his head desperately. The hand on Jason's arm tightened. "Jace, he was sick. He was — I didn't really know the ins and out, but his mind, it'd been altered. When we gave him the antidote, he was horrified." Peter abruptly let go and buried his head in his hands. "I nearly killed him, but he was saveable!"
Understanding flooded Jason. No wonder Peter was all over the place, if that was his defining moment of anger. Someone who'd hurt him terribly, who Peterhad been about to hurt terribly in return, brought back from the brink of damnation.
Of course he'd think redemption was an option for everyone.
"Not everyone is like that, Pete." Jason wanted Peter to understand, so desperately it was mortifying. He clutched at Peter's knees with the force of it, and the bandage fell loose. "You think Batman hasn't tried redeeming all his rogues? What do you think the purpose of Arkham was even for? But here, in this city — this world — we can't afford to prioritise the infinitely small chance of redemption over the welfare of the many."
"But, Jason, don't you see?" Peter stared back, just as desperate as Jason felt. "They can be saved! It's just a matter of finding the right cure!"
"A cure?" Jason scoffed, blood suddenly boiling. "You think all the rogues are just mad? No, Pete. Some of 'em, they're just fucked. Sure, they do a great show and dance at madness, but they're as sane as you or I. They just don't care. And in the meantime, while we're trying to work that out? How many people die, Peter? How many victims, like the one that man killed? Why? Why does he deserve mercy, when he shows none in return?"
You're getting off track.
Jason sucked his teeth in frustration. "Surely there's been times, in your world, where the big bad had to be put down. Where there was no alternative. That's what this job asks of us, Pete."
Peter didn't even notice Jason's slip up. His eyes were somewhere else. "Thanos," he whispered, and then looked away, as though afraid of the very memory.
"Thanos?" Jason echoed. "Who's Thanos? What'd he do?"
"He was—" Peter suddenly froze. His eyes snapped up and off to the bedroom. His arm sprung up, wrist shooting off web before Jason could even formulate a complete thought.
There was a wet thwak and a deep grunt as a body hit the wall.
"Oooh, so sorry mate," a distinctly English voice drawled as Jason jumped to his feet. "Was I interruptin' somethin'?"
Jason lowered his Jericho with a heavy sigh. "As always, you've the shittiest timing."
John Constantine grinned rakishly, entirely unconcerned by the webs sticking him to the bedroom door. "What can I say, Todd? I live to please."
END PART ONE