Chapter 4

Most of the five hundred dollars he stole from Bruce Wayne goes towards his uniforms, and he’s lucky to get five shirts, two pairs of pants, and a single blazer with Gotham Prep’s logo stitched across the breast pocket out of it. The fabric isn’t even that good, which annoys him more than it should. Rich people will pay top dollar for bottom barrel quality, apparently. He and Aunt May could make better quality uniforms with a sewing machine and a weekend.

He uses the remainder of his cash at a secondhand shop to pick up more clothes and a few threadbare blankets then visits a generic big box store to pick up a roll of tarp and the cheapest camp stove he can find, plus camping utensils. The sturdy kind that somehow manage to be three separate things at once.

Room temperature peanut butter is starting to get stale and depressing as a meal. He portions out a fraction of what’s left (a whopping $20) to buy a small pot and dry beans and rice. That essentially wipes out his bank account until the stipend deposit on Friday.

He makes his squatter’s hovel more palatable after that: the tarp is tacked into place in the corner near the bathroom, creating a small ‘room’ beneath it. His sleeping bag and blankets are tucked inside it, with his backpack serving as a pillow. The beans and rice are kept inside the backpack to keep them out of reach of the mice that live in the walls of the firehouse.

It takes him two days to get his living space in order. It’s comfortable enough. The tarp traps in heat he would otherwise lose, the bag of rice inside his backpack makes a decent enough pillow, and the extra blankets help soften the otherwise rock hard floor. Not bad.

And then the second worst part of absolute poverty hits him: the absolute boredom and loneliness.

---

As before, the boredom drives him to the rooftops. If he’s going to be lonely, he can be lonely above the smog of the city where the air doesn’t taste like exhaust and sewer gas.

And as before, Nightwing visits him.

“Hey, Pete!” Nightwing says, dropping down on the rooftop. He wanders over and leans against a rusted HVAC system. “Nice night, huh?”

“Nice enough,” Peter says, standing up from the ledge and walking over towards him. Nightwing always tenses when Peter wanders too near to it. “How’s your patrol going?”

Nightwing loses just a bit of tension to his shoulders as Peter walks away from the ledge. “It’s been quiet tonight. I’m bored out of my mind.”

“Yeah, me too,” Peter says.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Nightwing turns to him.

“Hey, wanna learn some parkour?” he asks.

Peter grins.

They start simple. Peter’s balance is impeccable when he’s not balancing himself on one hand. He takes to Nightwing’s lessons like a fish to water, mastering the simpler concepts easily. By the end of it, he can jump and run over and along obstacles without losing speed. A pretty handy skill to learn for someone lacking their web shooters. Peter’s speed almost always comes from his webs. Learning how to keep up that momentum when he’s running is a good idea.

By the end of it, he’s exhausted. He hasn’t had a workout like this since Titan, and it shows.

Peter flops back against the HVAC system. “Hey, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve fought as a superhero?”

“Weirdest?” Nightwing squints into the air above Peter’s head, frowning in thought. “If we’re limiting it to the past, uh, year? Probably the Killicorn.”

Peter looks at him, tilting his head.

“A mutant gorilla unicorn with pink fur,” Nightwing explains, sitting down beside him. “Trust me, it was an interesting fight.”

“I’m almost jealous. I just fight muggers and bike thieves,” Peter says, amused.

“You’d be better off running away and leaving that to me,” Nightwing says. He’s quiet for a moment, then tilts his head at Peter. “What brings you up here today? You seemed a little down.”

“I guess I’m a little homesick,” Peter admits. “Not that it matters. I can’t go home.”

Nightwing watches him, and Peter can all but hear the man weighing his words. “You can’t go home?”

“I’m not sure there’s even a home for me to go home to,” Peter amends. “Outside of Gotham, that is.”

At least, not in this universe.

Peter shakes his head. “Not that it matters. I’m here. I’ll be here for awhile. I just miss New York.”

Nightwing is silent for a few seconds. “What do you miss most about home?”

“Right now?” Peter asks, thinking. His immediate answer ‘getting a hug from May and sleeping in my own bed’ is a touch too honest. He’s afraid if he admits that, he’ll break down in tears, and that’s the last thing he wants to do in front of Nightwing. “Delmar’s sandwiches.”

“Yeah?”

“Delmar ran this little bodega in my neighborhood. Best sandwiches in Queens. I’d get a number five after school, all smushed down flat, and eat it while wandering around the city,” Peter says. God, he misses those sandwiches. “It was just the right balance between meat, peppers, and oil. Barely any oil and vinegar, but a ton of peppers and meat.”

Nightwing tilts his head, amused. “Maybe I’ll look him up the next time I’m in New York.”

“You should,” Peter says. He stands up and stretches. “I better go. I’m wiped.”

“Good night, Peter.”

“Later, Nightwing.”

---

The stipend deposits into his account that Friday and unfortunately it doesn’t go as far as he’d hoped. It’s enough for food for his higher metabolism, trips to a laundromat, and a few toiletries, but only barely. It becomes very clear that his budget margins will be razor thin for his stay in Gotham.

He skips a meal or a two to pick up some electronics. The best part about starving is that you can get used to it. That also happens to be the worst part, but whatever. He’ll live. Rice and beans for every meal is starting to get boring anyway.

He gets lucky and finds an electronics shop near the firehouse. He picks up a small solar panel, a soldering iron, wires, a charging cable, a battery pack and a rechargeable LED lamp. It’s enough to give some light, but the battery is cheap and not efficient in the least. Even when he tightens his belt, skips a few meals, and shells out for a supposedly top of the line battery, he’s sorely disappointed.  It lasts four hours, and sometimes not even then.

It’s better than nothing, though. And the light brightens his mood and makes the place look less dreary.

Another week passes him by. He uses his stipend for an airtight bucket to keep his food inside. The bucket doubles as a stool, which he uses at the desk in the dilapidated office. Bored and terribly lonely, he takes apart the broken radio and begins to fix it.

It’s vintage, with smooth wood and chrome along the outside. The receiver inside is busted beyond repair, but that’s an easy fix with his leftover electronics.

It’s actually soothing working on a project like this. It reminds him of the Compound, and Tony’s lab, and the memory forms in his mind.

“Got a project for you, Underoos.”

“Am I doomed to have that nickname forever?”

“Yes. Project time: build me a radio.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I want to see how your brain works before I give you access to all the highly advanced lab tools.”

“Okay, okay. I’m going old school with it.”

“You’re going old school on a project in a futurist’s workshop?”

“Yes.”

“This is because I called you Underoos, isn’t it.”

“Also yes.”

The memory is a familiar one. It’s the first step Tony took to really become Peter’s mentor, and the first time they found true common ground between them. Tony had been nervous and unsure, but encouraging. When he realized Peter had some talent in engineering–that his webshooters weren’t just some lucky fluke–he fully came into his element. The nervousness disappeared, and the tips and tricks of the trade came out in full force.

They spent hours on that radio. Not because it was a difficult task, but because they would both be sidetracked by conversation and the different tricks they used in their own separate processes. Peter had given him that radio at the end of the day, and Tony had kept it on his desk in the lab. It’s probably still there, gathering dust.

Peter sinks into the memory with ease. It seems clearer than usual. Sharper. And he’s pretty sure Dr. Strange, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, and other various people weren’t there at the time. They crowd the edges of the memory, some watching curiously, others facing away as if to give him privacy. It’s hard to focus on them, so he doesn’t bother trying.

He finishes with the radio by sunset, snapping out of his work groove, and leans back to look over the result. What had been a scratched, broken mess is now an art deco style radio with the word Stark across the front of it. He turns it on, and the Stark lights up, flickering in time with the static. He fiddles with the dial and finds an oldies station that seems to switch between genres at will; one moment it’s 80s pop, the next it’s 90s rock, and at one point it switches straight to 40s big band music.

It’s not his mp3 player, but it is nice to hear some music again, even if he only hears one song for every five ads that play over the air. He leaves it on that channel and listens to it while he gets ready for school tomorrow. He needs to get up early if he wants to catch the train on time.

---

In Midtown, Peter is known as a loser; a dork among dorks. His clothes are unfashionable at best, his movements awkward (first by nature and then because he overthinks trying to look normal), and he carries a reputation for being a flake. Still, he can blend into a crowd among his fellow students and no one gives him a second look or thought.

In Gotham Prep, he sticks out like a sore thumb. Sure, there’s a uniform, but that just means flashes of wealth shift to the quality of fabric for the uniform, then jewelry, then–the most obvious show of wealth–shoes.

His shoes, scuffed and a dirt tinged grey, are out of place among the polished leather shoes and flashy brand new sneakers others are wearing. That’s to say nothing of his obvious hand-me-down uniform jacket, too big pants, and loose shirt. He looks downright shabby compared to everyone else. Even the teachers look down their nose at him, and a fair few of the professors don’t look much better than him. For them, it’s acceptable eccentricity or rebellion. For him, it’s poverty. And there’s nothing more offensive to the rich and well to do than poverty.

And that doesn’t even touch his accent or the fact that he has absolutely nothing in common with any of the students here. He’s the weird poor kid with a low class accent wandering around halls full of people discussing what they should name their third yacht. People have literally turned their nose up at him as he moves past them.

“Do not show weakness to them, child.”

Another one of those strange thoughts-as-a-voice. This time, it sounds like Loki Odinson.

“Stand up straight, little spider.” This one is younger, female, Wakandan. Princess Shuri. “You’re smarter than all of them. You belong here.”

Yeah, except he quite literally doesn’t. Still, he loses his self conscious slouch, straightening up into a confident stride he’s seen Tony use before, and walks towards his locker. It opens easily, and he stashes his backpack inside just as the first bell sounds off.

Right. He can do this.

---

School is school. By turns boring, exhausting, and interesting. The only real difference in Gotham Prep is that he doesn’t have Ned nearby.

His first wake up call happens in history class.

“All right, who can tell me the year the Justice League was formed?” the teacher asks. He’s a stern looking man, bald on top, with thick grey eyebrows and a near perpetual glare on his face. “Mr. Parker?”

Peter snaps out of his post lunch daze, suddenly aware of every other student staring at him expectantly. “I—sorry, what?”

“The Justice League, Mr. Parker. When did it form.”

Oh god. The Justice League doesn’t sound so different from the Avengers, really, and it is a parallel universe, so maybe– “Uh. 2012?”

There’s a brief pause, and then the teacher sighs. Snickers erupt around the room. “No. Who has the answer? Mr. Bright?”

“Mr. Parker, I want an essay on the Justice League on my desk by Friday. Three pages minimum. Single spaced.”

Great.

---

The cafeteria is less cafeteria and more like a fancy buffet. It smells heavenly. He covers his tray in food; roast beef, rolls, steamed vegetables, mashed potatoes, and anything he can get his hands on. It earns him more than a few funny looks, but he’s too hungry to care. Frankly, he’s already a loser in the eyes of most of the people here. He might as well be a well fed loser.

He doesn’t bother trying to sit with any groups, opting for a table in the back corner away from everyone else. It firmly marks him in the friendless loser strata of the school population, but whatever. He wouldn’t even know how to begin a conversation with most of the people in this school anyway.

And it’s easier to sneak dinner rolls into his jacket pockets when no one’s looking at him.

---

Homeroom is right after lunch. He opts for a pass to the computer lab and starts looking up the Justice League.

He should’ve investigated this further. There’s no Avengers, no Battle of New York, no Sokovia Accords. People aren’t enhanced, they’re metahumans (which is objectively cooler in Peter’s opinion), and there isn’t quite as much tension among the population over them. Which is probably why there’s no Sokovia Accords. Superman’s had such a lasting, positive impression that the government has taken a hands off approach for the moment.

Interesting. He should probably figure out a way to call that guy someday. If only to let him know that Peter’s not dead.

For the first time in his life, Peter becomes just as interested in history as he usually is for chemistry or physics. He prints off as many articles as he can find and even manages to sketch out an outline for his paper. He’ll write out his report by hand and type it out during homeroom during the week.

The rest of his day is, fortunately, boring and peaceful. His only real trial is staying awake after having a full meal during lunch.

---

He crawls into his firehouse with a massive sigh of relief and shucks off his blazer as soon as he’s inside. He grabs one of the bread rolls he smuggled home from lunch and starts to gnaw on it while getting ready to start on his report. The train ride is a long one, and the sun sets early in Gotham, so he’s left with his tiny lamp sooner rather than later. He’s only halfway done with his paper when the LED lamp he put together blinks out and plunges him into darkness, too.

“Seriously, what is with the tech here?” he mutters as the lamp flickers. “It’s a battery pack. It should last twelve hours. Even the cheapest knock off uses some of Tony’s design–“

He stops short, a sudden realization hitting him.

There’s no Tony Stark in this universe, and aliens haven’t invaded and left their tech behind for someone to tinker with and reverse engineer. Of course their power tech isn’t what he’s used to. He sighs and rubs his forehead. All of the tech here is probably two decades or more behind.

“Right. No Tony, no cheap and reliable energy sources,” he says. He stares at his unfinished report, then looks outside.

The streetlight outside is still on. One of those big sodium bulb lights that he’s only seen in the oldest parts of New York. The light it gives off is a strange green tinged white, washing out everything beneath it and somehow making the street seem more sinister and lonely than if it were full dark.

But it’s working. And he needs to finish his report.

He grabs his things, shrugs on his coat, and steps into the street. The wind hits him, hard and cold, and he ducks against it as he moves across the street. He sits beneath the lamp and starts on his homework again.

The wind picks up, and the air becomes downright frigid after the sun fully sets. His hand is trembling and pale by the time he finishes, and his teeth are chattering. But he finished. And he’s honestly tired enough that he might sleep tonight. Bonus.

A thought enters the back of his mind, and sounds a lot like the Winter Soldier to him.

“Go back inside,” he says. “It’s too cold out here for you, kid.”

He’s officially cold enough to hallucinate.

Well, the guy’s right. It is too cold out here for him. He shuffles back inside the fire station and tucks himself under the blankets, coat, shoes and all. The tarp has done its work; the wind doesn’t quite reach his sleeping area, though a brief gust stirs the edges of it now and then.

When the shivering ends, he falls into a restless doze. A few minutes later, red energy in the shape of a hand materializes above him, presses against his forehead, and he enters true sleep for the first time since he woke up in that horrible machine.

---

His sleep is horrific. He manages (because what other choice does he have), but it’s rough. The cement floor is freezing, the wind cuts right through his uniform blazer, and he spends most of the night shivering.

And when he sleeps, he dreams of death and failure and dust.

Tony’s impaled, crushed, turned to ash the way Peter did–every form of death his mind can dream of. Sometimes Thanos stabs Peter. Sometimes the Guardians, sometimes Aunt May or Ned or–

At one point, he sees Star Lord crushed by rocks from the moon Thanos threw at Tony. Peter stares at his body, and is horrified when Star Lord snaps awake and glares at him.

“This isn’t how it happened! You saved us!”

Peter freezes, stuck in a whirlwind of confusion and guilt. More voices shout around him, though he can only see Star Lord.

Star Lord’s voice, distant and upset, cuts in. “Do something to help him, man! Figure it out!”

“Spaceman’s right,” Falcon says. “He can’t keep going like this.”

“Fine,” Dr. Strange says.

Peter’s nightmare freezes, then washes away in a wave of green light. Peter’s left in the dark. He whimpers, half asleep, tossing and turning, fingers bunching the thick fabric of his blanket–

Wait. Blanket?

He opens his eyes and looks down. The blanket is thick. Heavy, red and warm–and not a blanket at all. It’s a cloak.

He knows this cloak. It’s Dr. Strange’s friend.

When he looks up, he finds he isn’t in the firehouse. He’s in a library. Bookshelves line the walls, stretching up to the ceiling, every inch of them weighed down by thick, leather bound tomes.

“Mr. Parker. Welcome,” a voice says, deep and rich and familiar.

“Dr. Strange?” Peter asks, sitting up and rubbing his forehead. The cloak follows his movements, keeping him warm, and he’s forever grateful for that. “Where—is this real?”

“In a sense. This is a dream, and like a dream, it will fade when you wake up,” Strange replies. “The others and I thought you deserved a decent night’s sleep. We won’t be able to do it every night, but we can intervene every now and then.”

“The others?”

“Myself, the Guardians, a certain number of the Avengers, King T’challa, Princess Shuri, Director Fury, Maria Hill, and–“

“Why do you bother wasting your breath? This is already a waste of your power, sorcerer. The child will not remember a moment of this when he wakes,” another voice says, sneering and bored.

A man steps out from the shadows, dressed in green robes. He has one of the larger leather bound tomes in his hands.

Peter stares at Loki. Strange only sighs.

“And Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard.”

“Charmed, though we’ve already met,” Loki says, distracted by whatever book he has open in front of him. “Your history on the Anshega is laughably incorrect, sorcerer.”

“Why are you here again?” Dr. Strange asks.

“Because I want to be here, and while your powers are admittedly impressive, your skill leaves a lot to be desired. Go on,” he says, waving a dismissive hand. “Speak to the spider. I won’t interrupt.”

The exasperated look on Strange’s face mimics Tony’s annoyed expression so well that Peter is briefly thrown.

“As I was saying, Peter,” Strange says. “You’re safe here. You’ll wake in the morning, refreshed and comfortable. We’re all going to take turns with this.”

“But I won’t remember?”

“Not completely. You can hear us and react to us on some subconscious level, but you won’t remember it. Not until you begin to learn how to use the stone.”

“Is that something I should learn?” Peter asks.

“Perhaps,” Dr. Strange says slowly. “There would be consequences. I wouldn’t recommend it at the present time.”

“Well, you’re the wizard. You’d know.”

“Sorcerer,” Strange corrects. “At any rate, you’re safe. You’re warm. You will wake rested. Until then, your dreams will seem much more lucid than normal.”

“So, I’m asleep in real life, but awake here.” Peter thinks, looking around the library. It feels as real as anything, but there’s a subtle sheen to it around the far corners. “What should I do until morning?”

“Whatever you like. You’ll just be trapped inside a pocket realm of our own making for the duration.”

Peter looks at the nearest bookshelf. “Do you have a copy of The Lord of the Rings?”

Strange chuckles, and the book appears in Peter’s hands. Loki looks up from his own book, frowning curiously. “Enjoy, Mr. Parker.”

---

He finishes his report early, and turns it in ahead of time. The permanent frown on the history teacher’s expression softens by a microscopic amount after that. Peter becomes less of a target for hard questions, too. Which is nice.

The rest of his classes pass by as usual. He’s taking a range of normal classes this semester: physical science, chemistry, literature, modern history, and gym. His chemistry class only meets twice a week during block periods, but he manages to start the process for creating his web fluid, which is nice.

He has yet to make a single friend. Or to be acknowledged by anyone but his teachers. That isn’t surprising. His only real friend in Gotham is a guy in tights that leaps off of buildings for fun, who would also probably take him to jail if he knew Peter was a thief.

School does lend a sort of stability to his life that he needs, so he can’t complain too much.

---

The stipend deposits at the end of the week. Peter could go get a decent dinner somewhere, or more electronics to toy with, but riding the train and walking several blocks from the subway to the school has worn him out. It’s also after dark, and muggers always become braver when the sun sets. The last thing he needs is to lose a meal to a group of assholes hiding inside one of the many dark alleys that pepper the Bowery.

Instead of dinner, he opts for the rooftops. And he’s not surprised when Nightwing makes another appearance.

Nightwing swings up to the rooftop and drops down beside him. He offers Peter a sandwich wrapped in parchment paper, pressed flat. “It’s probably not Delmar quality, but…”

Peter could hug the guy. “I’m not complaining. Where’d you get this?”

“I made it,” Nightwing says easily, pulling out his own sandwich. “The sky’s clear enough that we might see stars tonight. Oracle says there’s a meteor shower that’s supposed to start soon.”

“You think we’ll be able to see them in the city?”

“Definitely. This is supposed to be a big one. My brother’s been nerding out about it for weeks,” Nightwing says, taking a bit out of his sandwich. “He’s had his telescope set out for hours.”

“Your brother?”

“Red Robin,” Nightwing says. “You probably haven’t seen him yet. You might.”

“I’m sensing a bird theme here.”

“It’s a good theme,” Sam says, distantly.

Nightwing grins. “Birds are cool.”

Peter shakes his head, turning to his sandwich. It isn’t Delmar quality, but it’s damn close. And it’s one of the nicest things anyone has done for him since coming to Gotham. He takes his time eating it.

They sit together on the rooftop, watching the meteor shower flash above the city.

For the moment, Peter knows peace.