Chapter Text
There are no stars in Gotham. No planes in the sky, no clouds. The moon is covered by gauzy smog, light fighting to get through. Still, it's familiar. It's not too dissimilar to New York. Sure, the pollution is more blatant; you can't hide from the fact you're breathing in chemicals and dirt. But the rain still reflects like mirrors on the sidewalk and the streetlights still shine like stars.
Peter hums, peaceful and content at the city he now calls home.
“You blend with the shadows,” Robin snips at Peter, landing next to him on the roof. He's wearing the darkest version of his Robin suit, more blacks and burgundies and less greens and yellows and reds.
That speaks nothing good about the kid's mental state.
“What? Like it's hard?” Petter shrugs, turning his gaze back to the horizon. “Gotham's so dark it’s harder to not be hidden.”
Robin makes a derisive noise, every fibre of his being exuding the fact he doesn't believe Peter’s bullshit for even a second. Too bad for him, it's the only answer Peter will give.
“I have brought the tools for my training,” Robin announces formally, choosing not to comment further on Peter's very reasonable explanation.
Peter’s mouth quirks up in the corners in fond amusement. He walks to the centre of the rooftop and sits down, legs crossed. “Great,” he nods to the space in front of himself. “Come sit.”
Obediently, Robin sits opposite Peter. Once again he kneels, back straight and hands placed upon his thighs, a mimicry of their last interaction.
He'd look like a perfectly trained student, if not for the annoyed twist of his mouth, subtle but there. Good. He may not be arguing back about his training yet, but there are sparks of attitude bleeding back through - more of the persistent, stubborn, strong-willed Robin Peter knows.
“So,” Peter’s expression twitches into a smile, “how did popsicle making go?”
Contrarily, Robin scowls, his mask bunching up in the middle as he scrunches his nose in displeasure. “Perfectly adequately, although I still fail to see how this helps with my training,” He utters stiffly, his muscles coiled with tension.
“Oh?” Peter keeps his voice light, not wanting to spook Robin away, “Shall we have a look at them then?” He doesn't comment on his reasoning. Not yet anyway.
If possible, Robin is even more tense as he brings a box full of popsicles out of a cooler.
The popsicles are interesting to say the least. There are, maybe, three whole popsicles, uniform and as they should be. Surrounding that perfect trio are an amalgamation of colourful, crumbling, half shaped blobs on splintering sticks.
Peter hums thoughtfully.
Looking back up at Robin, Peter smiles. It's a small smile, something warm and gentle crinkling at his eyes rather than a prominent upturn of his lips. “Good job,” he says genuinely, not a single ounce of disappointment in his voice.
Were he someone else, Peter thinks Robin’s jaw may have dropped open, however Robin is trained past the surprised action. Instead there's a second of pause as the vigilante processes the words before the viewable part of his face twists into a familiar indignant scowl. “They're awful, why are you praising me?”
“Because you did the task I gave you to the best of your ability.” Peter’s smile doesn't waver, sincerity is open on his face. People need praise. If you continuously criticise or correct or scold someone you only help in building self doubt and resentment. Peter refuses to be like that. It's more important to him that he appreciates Robin's effort rather than judges his success. “I'm proud of you for that.”
Robin’s mask scrunches as the bridge of his nose, his lip pulling up into a sneer. “Do not patronise me,” his accent comes out on the posher side, self importance bolstering to hide his worries and fears.
“I'm not,” Peter shrugs, keeping his own body language calm and his voice genuine. “You did well.”
Robin stares at Peter, eyeless mask to guarded eyes. He sits silently for longer than comfortable, but Peter waits. Robin's expression flattens, his voice cool, but no longer hostile when he speaks, “...What is the point of this?”
Peter hums in thought, eyes scanning over the popsicles. He picks up the one nearest to him. It's shaped somewhat like a lopsided Christmas tree, orange flavouring sticky and melting down the broken stick. Cracks run through it, so close to breaking the ice in half. Splinters poke out through the ice, like a horror story waiting to happen. “Would you say this is a well made popsicle?” Peter asks lightly, holding the popsicle up for the both of them to look at it.
“Of course not,” Robin scoffs, dismissing the notion immediately. Peter would bet the kid probably rolled his eyes too.
“And what makes it illmade?” Peter prods, as if he doesn't know.
“It is lopsided and broken apart!” Robin snaps, waving a hand at the popsicle in frustration.
“Why?” Peter tilts his head.
“Because the stick is broken!” Robin’s voice raises in annoyance, not understanding why Peter is dragging this out.
“It is,” Peter nods slowly, twirling the popsicle between his thumb and forefinger. “Interesting, isn't it, that once something is pushed past its limits, injured and broken, it can't continue as it once did.” Peter tilts the popsicle to the side as a large chunk crumbles off of it. “It can never be exactly the same.”
“I am not a stick,” Robin deadpans, completely done with the analogy.
“No,” Peter agrees, putting the popsicle back with the rest. “You're far more important.”
Robin scoffs, “This is ridiculous-”
“Is it?” Peter interrupts, tilting his head to the side as he tries to figure out whatever Robin might be thinking.
Between one beat and the next something snaps. It's too quick for Peter to realise the change, to be able to stop Robin’s spiral or to change his own phrasing.
Robin’s hands clench into fists, his voice a wounded hiss as he speaks, “I'm not broken.”
“No. Robin, no. Of course you're not broken.” Peter immediately soothes, his voice a gentle but determined coo. That was never what he was trying to imply, never what he meant to say. Peter's sure he used to be better at talking to people. Back before- Anyways. “My point is that you use your body like another tool, as if it doesn't matter and can be easily replaced.”
Peter is more than familiar with the self sacrificing pull of responsibility when you're wearing the mask, more than familiar with what pushing too hard can do in the long term. His shoulders still remind him with a dull phantom ache when the weather is too bitter and cold. They scream an echo of every strain and dislocation from every swing on a web and every time he used, in desperation, more strength than his body could handle. He still feels the aches of his life before retirement, and that's with accelerated healing on his side. Robin doesn't have that.
A small frown creases Peter's eyebrows. “Your body isn't a popsicle stick, you can't just replace it when it's damaged. And if you push your body too far, push yourself too far, eventually you'll be too hurt to continue as you once did.” At best. If he pushes himself too far, continues to use himself like he's some sort of replaceable pawn then he's going to- he could- Peter blinks forcing the thought away. Being a hero comes with very real risks. Peter knows that. Robin knows that. “Your health matters, your body matters. You matter. You're not a popsicle stick, but if you keep pushing yourself, one day-” Peter cuts the thought off again. The ending for heroes and vigilantes tends to be one of three, and retirement is, unfortunately, the least likely.
“I don't want you to sacrifice yourself unnecessarily,” Peter concluded, an old weariness seeping into his voice. “There are ways to reach the outcomes you want without continuously sacrificing yourself like a pawn. You're not a weapon. You're a person.”
Robin’s fists don't unclench, but slowly as Peter keeps talking some of the tension bleeds out of him. “Why are you doing this?”
There's a lot of answers Peter could give to that, from the fact Robin stalked him into it to straight up vibes. But avoidance and sarcasm aren't what the kid needs, and despite never wanting to, Peter cares for Robin. “Because,” he shrugs slightly, “you deserve to be protected too.” That's what it comes down to. That's what Peter always seems to come back to.
“You're wrong,” Robin disagrees with cold certainty. The tension that had begun to ease away comes back in full force.
Horror and dread sink a knot in Peter's stomach. “Robin. You're strong and skilled and great at what you do,” Peter will never invalidate that. Not like people did to him. “But you're still a child. You deserve-”
“You understand nothing.” Robin sharply cuts in.
“I-” Peter bites his tongue. “Okay. Help me understand then.” Talking over Robin isn't going to do anything but push him away.
Peter takes a steadying breath and listens.
Robin was clearly not expecting that. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly a couple of times, but Peter doesn't interrupt. He gives Robin the time he needs to think and to form how he wants to answer. There's no pressure, just a companionable hush, waiting.
“I am loved,” Robin starts, “cherished even. My mother would burn the world for my happiness. My father would break himself for my joy. My siblings and friends would twist their morals in order to come to my defense. But I do not deserve it.” Robin clenches and unclenches his fists. His voice, while attempting to be emotionless, chokes at his own words. There's a hatred, a self loathing present that burns at his throat as the words pour out.
“I am a killer,” Robin states. The words sweep over Gotham as if they're any other sentence. Killing is nothing new here. “There are few deaths I regret. I am the monster that other monsters fear. A corruption of everything I touch-” Robin's hand moves up to his chest, fingers drifting over the R symbol there. He doesn't think he deserves Robin. Once upon a time he'd believed it his birth right, but now it is a mantle he drowns in. Never deserving, never enough. Still, it's his, for better and for worse. “I do not deserve kindness. I do not deserve humanity or humility. My past is full of horror of my creation. There is no retribution for the actions I have taken, no peace after what I've done.” Robin’s voice cracks as he speaks. Dull nails scratch at the Robin R like a lifeline- or a curse.
His words blend with a memory in Peter's mind. Red hair and bitter smiles echo so similarly: ‘There’s red in my ledger’.’ That had been Natasha's reasoning for so long. Both an excuse and a shield. Peter sees the same in Robin now. He's certain that if he could see Robin's eyes they'd contain the same burning guilt and desperation for redemption.
Slowly, Peter nods. “You're right.”
Robin nods sharply, as if he'd been expecting nothing else. As if condemnation is the only answer available.
“You can't change your past actions,” Peter continues, “and perhaps your actions in the future will cause just as much pain.” Everyone uses pain, some people do so more than others, and sometimes the past is set, it can't be changed. Peter still wishes that it could be. But still- “So what?”
Robin startles. He splutters in shock. If a person could be shocked into rebooting the way a computer can, Peter thinks this is what it would look like.
“What? How can you dismiss it so easily?” Robin sputters, his voice barely below a yell.
“People aren't inherently good or evil.” Peter offers a small, sad kind of smile. “Yes, you've caused pain, you've done bad things, and there are probably some people who will never forgive you for that. But doing bad things doesn't mean you can't do good things too. It doesn't negate the people you help. Good is a choice, one you make every day.”
Robin immediately shakes his head “I do not-”
“You put that suit on, don't you?” Peter cuts off what will undoubtedly be another spiral of self doubt. “You chose to go out, to risk your life to help others.” Every single night Robin makes one of the hardest decisions he can. Whether to help or not. He chooses to take that responsibility and carry it. Every time he puts on a mask, every time he sacrifices his time for others happiness, every single time he chooses to try and do something good. “Just because you're capable of awful things, doesn’t mean you can't choose to do good instead.”
Robin's mouth twists at the corners. “I corrupted it,” He murmurs. It's possibly the quietest Peter has ever heard Robin's voice. A near silent confession for only Robin, Peter and the wind to hear. “What Robin is supposed to be. I am violent and abrasive and-”
“And-” Peter reaches out and covers Robin's hand, flattening it against the R so he can no longer claw at it. “-the way I hear it, you're the most like the original.”
Robin freezes. “Excuse me?”
“You know him?” Peter prompts, wondering whether the idolisation is from growing up knowing of Robin, or from knowing one of the previous ones himself.
Robin bristles, “Of course-”
“And you look up to him,” Peter cuts him off before he can say more about the past Robin than Peter (a simple barista) needs or wants to hear.
“He is-”
“Wonderful?” Peter waits until Robin nods to continue. “Brave? Kind? Everything you're not?”
“Yes!” Robin snaps, using his free hand to gesture emphatically.
“Wrong,” Peter immediately corrects. “Robin, the first one, was a sassy, violent, volatile individual. His temper only evened out towards his much later years in the role.”
Robin looks aghast at the insinuation that the first Robin was anything like that. “How would you know?” He huffs, grumbling in such a teenage way that makes Peter almost relieved. “You weren't even here then.”
“No,” Peter agrees, “but people still talk about him. Talk about you all. You know a lot of people around here,” Peter gestures to the city around them, his eyes lingering over the rooftops, “have mixed opinions about Batman,” Fear mostly. Peter hasn't figured out where the ingrained fear comes from yet, but something about the Bat has people terrified and awed at the same time. “But the rest of you? The violent multicoloured hoard of vigilantes that run around Gotham? They sing your praises. So what if you're violent?” Peter shrugs. “Gotham is violent. At least you choose to use that violence in hopes of doing good.”
“You make it sound simple,” Robin scoffs in disbelief. He tugs his hand away from Peter's, turning his head to look over the city too.
“Do I?” Peter tilts his gaze back to Robin, watching as the kid looks over Gotham. “It's not,” He says with brutal honesty. If this is the path he’s choosing to take, then Peter won't hide from Robin just how hard being a vigilante is. “Sometimes, waking up and choosing to help is the hardest thing you can do. But here you are,” Peter gestures at him, “still doing it. And yes, maybe you've hurt people, and you definitely will hurt people again. You're a person, it's inevitable. People hurt people, just like people help people. That doesn't mean you can't learn from those actions, and it doesn't mean that it's always your fault.” Peter shuffles around, until he's next to Robin, looping and arm over his shoulder. Despite his grumbling, Robin leans into the reassuring hold. “You're not made to be a weapon, you're so much better than that.”
“What if being a weapon is all I know?” Robin admits quietly.
Peter squeezes his shoulders, “Weapons don't hug. There's no guide to how to live. You just do it. You're doing it. And you rely on the people around you to help. That's all anyone can do.”
Robin rests his head on Peter's shoulder. They stare over the city in silence for a few minutes.
“You'll help?” Robin eventually mutters, Peter's enhanced hearing the only reason the words aren't lost to the wind.
Peter squeezes his shoulders again, “Yeah, bud,” he whispers back, the agreement lacking its usual sigh, “I'll help.”
Robin presses himself into Peter's side, letting himself be held. For a moment he lets himself feel his age, lets himself depend on someone else.
They sit there long into the night, until Robin silently half bows, collects the melted popsicles, and grapples away.
He still has a job to do after all.
–
Peter sighs as he walks home, his hood pulled up to fight the cold. Numb fingers pull out his phone, the screen somehow even colder than he is.
Somehow his phone has filled with notifications in the time he's been out.
The first message is from an unknown number.
xxxx: Meet me at the docks. 1am Monday.
In a very mature and definitely advisable way for when one receives a slightly ominous text message, Peter types out a quick response:
wrong number ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
The next notification is a singular message in his, Ocean, Zach, Priya and Maddie's group chat.
The Peter Is A Criminal Conspiracy Is REAL
As with every time Peter reads their group chat’s name, he sighs.
Still, he clicks on the message.
Priyaforpresident: Peterrrrrrrr
Peter squints in suspicion upon seeing his name. Being yelled for in this chat usually leads to either amusement, exasperation, or (on one very memorable occasion) someone sending a valentine's card to Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy (they did not send one back).
Manofmanynames: ??
Priyaforpresident: Party next Sat :D
Usually Peter would be somewhat less resistant, but party means many people, and many people sounds exhausting right now.
Manofmanynames: no?
zach(no cody): Nonoptional 🤷
Peter rolls his eyes. He expected that answer, but he thought it would come from Priya or Ocean, not Zach. The betrayal.
Manofmanynames: for why?
zach(no cody): For socialisation
WayV: Bring your fbs if they're free
Peter squints at the message. It's not that he'd been keeping them away from Kara and Ry, there just hadn't been a situation for them to meet. Now though, Peter quietly huffs to himself in suspicion. They're planning something and, like the true friend he is, he will absolutely be avoiding whatever their scheme is.
Manofmanynames: theyre not my fuck buddies
Peter repeats for probably the millionth time. They're friends, it's just sometimes they do other stuff too.
Priyaforpresident: Are they your friends?
Manofmanynames: yes…
Priyaforpresident: Do you fuck them?
Manofmanynames: …
Priyaforpresident: Fuck buddies then
Peter rolls his eyes even as he has to force back a fond smile.
WayV: Bring them, we'll play truth or dare!!
zach(no cody): no!!
Priyaforpresident: Yes!
Madatyou: No.
zach(no cody): Truth or dare has been vetoed
zach(no cody): Do bring em tho
Manofmanynames: whos even going to this party?
Madatyou: Us five, your fbs
Peter glances up from his phone as he turns another corner, not wanting to be distracted before he knows whether anyone is there. No way he wants to get into a situation. That would be really annoying. A vigilante could show up-
Peter shudders.
A quick glance around shows another empty street so Peter keeps typing.
Manofmanynames: thats not a party
Manofmanynames: thats a normal hangout plus you lot being nosy
zach(no cody): So you won't come??
Manofmanynames: i'll come
WayV: No fbs?
Manofmanynames: no
They'd meet again eventually and Peter will be more than okay with it, but for now it's a matter of stubbornness and a decent dose of fear for the world as he currently knows it.
Manofmanynames: you lot might set the world on fire together if you meet
WayV: Boooooo
Priyaforpresident: Boooooo
zach(no cody): Boooooo
zach(no cody): Not cool bro
Manofmanynames: sorrows prayers
Manofmanynames: etc
Madatyou: Sus
zach(no cody): We sure they met randomly? Are they actually your henchmen??
Peter starts typing that that theory holds no wait, before sighing and immediately hitting backspace. They'll just tease him more if he argues.
WayV: Big criminal behaviour ngl
Priyaforpresident: A TALLY
Manofmanynames: …
Manofmanynames: night🫰
He doesn't think any of them will buy the idea of him going to bed, even if it's past 2am but it doesn't stop Peter from attempting a diversion and to dip.
Priyaforpresident: Rude! Come back here!!
Manofmanynames: go to sleep ❤️
Priyaforpresident: Never!!
Madatyou: I'll make sure she goes to bed
WayV: Wink wink nudge nudge
zach(no cody): Get it
Madatyou: Goodnight.
Peter smiles at Maddie's faux annoyance. Still, the others drop it and move on.
WayV: Night love yall!! 💙
Manofmanynames: love yall ❤️
zach(no cody): Love you!! ❤️
Priyaforpresident: I WILL NOT BE SILENCED!!
Priyaforpresident: But love yall 💚
Madatyou: Love and stuff 💕
Peter closes the chat. He's about to check his next notification when alarm bells suddenly ring in his head. He braces himself just before he's slammed into a wall.
Freezing steel presses harshly to the centre of Peter's forehead, an ominous click of the gun’s safety sounds through the (oddly, now Peter actually allows himself to think about it) quiet streets.
The person holding him to a wall has a (stereotypical in Peter's expert opinion) ski mask on.
When he speaks his voice is rough, gravelly with a cough as if he smokes three packs a day. “Yous the coffee guy?”
Peter blinks, “Uhhhh-” What? Why is someone pointing a gun at Peter the Barista on purpose. He didn't even do anything this time. With an internal sigh Peter puts on his game face. Time to gaslight. “No? I'm more of a hot chocolate person?”
The man pulls him forward only to shove Peter back against the wall, making the air leave Peter's lungs. “You think ya funny? Yous work at that coffee shop right?”
Peter coughs slightly, regaining his breath, “Sorry dude, I work at a bar, not a coffee shop.”
The man squints at Peter. He quickly shakes his head. “No. You-”
A crash sends him to the floor, Peter's impeccable balance (thank you child gymnastics lessons and nothing else) keeping him upright.
A flash of purple shifts between the man on the floor and Peter.
“Need some help?” Spoiler asks, way too happily.
Peter regrets every single life decision that's led him here.
There's a rustling sound behind Spoiler. Peter quickly steps to the side, slowly fleeing to the next corner. “I'll leave it to you.” he waves a hand in gesture at the man.
“Wait,” Spoiler reaches out to him, forcing Peter to very quickly dodge (thank you physical education and Captain America PSAs). “I wanna talk to you!”
“Guy with a gun!” Peter points just as the man finds his feet (and his gun). “Focus!” Peter waits just long enough to see Spoiler huff with frustration and turn back to the man, before he rounds the corner and legs it away.
That's enough vigilante interaction for a lifetime, thanks so very much.
–
It's not until Peter is entering his building that he clears enough notifications to reach Nastya’s messages. Concern races through him when he finally reads what they say.
Anya: Did you move the first aid kit????????
Anya: Nvm found iylt
Anya: *it
There's nothing after that, and the message was one of the first he'd received. It was sent hours ago, pushed down by each new notification Peter received.
The elevator doesn't move quickly enough. Peter anxiously taps his foot while shaking his hands back and forth.
Dread builds with every second that passes.
When the elevator finally beeps, Peter runs to his apartment. Fumbling with the key for longer than he'd like, Peter eventually slams the door open.
His eyes are immediately drawn to Nastya, who is standing over the couch.
There's no visible injuries on her. She freezes lika deer in the headlight at the door slamming open. Her wide eyes stare back at Peter, her hands holding onto a bandage she'd been about to apply.
There's a different sinking feeling of deja vu as Peter steps inside the apartment, flicking the door shut behind him. It's almost ironic, the scene before him. Because there on his couch is once again an unfamiliar person.
A person who happens to be an unconscious mess of blood and red superhero suit.
Nastya shoots Peter a sheepish smile. “I can explain?”
Peter looks from the hero to Nastya and to the hero again. How could this happen again? Already.
Why is this Peter's life?
Horrified exasperation is all Peter can feel. “What the f-”