Chapter Text
Peter fears he may have died, and this is some sort of hell. Last he remembers, he was standing next to Dr Strange as he casted a spell… but this shouldn’t have happened? Peter had woken up on the floor of some dock, head on a swivel until he realised what had happened.
Did the spell malfunction? Is this just a really, really, bad part of New York that Peter had never seen? No. Not possible. There is no part of New York that Peter hadn’t seen at least twice, and he thinks he would definitely remember this place.
Running on the assumption that this is a foreign city – country, even – Peter stands up and debates his options.
Task 1: Find out where he is.
Task 2: Find the two essentials, shelter and food. Make that three – Shelter, food, and new clothes.
Task 3: Can he go back home?
Satisfied with the humble beginnings of a plan, he begins to walk towards the end of the dock.
He needs to find some civilian clothes. Fast. He debates crawling under the dock or into the water to hide himself, but a double check of the area shows there is no one nearby anyways. His only concern might be a security camera, but hopefully if he moves fast enough it won’t matter.
Peter makes a quick dash towards the closest building and slips himself into an alleyway. Surely there wouldn’t be any cameras here. He takes a deep breath in and scans the dark, grimy vicinity for a dumpster of some kind, or a bag of old clothes he hopes for optimistically. He clocks two bins in this alley, which he thinks is a little overkill. This city must go through a whole lot of rubbish to have two right next to each other.
He slinks over and begins digging through the first dumpster. Going through a dumpster in full Spider-Man gear is objectively quite mortifying – and probably not good for his potential reputation in this city country, but Peter mourns as he tells himself he doesn’t have much choice. The quicker he gets out of the suit, the quicker he can embarrass himself all he wants. Not literally. Just because he could embarrass himself doesn’t mean he wants to.
His overall assessment is that this dumpster is useless, unless he was in need of a broken umbrella or a single sock. Peter stands up and cracks his back slightly, then begins making his way towards the second dumpster. This one is a lot closer to the opposite side of the alleyway entrance, so anyone walking past and looking closely may spot him. Luckily for him, only a few items in he spots some reasonably ok clothes.
There are oddly formal dress pants and a quite large flannel shirt, as well as a weirdly stained pair of underwear that Peter thinks would be better if left behind.
Did the underwear come along with the suit pants? What happened for them to be stained like that and nothing on the pants?
He pulls the slightly off-putting outfit on, deciding that it will do just fine. Looking like a civilian was more important right now. Next on his list was food and shelter.
Peter glances over the dumpster again. Maybe searching for some food here wouldn’t be a bad idea. Just to give him a boost to keep going.
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Dick almost doesn’t stop. It was heading towards the end of his patrol, and his brain was already halfway home, which is probably why it took him a full second too long to clock the figure in the alleyway. Young child – maybe teenager – elbow deep in a dumpster at 2am. Dick isn’t sure how, or even why, but he can feel something slightly off. Maybe he is more tired than he thought.
No matter the feelings he has, he should still check on the kid. At least, make sure they’re ok and offer something. Maybe Harper is still on shift at the shelter and could get the kid a bed for the night. Deciding his next move, Dick drives his bike over to the other side of the road and hops off next to the alleyway. The child presumably hears his bike and pauses, looking up.
Oh jesus.
Dick freezes, a few steps away from his bike as he makes eye contact with the child. The child – which he now can safely presume is a boy, maybe 14 years old or so – that has a giant bleeding head wound.
“Are you okay?” He blurts out. He isn’t sure that’s what he should have started with, but God forbid he ignore the dribbling blood. The boy quickly pulls his arms out of the dumpster and stands up straight, eyebrows tightening slightly as he looks Dick up and down.
“Yeah. These are, uh, my father’s clothes. We were playing dress up and I dropped my bracelet.”
Dick blinks at him for a few seconds in disbelief. “At 2am.”
The boy rapidly pulls his hands behind his back. “He’s a fun dad.”
Dick feels at a loss for words. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He closes it.
“So do you know what city we are in?” The boy blurts out suddenly, saving him from thinking up a new question.
“Sorry?”
“The city,” The boy gestures vaguely at the general surroundings. “What’s it called.”
“…Gotham.”
The boy lets out a strained chuckle. “Right, yeah, of course. I knew that.”
He very clearly did not know that.
Dick looks him up and down, unsure of what that reaction means from him. “I know a guy at a shelter not far from here. If you needed somewhere tonight,” He pauses. “Not that you do, if your dad’s coming back.”
The boy looks at him for a second. “He’s coming back.”
“Right.”
Neither of them believes this.
“I’m Nightwing, by the way.” He says it like it’s an afterthought, although it definitely isn’t. “Didn’t catch your name.”
“I never threw it.”
Dick blinks. “…Fair enough. You want to throw it now?”
“Richard.”
It’s an outdated name now, but maybe he created a rise in popularity. “Oh wow… Do you have a last name?” Or maybe this kid’s mother just really liked the name.
The boy stops for a beat. “Grayson.”
what.