The wind howls around the Statue of Liberty's crown, carrying snow that stings like glass. Peter Parker clings to the torch, watching Doctor Strange's hands weave impossible patterns in the air. Golden runes spiral outward, each symbol burning brighter than the last.
MJ and Ned stand twenty feet below on the scaffolding, faces pale with exhaustion and hope.
Peter's ribs still ache from the fight with Goblin. His knuckles are split, bruised purple-black. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the other wound—the one that's still raw, still bleeding.
*Aunt May.*
He pushes the thought away. He has to. If he thinks about her now—about her final words, about the way she smiled even as the light left her eyes—he'll fall apart. And he can't fall apart. Not yet. Not until this is fixed.
"Is it working?" Ned shouts over the wind.
Strange doesn't answer. His expression—usually so controlled—flickers with something that might be doubt. The runes shudder, crack, reform. The air tastes like ozone and copper.
Peter's Spider-Sense tingles. Not the usual scream of danger. Something else. Something *wrong*.
"Strange—"
"Quiet." Strange's voice is strained. "The spell is... unstable. Too many alterations, too many variables. I'm trying to contain it, but—"
One of the runes fractures.
Then another.
The spell doesn't collapse—it *inverts*. The golden light turns sickly green, then white-hot. Strange's eyes widen.
"No. No, that's not—"
The spell **twists**.
Peter feels it in his bones, in his blood. Reality itself groans like overstressed metal. The runes rewrite themselves, flickering through configurations too fast to follow. Words appear in the air, ancient and burning:
**REMOVE PETER PARKER FROM EVERY WORLD WHERE PETER PARKER EXISTS**
"Strange, what does that—"
"GET DOWN!" Strange throws his hands forward, trying to force the spell closed, but it's too late. The magic has already interpreted its own meaning. Already found the most *literal* solution.
A rift tears open behind Peter.
Not a portal. Not a doorway. A *wound* in space itself, jagged and screaming. Through it, Peter sees nothing—not darkness, not light, just a howling absence that makes his eyes water.
"PETER!" MJ screams.
He tries to leap toward them. His hand outstretches, fingers grasping for something, anything—
The rift pulls.
It's not wind. It's *gravity*, rewritten. Every atom in Peter's body yanks backward. His fingers scrape the metal torch, slip, catch—then lose their grip.
"NO!" Strange reaches out, conjuring shields, chains of light, anything to anchor Peter to this world—
But the spell is too strong. It was *designed* to be absolute. To remove Peter Parker from existence itself.
And it's working.
Peter tumbles backward into the void. He sees MJ lunging forward, Ned grabbing her before she falls. He sees Strange's face contort with horror and guilt.
He sees the last thing he'll ever see in his universe:
MJ's lips forming words he can't hear over the roar.
But she doesn't know who she's shouting them to.
She doesn't remember *him*.
Peter opens his mouth to scream her name, to tell her everything one last time, but the rift swallows sound, swallows light, swallows everything—
And May's voice echoes in his skull, her last words to him:
*With great power, there must also come great responsibility.*
Then he's falling through white.
Not falling through space. Falling through *reality*.
Universes blur past him like cards being shuffled. He sees flashes—other New Yorks, other Avengers Towers, other versions of himself in the red and blue suit. Each one flickers and vanishes as the spell's logic carries him past.
*WHERE PETER PARKER EXISTS*
Each world rejects him. Each universe has its own Peter Parker, its own Spider-Man. The spell won't let him land. Won't let him stop. It searches, rewriting probability and space, hunting for the one requirement it needs to satisfy:
A world with no Peter Parker.
Peter's vision blurs. His lungs burn. He doesn't know if he's breathing, if he's screaming, if he's even still *alive*—
*May's hand going limp in his.*
*"We did it, May."*
*"You did."*
And then—
**IMPACT.**
Not physical. Dimensional.
The white shatters like glass.
Peter slams into *existence* with a force that drives the air from his lungs. Rain. Cold. The smell of rust and garbage and something acrid he doesn't recognize.
He's on his back, staring up at a sky choked with clouds. No stars. Just the sickly orange glow of a city that never sleeps but never dreams either.
He doesn't know it yet, but he's in Gotham City.
Peter rolls onto his side, gasping, clawing at the wet concrete. His suit is scorched, torn at the shoulder. His web-shooters flicker—damaged, but maybe functional. Everything hurts. Everything is *wrong*.
The Spider-Sense is screaming.
Not at a threat. At the *city itself*.
Peter forces himself to his knees, then his feet. Looks around. He's on a rooftop, surrounded by gothic architecture that belongs in a horror movie. Gargoyles leer from the corners. The buildings look old—not historic old, but *decayed* old. Crumbling. Below, the streets are nearly empty, and the few people he sees move quickly, heads down, like prey.
"Okay," he whispers to himself, voice shaking. "Okay. This is fine. This is... where am I?"
He pulls out his phone—cracked screen, no signal. The date reads correctly, but when he tries to search for Avengers, for Stark Industries, for *anything*—
**NO RESULTS FOUND**
"No. No no no." Peter's fingers fly across the screen. He searches for his name. For Midtown High. For FEAST.
For May Parker's obituary.
Nothing.
It's like none of it ever existed. Like May never existed.
Peter's knees buckle. He catches himself against the rooftop edge, bile rising in his throat.
May is gone. His entire universe forgot her too. And now he's here, wherever *here* is, and she's just... erased. Like she never mattered. Like she never raised him, never loved him, never died because of him—
Peter vomits over the side of the building.
When he's done, shaking and sweating despite the cold, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and forces himself to look up at the skyline.
There's no Avengers Tower piercing the clouds. No Stark satellite arrays. No MetLife Building. The architecture is all wrong—too gothic, too angular, too *hostile*. This city wasn't built with hope. It was built with bars on the windows.
A sound behind him.
Peter spins, fists up—
Nothing. Just shadows.
But the shadows here *move wrong*.
His Spider-Sense flares again, sharper this time. A warning. Something is watching him. Something that's been watching since the moment he arrived.
Peter backs toward the edge of the roof, every instinct screaming that this place, this *world*, is dangerous in ways he doesn't understand yet.
A newspaper tumbles past his feet, caught by the wind. He grabs it.
**GOTHAM GAZETTE**
**CLOWN PRINCE OF CRIME ESCAPES AGAIN - MAYOR DEMANDS ANSWERS**
*Arkham Asylum officials remain tight-lipped about how the city's most dangerous criminal walked out the front door for the third time this year...*
Peter stares at the headline. "Gotham? Where the hell is Gotham?"
He's from Queens. He knows New York. He's been to other cities—Berlin, Venice, London. He's never heard of any "Gotham."
And "Arkham Asylum"? "Clown Prince of Crime"? What kind of—
The realization creeps in slowly, coldly:
He's not in New York.
He's not even in his *world*.
"Oh god." His hands start shaking. "Oh god, Strange, what did you do?"
*May would know what to do. May always knew what to do.*
*But May is dead.*
A deeper shadow detaches from the darkness behind him.
A voice, low and rough as gravel:
"You're not from here."
Peter whirls around.
And freezes.
Because standing on the rooftop is something that shouldn't exist. A man—at least, he thinks it's a man—dressed head to toe in armor. Dark gray, almost black. A cape that moves like it's alive. And on his chest, a symbol Peter's never seen before: a bat, wings spread, outlined in yellow.
But it's the cowl that stops Peter's breath. Pointed ears. White lenses where eyes should be. A face designed to terrify.
This isn't a hero.
This is a *predator*.
"Who—what are you?" Peter's voice cracks.
The figure steps forward, and Peter realizes he's been completely outmaneuvered. He never heard footsteps. Never sensed the approach until it was too late. His Spider-Sense is still screaming, but it's too late.
"I could ask you the same question." The voice is controlled, analytical. "Enhanced strength. Reflexes faster than human baseline. Bio-luminescent costume. You're a meta."
"A what?"
"Metahuman." The figure's head tilts slightly, studying him. "Or enhanced. Possibly extraterrestrial. What are you doing in my city?"
"*Your* city? I don't—I'm not—" Peter's mind races. "Look, I don't know where I am, I don't know who you are, I just want to go *home*—"
"Where's home?"
"New York! Queens! I'm from—" Peter stops. Looks around at the alien skyline. "I *was* from New York. But this isn't... this isn't my New York."
Something shifts in the figure's posture. Not relaxation—assessment. Calculating.
"Dimensional displacement," the figure says. Not a question. A conclusion. "You're from another Earth."
Peter's eyes widen. "You—you *know* about other Earths? How do you know about—"
"I know a lot of things." The figure's hand moves to his belt. "Including that unknown metas appearing in Gotham rarely means anything good. So you're going to come with me, answer some questions, and we'll figure out what to do with you."
It's not a request.
Peter's fists clench. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on. Who are you? Where am I? What—"
"Gotham City." The figure takes another step forward. "And if you want to survive the night here, you'll stop asking questions and start cooperating."
Peter's Spider-Sense explodes.
He jumps backward on pure instinct—and something metal whistles through the space where his head just was. It embeds in the rooftop with a sharp *thunk*.
Peter stares at it.
It's shaped like a bat.
"Did you just throw a *weapon* at me?!"
"Warning shot." The figure's voice doesn't change. "The next one won't miss."
Peter's mind reels. This person—this *thing*—just attacked him. Unprovoked. No Sokovia Accords, no due process, no "let's talk this out"—just straight to violence.
What kind of world *is* this?
"I'm not your enemy!" Peter's hands raise, trying to de-escalate. "I'm lost, I'm—" His voice breaks. "I just watched my aunt die. I watched my entire universe forget I exist. I don't—I can't—"
"Then you'll understand why I need to verify your story." The figure produces something from his belt—a small device that hums with energy Peter doesn't recognize. "This will be easier if you don't resist."
Peter's breath comes faster. His every instinct says *run*. This person is dangerous. This person doesn't trust him. And Peter has no idea what that device does.
But where would he go?
He's alone. In a city he doesn't know. In a *universe* he doesn't know.
May is dead. MJ and Ned don't remember him. He has nothing. He *is* nothing.
And the man in the bat costume is right about one thing:
If Peter wants to survive—
He needs answers.
Peter's shoulders slump. "Okay. Okay, I'll... I'll cooperate. Just—please. I need help."
The figure studies him for a long moment.
Then the white lenses narrow.
"We'll see."
And Peter realizes, with dawning horror, that in this world—
He's not a hero.
He's just another problem to be solved.
---
The room is underground. Peter can tell by the dampness, the way sound dies flat against the walls. He's not restrained—at least not physically—but the man in the bat costume stands between him and the only exit.
They're in some kind of cave. Actual stone walls, stalactites overhead. But it's been converted into something else: a command center. Massive computer screens line one wall, showing feeds from what must be thousands of cameras across the city. Vehicles Peter doesn't recognize sit in shadowed alcoves. Equipment he can't identify hangs from racks.
It's a lair.
Peter stands in the center of it, still in his torn suit, trying not to look as terrified as he feels.
Trying not to think about May.
Trying not to see her face, the blood, the way her hand went slack in his—
"Focus."
Peter's head snaps up. The man is watching him.
"I'm—I'm focused."
"You're panicking." Not an accusation. A statement. "Control your breathing. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
Peter does. It helps. A little.
The man pulls back his cowl.
And he's... just a man. Older than Peter expected. Maybe late thirties, early forties. Square jaw, dark hair graying at the temples. But it's the eyes that get Peter—cold, analytical, like he's already solved a dozen equations about Peter's threat level.
But there's something else there too. Something Peter recognizes because he sees it every time he looks in a mirror now.
Grief.
"Sit," the man says, gesturing to a metal chair.
Peter doesn't move. "Are you going to tell me your name, or...?"
"After you tell me yours."
"Peter. Peter Parker."
The man walks to the computer, types something. Screens flash. Data streams. After a moment, he frowns.
"No records. No digital footprint. No birth certificate, no social security number, no school enrollment." He turns back to Peter. "You don't exist."
"Yeah, well, join the club." Peter's voice is hollow. "That's kind of the problem."
"Explain."
Peter takes a shaky breath. Where does he even start?
"There was a spell. A... a magical spell. It was supposed to make people forget who I was—forget that Peter Parker was Spider-Man. But it went wrong. Instead of erasing people's *memories* of me, it erased *me*. Just... yanked me out of my universe and dumped me here."
The man's expression doesn't change. "Spider-Man."
"Yeah. That's—that's my hero name. I'm a—" Peter gestures helplessly at his suit. "I have powers. Spider powers. I fight bad guys, save people, all that. Or... I did. In my world."
"What kind of powers?"
Peter demonstrates, walking up the wall until he's standing on the ceiling, looking down at the man. "Wall-crawling. Super strength—I can lift about ten tons. Enhanced reflexes. Healing factor. And this—"
He fires a web at a distant piece of equipment. It sticks perfectly.
"Bio-organic webbing. Well, synthetic, actually. I make it myself. The formula's my own design—"
"Get down."
Peter drops back to the floor. The man approaches the webbing, examining it without touching.
"Tensile strength?"
"About 120 pounds per square millimeter. It dissolves after two hours so it doesn't cause permanent damage—"
"What else?"
"What?"
"What other abilities." It's not a question.
Peter hesitates. "I have... a sense. Like a danger sense. It warns me when something bad is about to happen. Saved my life more times than I can count."
*Except when it mattered most.*
*It didn't warn him about the pumpkin bomb.*
*It didn't save May.*
The man's eyes narrow. "Precognition."
"No, not exactly. It's more like—" Peter struggles to explain. "It's instinct. Really, really good instinct. I can't see the future or anything. I just *know* when something's wrong."
"Is it warning you now?"
Peter swallows. "It hasn't stopped since I got to this city."
For the first time, something that might be understanding flickers across the man's face. "That's Gotham for you."
"What *is* Gotham? I've never heard of it. Is it in Europe? Asia?"
"New Jersey."
Peter blinks. "New Jersey? But that's—that's right next to New York. How have I never—" He stops. Right. Different universe. "What's your New York like?"
"Crime-ridden. Corrupt. Slightly better than Gotham." The man crosses his arms. "Tell me about your world."
"My world has—had—superheroes. Lots of them. The Avengers. You've heard of them, right?"
The man shakes his head.
"Captain America? Iron Man? Thor?"
"No."
Peter's stomach drops. "Okay. Okay, that's... that's really weird. They're famous. Like, *globally* famous. They saved the world. Multiple times. From aliens, from robots, from a guy who wanted to wipe out half of all life—"
"Half of all life."
"Yeah. Thanos. He had these stones—Infinity Stones—that gave him control over reality, time, space, everything. He snapped his fingers and killed half the universe. It took us five years to bring everyone back."
The man is very still. "Half the universe died."
"And came back. We fixed it. Well, Iron Man fixed it. Tony Stark. He was—" Peter's voice cracks. "He was my mentor. He died saving everyone."
Silence.
The man studies Peter with new intensity. "This Thanos. He's dead?"
"Very dead."
"And your world survived an extinction-level event."
"Twice, technically. There was Ultron before that, and the Chitauri invasion, and—" Peter runs a hand through his hair. "My world has been through a lot. But we had the Avengers. We had people who could fight back against that stuff."
"And this world doesn't." The man says it flatly.
"I don't know. You tell me. Do you have superheroes here?"
The man's jaw tightens. "We have... people. Individuals with abilities or training who try to make a difference. But nothing like what you're describing. No 'Avengers.'"
"What about you?" Peter gestures at the bat suit. "You're clearly doing *something*. That's a combat suit. Military grade, maybe better. You've got all this tech. You're obviously fighting someone."
"I fight crime in Gotham."
"Just crime? Or...?"
"Sometimes worse than crime." The man walks to a filing cabinet, pulls out a folder, and tosses it to Peter. "Recognize any of these?"
Peter opens it.
Photos spill out. Crime scenes. Bodies. Destruction. And faces—villains, Peter assumes, but unlike any he's ever seen.
A man with a face split down the middle, one side scarred and burned.
A woman covered in plants, vines growing from her skin.
Someone who looks like they're made of clay.
And a man with a smile too wide, skin too pale, eyes too bright. The caption reads: *The Joker - Arkham Asylum Patient #0801*.
"Jesus," Peter whispers.
"You don't have people like this in your world?"
"We have villains. But not—" Peter stares at the Joker's photo. There's something in those eyes that makes his skin crawl. Something that reminds him of—
*Green Goblin's laugh echoing through FEAST.*
*May stumbling backward, hand pressed to her side.*
*Blood. So much blood.*
Peter's hands shake. The photos scatter.
"Not like this," he finishes weakly.
"That one." The man picks up the Joker's photo. "He killed my son."
Peter's breath catches.
"He beat him to death with a crowbar, then blew up the building. I found pieces." The man's voice doesn't waver, doesn't break. But something in those eyes is shattered beyond repair. "Two-Face murdered a police commissioner. Scarecrow drove dozens of people insane with fear toxin—some of them claw their own eyes out. Poison Ivy can control your mind with a kiss. These aren't cartoon villains, Peter. They're monsters. And they will kill you without hesitation."
Silence stretches between them.
"I'm sorry," Peter finally says, voice raw. "About your son."
"Are you?" The man's eyes bore into him. "Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear?"
"I'm sorry because I know what it's like." Peter's voice breaks. "My aunt died three days ago. The Green Goblin—one of my villains—he killed her. And it's my fault. She died because of me, because I was Spider-Man, because I wasn't fast enough or smart enough or—"
"Stop."
Peter stops.
The man's expression has shifted. Still hard, still guarded, but something's changed.
"It wasn't your fault."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." The man sets the photo down carefully. "Because I've had this conversation with myself a thousand times. And the answer is always the same: you didn't kill her. The villain did."
"But I—"
"You're not responsible for evil people doing evil things." The man's voice is steel. "You're only responsible for how you respond to it."
Peter's throat tightens. He wants to argue. Wants to explain that no, actually, it *was* his fault because if he'd just listened to May, if he'd stayed away from the Goblin, if he'd been faster—
But he can't get the words out.
"How long ago?" the man asks quietly.
"Three days. Then the spell, and then... here." Peter wipes his eyes roughly. "I didn't even get to bury her. And now nobody remembers she existed. It's like she just... disappeared."
The man is quiet for a long moment.
Then: "What was her name?"
"May. May Parker." Peter's voice is barely a whisper. "She was... she was everything. She raised me after my parents died. She worked two jobs to keep us afloat. She volunteered at a homeless shelter because she said everyone deserves a second chance. She was the best person I've ever known."
"She sounds remarkable."
"She was." Peter's hands curl into fists. "And now she's gone, and I'm here, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I don't know how to—" His voice breaks completely. "I don't know how to do this without her."
The man walks to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of water. Hands it to Peter.
"You do it one day at a time." He sits down across from Peter, the cowl still pulled back. "One hour at a time, if you have to. You get up. You keep moving. You honor their memory by becoming what they wanted you to be."
"What if I don't know what that is?"
"Then you figure it out." The man leans forward. "What were her last words to you?"
Peter's chest constricts. "With great power, there must also come great responsibility."
The man nods slowly. "Then that's your answer."
"What?"
"She told you what she wanted you to be. A person who uses their power responsibly. Who helps people. Who makes a difference." The man's eyes are intense. "That's what you do without her. You honor that."
"But I can't—I'm not—" Peter gestures helplessly. "I'm in a different universe. I don't exist here. How am I supposed to help anyone when I'm nobody?"
"You're not nobody." The man stands. "You're Peter Parker. You're Spider-Man. And you're going to survive this."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're still here." The man extends his hand. "I'm Bruce Wayne."
Peter stares at the offered hand for a moment. Then he shakes it.
"Nice to meet you, I guess."
"Likewise." Bruce pulls his cowl back up, becoming Batman again. "Come upstairs. You need food and rest. Tomorrow we'll figure out your next move."
"What if there is no next move? What if I'm just... stuck here?"
Batman pauses at the base of the stairs.
"Then we'll deal with that too."
He vanishes up the stairs, cape swirling behind him.
Peter stands alone in the cave for a moment, surrounded by shadows and secrets.
Then he whispers to the empty air:
"I'm sorry, May. I'm so sorry."
The cave doesn't answer.
But somewhere above, he hears footsteps. Someone waiting.
Peter takes a shaky breath and follows Batman up the stairs.
One step at a time.
---
The stairs lead up into a mansion.
Peter stops at the top, blinking in the sudden light. He's standing in a study—wood-paneled walls, expensive furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Through the windows, he can see manicured gardens and a driveway that probably costs more than May's entire—
Peter pushes the thought away before it can finish.
"Okay," he mutters to himself. "So Batman is rich. That's... that tracks, actually."
"Indeed it does."
Peter spins.
An older man stands in the doorway—sixty-something, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. British, if the accent is any indication. He holds himself with the kind of dignity Peter associates with royalty or really expensive hotels.
"You must be the young man Master Bruce mentioned." The man's tone is polite, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. "Peter Parker, I presume?"
"Uh, yeah. Hi." Peter realizes he's still in his torn Spider-Man suit, dripping rainwater on what's probably a priceless rug. "Sorry, I'm kind of a mess—"
"Nothing that can't be remedied." The man steps forward, offering his hand. "Alfred Pennyworth. I manage the household."
Peter shakes his hand. Alfred's grip is firm, controlled. "You know about the... the cave? The whole Batman thing?"
"I've known about 'the whole Batman thing' since its inception, I'm afraid. I do my best to keep Master Bruce alive, though he makes it rather difficult." Alfred gestures toward the hallway. "Come. Let's get you cleaned up and fed. You look like you've been through quite an ordeal."
Peter follows him through the mansion. It's massive—bigger than any house Peter's ever been in. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that probably belongs in museums.
May would have loved this place. She always watched those home renovation shows, dreaming about—
Peter's chest tightens. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.
"So," Peter ventures, "Master Bruce is...?"
"Bruce Wayne. Billionaire philanthropist. Also the man who just interrogated you in a cave while wearing a bat costume." Alfred's tone is perfectly dry. "I trust he wasn't too harsh?"
"He threw a weapon at my head."
"Ah. Then he was going easy on you. Excellent."
Peter can't tell if Alfred is joking.
They enter a kitchen that's bigger than Peter's entire apartment was. Alfred immediately begins pulling ingredients from a refrigerator that could store food for a small army.
"Sit," Alfred commands, pointing to a stool at the island counter.
Peter sits.
"When did you last eat?"
Peter tries to remember. The fight with Goblin at FEAST. May bleeding out in his arms. The confrontation at the Statue of Liberty. It all blurs together.
"I don't... I don't know. This morning? Yesterday morning? What time is it?"
"Two-thirty in the morning." Alfred sets a kettle on the stove. "And you've traveled between dimensions, which I imagine takes quite a toll. How do you feel about sandwiches?"
"I feel great about sandwiches."
"Wonderful."
Alfred moves with practiced efficiency, assembling food while the kettle heats. Peter watches, feeling surreal. An hour ago he was being interrogated by a vigilante in a cave. Now he's watching a British butler make him a late-night snack in a billionaire's kitchen.
It's so absurd he almost laughs.
Almost.
"So," Alfred says, slicing bread, "Master Bruce tells me you're from another universe."
"Yeah."
"How dreadfully inconvenient."
Peter does laugh at that, short and bitter. "That's one way to put it."
"I find understatement helps in processing the absurd." Alfred layers meat and cheese with geometric precision. "You're not the first person to arrive in Gotham from... elsewhere. Though you're the first from another dimension, I'll grant you that."
"Does this stuff happen a lot here? Dimensional travel, magic, all that?"
"More often than one would prefer, less often than one would expect." Alfred pours hot water over a tea bag. "Gotham attracts the strange. Always has. This city has a way of drawing in things that don't quite belong."
"That's comforting."
"It wasn't meant to be." Alfred slides a plate across the counter—two enormous sandwiches, a pile of chips, and some kind of pasta salad. "Eat. You're skin and bones."
Peter's stomach growls at the sight of food. He grabs a sandwich and takes a massive bite.
It tastes like nothing.
Everything tastes like nothing now.
But he eats anyway because May would want him to. Because with great power comes great responsibility, and he can't be responsible if he starves to death.
Alfred sets a cup of tea beside the plate, watching him carefully.
"Master Bruce also mentioned you lost someone recently."
Peter's hand freezes halfway to his mouth. He sets the sandwich down.
"My aunt. May Parker." His voice is flat. Mechanical. "She died three days ago."
"I'm very sorry for your loss."
"Everyone says that." Peter stares at his plate. "But it doesn't change anything. She's still gone."
"No, it doesn't change anything." Alfred sits down across from him. "But it's still true. I am sorry. Losing family is... there are no words for it."
Something in Alfred's tone makes Peter look up. The butler's expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes hold the same grief Peter saw in Bruce's.
"You've lost someone too," Peter says quietly.
"Several someones, I'm afraid. Master Bruce's parents, whom I'd known since before he was born. Jason Todd, Master Bruce's second Robin. And others over the years." Alfred picks up his own tea cup. "Gotham takes and takes and takes. It's rather good at it."
"Robin?"
"Master Bruce's... partner. Protégé. Son, in all the ways that matter." Alfred's voice softens. "Jason was about your age when he died. Brilliant boy. Angry, grieving, desperate to make the world better. The Joker killed him to hurt Master Bruce. And it worked."
Peter's throat tightens. "I'm sorry."
"As am I." Alfred is quiet for a moment. "Master Bruce told you about it, I presume?"
"Yeah. He said... he said the Joker beat him to death with a crowbar."
"He did." Alfred's hand shakes slightly as he sets down his cup. "I found Master Bruce standing over Jason's grave three days after the funeral. He'd been there the entire time. Hadn't eaten, hadn't slept. Just... standing there."
Peter knows that feeling. That desperate need to be close to them, even though they're gone. That irrational hope that if you just *stay there* long enough, maybe—
"He survived it," Alfred says gently. "It nearly destroyed him. But he survived it. And so will you."
"I don't want to survive it." Peter's voice breaks. "I want May back. I want to go home. I want—" He stops, because what he wants is impossible.
"I know." Alfred reaches across the counter and squeezes Peter's shoulder. "But wanting impossible things is a luxury the living don't get to keep. We have to find new wants. New purposes."
"Like what?"
"Like honoring their memory. Like becoming the person they believed you could be." Alfred's grip tightens slightly. "Like eating this sandwich I made you before it gets soggy."
Peter huffs a startled laugh despite everything. "That's your advice? Eat sandwiches?"
"It's a start." Alfred releases his shoulder and stands. "Small steps, Peter. You don't have to figure out your entire life tonight. You just have to get through tonight."
"And tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow you get through tomorrow." Alfred begins cleaning up. "One day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time. Sometimes one breath at a time."
Peter picks up the sandwich again. Forces himself to take another bite.
It still tastes like nothing.
But he eats it anyway.
"Master Bruce asked me to prepare a guest room for you," Alfred says. "I took the liberty of laying out some clothes. They'll be too large, but they're clean and dry, which is more than can be said for your current attire."
"Thanks." Peter looks down at his ruined suit. There's a tear across the shoulder where Goblin's blade caught him. Blood—his blood, Goblin's blood, May's blood—stains the fabric in a dozen places.
He should wash it. Repair it. It's all he has left of home.
But the thought of trying to scrub May's blood out of the fabric makes his stomach turn.
"I can have it cleaned and mended," Alfred offers quietly, reading his expression. "If you'd like."
Peter nods, not trusting his voice.
"Finish eating. I'll show you to your room." Alfred pours more tea. "And Peter? If you need anything during the night—anything at all—my room is down the hall. Third door on the left. Don't hesitate."
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
Alfred pauses, considering. "Because you remind me of every broken boy Master Bruce has ever brought into this house. And because kindness costs nothing, especially when it's needed most."
---
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