cotton candy machine who writes fanfic âż fanatic for rhaenicent, hollanov, taivan & hannigram (o_O) ! with a dabble of mcu and dcu ê± she/her & lesbian
â congratulations, you adopted a spider!: peter in gotham au. de-aged peter parker. batfam adopt him, featuring fatherly bruce & jason and best big brother damian. https://archiveofourown.org/works/74900086/chapters/195678136
hannibal
â imperfect hearts: married hannibal/will. fluff. mild smut. https://archiveofourown.org/works/47373973
hannibal/yellowjackets
â twisted like knotted antlers: lottie as hannibal, nat as will au. murder wives. https://archiveofourown.org/works/65546032/chapters/168734860
heated rivalry
â shchi (1): sick ilya. married ilya/shane. and anya! https://archiveofourown.org/works/75675931
â into the sun (2): sick shane. married ilya/shane. lots of fluff. https://archiveofourown.org/works/81541911
â kiss me one more time, make all my problems disappear: shane sub drops at practice. ilya brings him back up. https://archiveofourown.org/works/76695626
â of cursed fathers and missing brothers: witch! alicent/vampire! rhaenyra. enemies to lovers. eventual smut. https://archiveofourown.org/works/60951874/chapters/155705656
â where death waits: magical! alicent/death! rhaenyra. dark/gothic romance. 1990âs. https://archiveofourown.org/works/64228534/chapters/164845129
â remembered you (1): alicent/rhaenyra. arranged marriage au. protective rhaenyra. https://archiveofourown.org/works/62945353/chapters/161190148
â promised you (2): alicent/rhaenyra. family fluff & political problems. https://archiveofourown.org/works/67767331/chapters/175203691
â blueprints for desire: alicent/rhaenyra office kinktober. https://archiveofourown.org/works/71556781
marvel
â the crazy, no good time (lie) moon knight had with team red: moonknight & team red crossover. case fic. found family. https://archiveofourown.org/works/57953680/chapters/147530059
â winning a thiefâs heart: agatha/rio. heist au. smut. https://archiveofourown.org/works/64228534/chapters/164845129
marvel/dcu
â congratulations, you adopted a spider!: peter in gotham au. de-aged peter parker. https://archiveofourown.org/works/74900086/chapters/195678136
supernatural/criminal minds
â unsub: winchester: teen dean, kid sam. case fic. crossover! https://archiveofourown.org/works/65318242/chapters/168058327
the black phone
â when itâs cold iâd like to die: teenage finney/robin. time travel fix-it au. slowburn. https://archiveofourown.org/works/64462024/chapters/165739153
the great gatsby
â the beautiful and the buried: jay/nick. slowburn. nick goes through it. https://archiveofourown.org/works/66833533/chapters/172477381
đ° found family, birthday fluff, cuddling, spiders, and more!
đ° Peter and Damian's birthdays were only one day apart. When they realized thisâa single thing remained clear. They had to share a birthday party (one without the press and the extra prying eyes).
Cue the small one they held at the beginning of August.
đ° read here on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/85834336
â Peter was meant to be forgotten, he didnât think that meant being dropped in Gotham. Or in his eight-year-old body, in the least. Or with vigilantes trying to adopt him!
IN WHICH, Dr. Strange gave Peter one last chance at a life, instead of being emo around the faces who no longer recognized him.
â de-aged peter parker, found family, peterâs developing spider abilities, good parents jason todd & bruce wayne, + more!
THEY DON'T KNOW HOW YOU'VE HAUNTED ME SO STUNNINGLY...
àšà§ Ë.ă»â 6 âă».Ë àšà§ #B4007E
THIS HAPPENS ONCE EVERY FEW LIFETIMES...
àšà§ Ë.ă»â 7 âă».Ë àšà§ #890069
WHOS AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME?...
request something. all dividers on my blog are made by me and are free to use, a like, reblog or credit would be very much appreciated if you are using them so I can have a little look!!
âïž Ilya adored his husband. He adored everything about his man, from the way he awkwardly fumbled his thumbs in his pockets to the way he left his socks on. There wasnât a single thing Shane could do that would ever make Ilya hate him, even as he gripped his hand while vomiting into the toilet.
âïž prequel to âshchiâ (sick ilya) but can be read as standalone
âïžsick shane. protective & soft ilya. established relationship. anya. and MORE
âïž https://archiveofourown.org/works/81541911
âïž 3,120 words
Ilya adored his husband. He adored everything about his man, from the way he awkwardly fumbled his thumbs in his pockets to the way he left his socks on. There wasnât a single thing Shane could do that would ever make Ilya hate him, even as he gripped onto his hand as he vomited into the toilet.
It actually made Ilya love him more, that during his distressing times, Shane relied on him. On Ilya. An action he thought he would never be worthy of, let alone when it came to Shane Hollander.
But now here they were, a residence in Ottawa on top of the cottage they retired to during the summer with a dog to keep them busy. It was the current home where Shane was emptying his breakfast into their toilet, tears streaming down his face.
Normally, he found his man crying to be attractive. But they werenât in the throes of passion, and Shane wasnât crying from pleasure as he was fucked open with Ilyaâs cock.
No, instead his poor husband was distraught by the level of severity the sickness took this morning.
âIs okay, moyo solnyshko. Let it all out.â He comforted the best he could, rubbing his free hand up and down Shaneâs back. Anything to help him calm down.
Shane hated throwing upâmostly because it made him feel dirty on the inside, and the chunks of food that came up always felt wrong. He hated it even more that he was puking in the toilet, where they literally sat down to shit. Yes, it was clean. No doubt about that thanks to his bi-weekly house cleaning regime, but it still didnât take away from the fact that he was sticking his face in a bowl of germs.
âItâs not okay,â Shane complained, spitting the last bit out. His stomach still felt queasy, but not enough to hover in the bathroom.
Ilya remained by his side as he spat out his rinsed mouth in the sink, going through his entire teeth care routine. He couldnât blame him.
âMedicine?â Ilya raised his eyebrow at Shane in the mirror, knowing the answer.
âNo.â Shane practically whimpered out in return, stubbornness drawn between his eyebrows.
The Russian gave him that look. âShane. Lyubovâ.â
He shook his head but immediately stopped when it brought on another bout of nausea.
âIâm okay.â Shane weakly defended, but the track of his tears still moved Ilya into action.
âI know you donât like medicine and like to do your all naturalâstuff, but not today.â Ilya gently guided Shane into the bedroom. "Today I take care of you."
His husband huffed. They had this conversation plenty of times. Shane had done his research on how much medicine could fuck up the organs and systems that were vital to keep playing hockey. He wasnât crazy about it, but he tried to use it as a last resort.
Ilya knew that, but Shane hadnât stopped throwing up since yesterday, unable to hold a single meal down. Their designated puking bucket was currently being bleached, hence the use of the toilet.
The way Shane curled up in the bed under the covers, staring at Ilya with the melting look in his eye, was enough to alert him that Shane wouldn't be feeling better any time soon.
âMy poor hubby.â Ilya cooed, running a hand through Shaneâs short hair.
Shane sighed at the touch, blinking his eyes closed. âDonât call me that, itâs gross.â He still had enough energy to cringe. âCan you close the blinds?â
Ilya kissed his cheek, doing as he was told and finding the electric remote that would block off the light from the room.
âThânk you.â
âYouâre welcome, stol. Iâm getting you medicine. Doctor said it will help get you better.â The curly-haired man assured.
âTable? Really?â
âYou feel good enough to know when I tease.â Ilya felt good about that.
A few minutes later, after Shane tentatively swallowed the pills and water, afraid he would puke again, he was settled into the bed.
Ilya was nearly settled behind him, prepared to wrap the other man in his perfected big spoon positionâwhen scratching was heard at their door.
Shane blinked at Ilya.
Anya barked making her presence more known, then kept barking.
âSheâs mad I didnât take her for a run this morning. Or yesterday.â Shane announced somberly, a pout forming on his lips.
Ilya was tempted to kiss him, so he did. A quick peck, then two more. He peppered kisses across his entire face, locking a hand on Shaneâs jaw to hold him in place. Shane didnât try to move, his eyes fluttering close with each kiss.
Anya let out a long cry and his eyes were open once more.
âTake her on a run.â His husbandâs tone didnât leave any room for an option.
âShaneââ
âIlyusha. Baby.â
It was a battle already lost.Â
"Papochka uzhe idot, Anya. Perestan' plakat' â ty zastavlyayesh' papu Sheyna volnovat'sya."Â Daddy is coming, Anya. Stop all the crying, you make Daddy Shane worried.
Shane snorted, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself now that Ilya's weight was no longer balancing him.Â
Before Ilya left he grabbed Shane's weighted blanket from the linen closet, draping it over his man as Anya paced impatiently by the front door.
Ilya gave Shane one last peck. "For when I'm gone."Â
"You're gonna get sick." He grumbled back.
Anya fell asleep the second they got home, rushing a few sips of water before promptly diving into her dog bed in the living room. She was snoozing within minutes.Â
Ilya was similar to his shower in the way she drank her waterâquick and hurried as if his life depended on it. It did, in some ways.
He needed to wrap his arms around Shane.
As soon as he was dry, hair and all, with the blow dryer because Shane hated when they were cozy in bed and cold water dripped on them, only then was he able to saddle up behind Shane.
Shane stirred awake at his presence, pressing his back against Ilya's chest.
"How do you feel?" Ilya asked in the crest of his shoulder and neck, snuggling in close. He kicked the weighted blanket down to their legs, knowing that Shane didn't like too much pressure on his chest.
Shane garbled out an unintelligible answer.Â
"So⊠not good?"
That earned him a hum.Â
A few days went by. Despite his age and how healthy he was, the Doctor was right in her warning that the flu could still do a number on Shane.Â
Ilya was witnessing as it wracked through his body, his immune system and the medicine working their best to fight off the bad bacteria.
He mostly bundled himself up in the bed, sleeping for the majority of the day and steaming himself out in the shower when he was up. The nausea pills he was prescribed also helped keep the vomiting away and allowed him to eat some food. Other than that, his constant headaches kept Shane off all his devices, whether that was to watch TV or talk to his parents.
"I said no, Ilya. I just wanna nap." Shane sassed when Ilya suggested he should talk to his parents, who were currently on the phone.
He took the response in stride, lightheartedly flicking at one of Shane's feet. The other man grumbled as he kicked back in retaliation, burying his face in the pillow.
"They are worried about you." Ilya repeated. "Talk to them."Â
Shane lifted his hand up, the manner completely bratty. He found it endearing, even if it was a little rude. Ilya handed him the phone, observing as his husband made tight conversation with his parents. He handed the phone back shortly after, shooting Ilya a glare that could burn holes through concrete.
Ilya's lips rounded into an 'O' shape, aghast at how bratty Shane was being outside of their sex banter.Â
He kissed him as he usually did before he left the room, turning the light off and shutting the door behind him quietly.
"Wow." He said into the phone, where Yuna was already laughing.
"He's always been grumpy when he's sick." She said in explanation around her dying out giggles. "We gave him a pass for it every time. Shane was the sweetest angel when he wasn't congested or vomiting, and it was never easy to get mad at him."
Ilya agreed. "He looks like a mad, wet kitten. Is very cute." He balanced the phone against his ear with his shoulder, starting to prep a lonely dinner for himself.
"He sounds like he's getting better. I'm sure he appreciates how good you're taking care of him, even if he's being a priss about it. How're you holding up, honey?"Â Yuna was ever attentive.
"'M good." And it wasn't a lie. "Little lonely."Â
"Do you want us to come over for dinner? I'm sure we won't get the flu as long as we stay away from Shane."Â David suggested.Â
Ilya and Yuna tutted at the same time.
"Let's not risk it."Â Yuna said to David on the line.
"Shane will be back to normal soon. I'll be able to watch boring documentaries and eat high protein dinners in no time. I'll call you tomorrow, yes?"
Yuna and David said their partings, wishing them well and sending them their love.
Ilya prepared a quick meal, getting Anya's together as well so they could eat at the same time. Whatever show the TV had playing filled up the silent space, the action a familiar tune to their normal life. Except Shane wasn't complaining how they were running the electricity when neither of them was paying attention, and he wasn't there circling his arms around Ilya's midsection while he cooked.
He hurried to eat his meal, took Anya out for a short walk, showered, and returned to bed where Shane was.
He cuddled up beside him, maneuvering Shane's arm so that it rested on his chest.Â
"Mm. Hi." Shane sleepily greeted, hooking his hand on Ilya's side.
"Hi." Ilya was smiling from ear to ear.
Shane kissed his cheek and Ilya felt his heart explode.Â
"Love you," Shane kissed his shoulder this time.Â
Ilya hooked his fingers on his chin to give him a real kiss, one where their tongues greeted each other and saliva was shared between them.
"You will definitely be sick." Shane sounded so sure of himself.
"You said this already. Not possible. Russians do not get sick."
"That's just plain dumb." Was Shane's only rebuttal.Â
And yeah, it was. But Ilya would keep saying it as long as it allowed him to kiss Shane while he was like this.
He liked to lie there with Shane, soaking up the comfort. Sometimes Ilya wasn't allowed to be suctioned to Shane like a needy octopus, the Canadian having spouts of hot flashes here and there. He would kick off the sheets and yank his clothes off, lying in the bed like a starfish.Â
His husband mostly took refuge in their room, finding comfort bin eing surrounded so closely by all of their belongings. Even so, he had to leave the bed at some point. One, because Ilya had to clean the sheets. And two, because Shane couldn't remain a sack of potatoes.
He did a lap in the house, just to keep his body moving instead of lying limp in a catatonic state forever. It felt good to stretch his limbs, but after the third lap, he plopped himself on the couch next to Anya. Ilya was waiting for the sheets to finish washing, joining their dogs other side as their hands met in the middle of her furr.
"Feeling better?" Ilya asked, mindlessly playing with Shane's fingers now.
Shane nodded, the movement no longer nauseating without the medication. He was even keeping down soups, a fact he relished in when he was slowly sipping at the flavorful broth.Â
"A lot." He admitted, resting his head on Ilya's shoulder.Â
Ilya placed his head on top.Â
He let out a sigh of relief.Â
"Khorosho, lyubov' moya. I won't lie, I was worried."Â Good, my love.
Shane felt a pang of guilt squeeze his heart. His parents always looked back on when he was sick as a rise of sudden sparring attitude that was entertaining to encounter. Shane was only embarrassed by it.
"I'm sorry. I know I've been difficult." He apologized, hating how thirsty he suddenly was.
He broke their cuddle position and grabbed the water Ilya had gotten him, chugging it until it was nearly gone. He left only a sliver in the bottom, a habit he did unconsciously, and one Ilya loved to tease him for.
"You leave the tiniest bit." Ilya mentioned without fail, pulling Shane back into his hold. "And you are not difficult. You are farthest from difficult, moy muzhik." He was squeezing Shane's thigh at that moment, trying to make a point.
Shane conceded.
"Da? Ty ved' ne solzhosh' mne?" Yes? You wouldn't lie to me? Shane's accent was a little choppy, especially when he broke his streak of practicing every day.Â
Ilya's reply was instant and leaving no room for doubts. "Nikogda v zhizni. Ty eto znayesh'."Â Never in my life. You know this.
"Ya delayu." I know. Shane liked to ask anyway. He wanted to hear the reassurance. "Ya tebya lyublyu." I love you.
"Ya tebya lyublyu." He returned.
Ilya's smile was blinding, just as it always was when he showed off all of his teeth. His eyes were sparkling, the hazel beautifully alight and looking between Shane's mouth and eyes.
He couldn't help himself, not with the way Shane's lips were unconsciously puckering outâtheir natural plumpness growing in size and enticing Ilya even more. His husband's stars (that he now knows are freckles) dotted across his cheeks and nose, each one looking edible.Â
Ilya couldn't stop himself from leaning forward and biting his cheeks, the movements soft and not meant to puncture the skin.
Shane snorted as he unseriously hit at Ilya's chest, hooking his arm around the other man's neck to bring him closer.
Anya scurried out of the way, barking at them in admonishment.Â
"Sorry, shchenok." Ilya said as she settled on her dog bed, choosing at that moment to aggressively chew on one of her squeaky toys.
Shane kissed his cheeks, then his nose. "She's tired of us."
Ilya was very much in love, which wasn't news to anyone.
By the fifth day, the fever was goneâjust some congestion left over that had Shane sounding like a mutated monster every time he coughed.
Ilya kept his man fueled with solid food that he was now eating, along with plenty of water, because if hockey taught him one thing, it was how much hydration helped.
Shane was currently eating lunch at the table, Anya loyally sitting at his feet as she focused on his food, likely praying in dog language that Papa Sheyn would drop a few crumbs. Unluckily for her, only Ilya did that when Shane wasn't looking.
"Go, Anechka." Ilya grabbed a toy and threw it, hoping Shane didn't put two and two together.
But his luck was not so great. "Do you give her your food?" Shane immediately bombarded him with the question when he turned around.
"Whaaaat? No!"Â
"Ilya! It upsets her stomach."Â
"Yes, but she still eats it anyway. Like when I get the McGriddle." He rubbed his stomach in memory. "Bad digestion. Good ingestion!"Â
Ilya wrapped his arms around Shane, leading kisses from his shoulder to his neck. "I'm glad you're feeling better." He nuzzled into the curve, laying his palms flat against Shane's skin. His skin wasn't heated or flushed anymore, true signs that he was getting better.
Shane placed his fork down and gripped his arm, leaning back into the hold. He caressed Ilya's arm soothingly up and down, almost tickling the man in doing so. But the Russian didn't dare move, even if that meant by laughing, to disturb the moment.Â
He loved any touch Shane would give him. That made his husband sound like some neglectful man who only sparingly offered Ilya his touch, which wasn't true at all. Shane was always touching himâthe healthy amount for a touchy couple, at least. Or maybe a little bit over that. And vice versa.Â
But it never got old. Nothing Shane ever did got old; the domestic structure they built around themselves reminded them that the small moments were what made them whole.
"I'm going to warn you for the last time, Ilyusha. Don't be surprised if you get the flu in a few days." Shane teased.
Ilya groaned into his neck, enjoying the way Shane shivered at the slight of his touch. His hands fell to his hips, gripping them and lightly nipping at Shane's shoulder.Â
"Will you nurse me back to health, surok?"Â
"Groundhog? Seriously?" Shane enjoyed hunting down every one of his random tests of Russian, their competitiveness never dying for a moment.
"Yes or no?" Ilya pressed. "Please, Nurse Shane? You can't leave your husband after he dotes on you so muchâŠ" He exaggerated his pout, making sure Shane didn't look away from him.
He loved his husband's attention.
The other man rolled his eyes then nodded his head. "Duh, baby. I wouldn't want to do anything else than take care of you."
"Awe! So sweet. I must let the world know Shane Hollander is the best husband ever. Not a boring duck. What if I vomit everywhere?" He thought of the worst-case scenario.
"First of all, Rozanov. Shane Hollander-Rozanov." The Canadian corrected. "Second of all, no one thinks I'm a boring duckâ"
Ilya cut him off. "Mm, not true." He flattened his lips and shrugged.Â
"No one besides youâ"
"Still not true."
"Third of all," Shane raised his hand so Ilya wouldn't interrupt him again. "I would clean you up, then the mess, then myself. There's levels to this shit."
Ilya nodded, "Of course, of course. Nothing less from Shane Hollander-Rozanov."
"Mhm." Shane nodded, then patted the seat next to him. "Make yourself a plate, Ilyusha. I've missed eating with you."
And oh, how much Ilya agreed with that. He hurried to get his plate, following the command as if it were one to begin with. He sat next to his husband, their knees touching as Ilya ate the contents on his plate at a rapid pace.Â
Shane still kept his pace slow, watching his husband from the corner of his eye.Â
"Eat up while you can." He encouraged. "Food will be your worst enemy the first few days."
"I won't get sick."
He was wrong. Really wrong.
A/N: link to sequel, âshchiâ where ilya is sick: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75675931
The shift was going well, as much as a shift in the ER could be for Samira. There was a gusher who barely missed her, instead ruining Whitaker's pair of scrubs. Nobody blinked twice about it. That was just his kind of luck.
Dr. Robby had eased the scoldingsâmostly in part because she brought patient satisfaction rates up and was getting faster by the shift. It took a weight off her shoulders that she hadn't realized was pressing down on her. Like she could actually breathe while caring for her patients, not worried that the second she exited the room she would be faulted once more.
Trinity even shared half of the sandwich she had once she took a look at Samira's frown. She liked to pose as a hardass, but deep down was a softy.Â
"This is quite literally the best thing you have ever done for me." Samira moaned around a bite of the shared food.
Trinity rolled her eyes. "Don't get used to it. You're lucky I had a big breakfast. Otherwise, I would've eaten it in front of you."
Samira huffed and laughed around a mouthful, quickly devouring her half. "Thanks, Trin! We're still going to that bar with Dennis and Vic on Saturday, right?"
With a pointed finger, the other woman ensured shared eye contact. "Don't cancel, and we'll see you there."
At the mention of her two most recent flakes, Samira exited the break room and dived back into the chaos.
"There's a guide in your paperwork on how to properly rewrap the bandage if it loosens." Samira smiled at her patient. "But if you don't feel comfortable doing it yourself, come stop by and someone here'll do it for you."
She guided them out, happily accepting the hug they offered.Â
For one second, she was allowed a moment to breatheâuntil the double doors were slammed open with a stretcher, a body on top of it.Â
The fast whizz of the entrance allowed Samira to catch the hockey uniform, black and yellow, as it pulled around the newest patient at PTMC. She didn't recognize the player, even though she felt like she should. Pittsburgh was notorious for loving its hockeyâthough she never understood the hype about it. A bunch of men hurdling after a puck and fighting each other? No, thank you. Samira got enough of that with her apartment neighbors' drama.
McKay was one of the people assisting, rolling him in. "Male. Age 27. Took a bad hit in a hockey game. BP is 148/92. Pulse is 112."Â
"He's tachy." Javadi shortened. "And coherent. Responds to pain. He keeps trying to say somethingâ"
"In here!" Samira instructed to a free room once Dana gave the okay.
Dr. Robby and Mel were there in an instant, half of the staff surrounding the man.Â
"Holy shitâis that Ilya Rozanov?" A more than fine man asked, standing on his supposedly aching leg. Samira was certain he used the fake injury as an excuse to get out of watching his kids.Â
She pulled his curtain. Samira wasn't sure if the man was Ilya Rozanov, but that didn't matter. Famous or not, he deserved to have his privacy respected.Â
"Oh my god⊠it is." Trinity was suddenly next to her. "This isâthis is crazy. Did anyone see him come in? Holy shit, the press coverage this place is about to getâŠ"
"Sir. Sir, can you hear me?" Robby said in that firm tone he used when trying to help a patient. His flashlight pointed at Ilya's pupils, checking his head state.
"ĐŽĐ°?"
"Pupils are slightly unequal. Likely a mild concussion." He said to the group that was gearing up. With his attention back on the hockey player, he made sure to remain level. "Can you tell me your name?"
"Ilya Rozanov."
"Do you know where you are, Ilya? Do you know what happened?"
Samira listened intently. Something she prided herself on, despite Robby's lack of agreement, was her ability to understand someone. To hear their story as a person and not another patient to chart.Â
Ilya began shaking his head before stopping with a hiss. "Was at game. Stupid Pittsburgh Penguin rammed me. This hospital, no? Everything is beepingâŠ"
"You're at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, Mr. Rozanov. I'm Dr. Mohan. Dr. Robby is the attending. We're going to stabilize your blood pressure with IVs. Are you able to tell me where you hurt most?" She kept her movements clinical but her words soft.
"One, two, three." McKay's voice called out, the staff working to move Ilya from the stretcher to a proper bed.Â
He groaned when he was shifted. "ЧДŃŃ. ĐŃĐŸ бŃĐ»ĐŸ Đ±ĐŸĐ»ŃĐœĐŸ."
Samira recognized the language, but not what he was trying to communicate. "What was that? I'm sorry, sir. I don't speak Russian."Â
Ilya giggled brokenly, hand coming to clutch his face where his lip was split open. "Shouldn't have fought with dumb Brenner. Zavala showed me who was bossâlike Shane said." He didn't say it as if it was meant for anyone else's ears but his.Â
With his hazy gaze focused on Samira, she let out a relieved sigh when he didn't start harassing her. Even though she didn't watch hockey, she knew enough about its appalling players and their less-than-welcoming tendencies.Â
"I said that hurt. Sorry."
"Hey, don't apologize. You're allowed to feel your pain. Anywhere the pain is localized?" She tried again.
"My hip. Hurts."
The others were jumping to examine the hip.
"Anywhere else, Mr. Rozanov?"
He blinked at her, as if he was trying to digest entirely what he said. He frowned. "Don't call me that. Ilya isâ" another groan as fingers prodded harshly against his hip. "Is not gentle. Not even prepping a guy first?"Â
Trinity snorted at that. Javadi's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Mel hadn't registered what he said. Dennis, whose complexion was always pale, became a bright cherry.
"Sâsorry, Mr. Rozanov. I'm checking to see if your hip is dislocated." Dennis stuttered.Â
"Is probably, yes? Call me Ilya. Rozanov is for hockey."
Whitaker nodded in agreement. "It's hard to tell with the clothing and padding in the way."Â
With his words, Mel and Dr. Robby were working to cut away the clothes. Taking off the padding was a more delicate process; Ilya was in pain at the slightest movement. With his body more accessible, Whitaker continued his observation.
"Definitely dislocated. Nothing we can't fix, though."
Ilya let out a relieved sigh. "Good. I need my hips."
"We still have to look you over a bit more before we can fix that hip for you. Is there anyone we can call, Ilya?"Â
"Call for what?"
Samira paused, taking him in. "Company. Comfort. We don't have to, if you'd prefer."
She noticed Trinity watching them like a hawk.Â
"I give you number and you call? You would do that for me?" He sounded hopeful. Strained, but hopeful.Â
Samira couldn't let him down. "Of course,"
---
Dana let her use one of the phones at the desk. Normally, she would have used the phone in the patient's room, but it was currently swarmed with doctors and nurses settling him in.Â
As soon as she had exited, Trinity was on her tail.Â
"I can't believe Ilya Rozanov is a patient here. Ilya Rozanov. One of the best hockey players. Here. Am I dying?" She was leaning against the counter, wide green eyes staring into her soul.
Samira didn't answer, mumbling the number Ilya had given her so she wouldn't forget it. When she dialed it in, only then did she reply. "At least wait until he's discharged."Â
Trinity gaped, as if Samira was the one talking about her. She leaned closer to the phone to catch the conversation.
"Hello?" A deep, worried voice picked up the line.Â
"Goodmorning. This is Dr. Mohan calling from Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Our patient gave us your number for a contact." Samira remained collected, being the rock that some people needed in times like this.
"Fuckâokay. Good. I'm boarding my flight in fifteen minutes. I can make it in two hours. Is he okay?"Â
Samira heard the true fear in his voice. "He for certain has a dislocated hip. We're still doing external assessments on him, but nothing life threatening. We'll bump him to CT scan, so we can determine the amount of damage done."
A heavy sigh. Relieved, but still tense. "Thank youâso much. Can you tell him I'm coming? That I'll be there?"
"Absolutely. Can I get your name so we know to let you through?"
A pause. Trinity held her breath, a suspicious glint in her eyes.Â
"Shane. Shane Hollander."Â
---
Shane felt a part of himself collapse along with Ilya on the ice. His boyfriend was playing in Pittsburgh, Shane's own schedule allowing him to watch the game from Ilya's home in Boston. He was meant to fly home that evening. To return to Shane with a win as he fucked him hard into the mattress.Â
Instead, he was being carried off the ice on a stretcher.Â
"That's gotta hurt." One of the commentators said.
The second agreed. "Hm. Zavala sure showed Rozanov who runs the rink in Pittsburgh. Did you see that? He was chirping at Brenner, a rookie! Of course the other captain snapped back."
"Can't disagree with you there. Some boundaries you just don't cross."
Shane groaned into his hands. Fucking Ilya and his mouth. And fucking Zavala and his heavy shoulders.Â
Booking the flight to Pittsburgh was the easiest part of the process. As Shane was shoving miscellaneous clothes into a bag, he realized he didn't know which hospital Ilya had been taken to. He didn't know if he would be let inâthey weren't married and didn't have each other's paperwork. What if the nurses recognized him? What if they didn't let him in because they thought Shane would smother Ilya with a pillow?
A random number was calling him. Shane answered in a heartbeat.Â
---
Samira was updating her charting, adding notable variables in her report that came back from Ilya's CT scan. There wouldn't be lasting damage, but he would need to treat his body like a temple for a month if he wanted to play hockey as harshly as he described it.
Her pager alerted that a guest arrived for her patient.Â
Shane Hollander, as she learned a few hours ago from Trinity, was also a hockey player. Ilya Rozanov's rival, apparently. Emphasis on apparently, because who asks medical personnel to call your rival? Let alone said rival showing upconcerned as fuck.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Dr. Mohan. We spoke on the phone." She greeted with her usual smile. Not too wide to feel condescending. Not too small to appear as if she didn't care.Â
His black eyebrows were scrunched together, pupils unable to meet Samira's. They were darting everywhere else. Searching. His shoulders were stiffened to the tips of his ears, flinching when someone in the waiting room let out a sickly cough.
She led him further into the ER, dodging running stuff and patients. She pointedly ignored Santos' pressing gaze as they walked past.
"I'm⊠Shane. He's still okay, right? Stabile, I mean?"Â
She nodded, dipping her hand into the hand sanitizer that was placed next to every door. Shane did the same.Â
"His CT scan reports just came back. Everything's going to be fine." She nudged the door open.Â
"Shane? Shaaaaane." Ilya was calling out the second the shorter man stepped into the room, both of his hands reaching out. "Come to me, ĐŒĐŸĐ” ŃĐŸĐ»ĐœŃŃĐșĐŸ!" His heart rate monitor sped up.
Shane was there in an instant, completely ignoring Dr. Robby and Javadi.
"ĐĄ ŃĐ°ĐșĐŸĐč ĐżŃĐŸĐ±Đ»Đ”ĐŒĐŸĐč Ń Đ±Đ”ĐŽŃĐŸĐŒ ŃŃĐŸ Đ”ŃĐ” ĐœĐ”ŃĐșĐŸŃĐŸ ĐżŃĐŸĐžĐ·ĐŸĐčĐŽĐ”Ń." Shane's Russian wasn't as precise as Ilya's.
Samira watched the interaction, taking in the body language. The way the heart monitor had sped up before slowing down once their hands locked. How anxious Shane had been on the phone and in person. How satiated they were in each other's presence. They clearly loved each other.Â
"I'm Dr. Robby. This is Dr. Mohan, and our student doctor, Javadi."
Shane greeted them just as awkwardly as he had with Samira.
"Don't mind him. He is what you call stiff. He has good intentions." Ilya teased, much to Shane's uneasiness. He wasn't as vocal or outgoing as his boyfriend (Samira was safely assuming this) was.Â
Ilya looked around. "Aw, where did sad eyes go?"
"Sad eyes?" Javadi tilted her head.Â
"Short one with depressing aura. One who needs a glass of milk to make his bones stronger."Â
Realization dawned on Samira. "Whitaker is seeing another patient. Is there something you need from him?"
Ilya shook his head, slowly migrating closer to Shane. "No, no. Just wanted to say thank you for fixing my hip."
"You should be more careful when you play," Javadi said. "Hip dislocation because of a hockey game is pretty serious."Â
"Serious? I thought you said he was okay." Shane frantically looked at Samira for answers.Â
"He's about as okay as you can get for a hockey player," Robby said, making his way towards the exit. "Dr. Mohan will get you all caught up. Javadi, with me."
Samira had never been as thankful to have a private room in that moment as she was now.Â
Logging into the computer, she pulled up his charts. "CT scans came back in congruence with his injuries. He had his posterior hip dislocation reduced some hours ago. Some side effects that come with forcing the abduction are a small grade groin strain. His balance and movement will be limited. Mild concussion."
She watched as the other man digested the information, his shoulders steadily lowering. "Okay," he said, rubbing his thumb on the back of Ilya's hand. "Okay. What are the next steps?"
"We have him on IVs, which are giving him a steady dose of pain relief. I want him to stay for another few hours so I can monitor his movement. These groin strains can take a nasty turn within the first few hours." Samira explained. "But if everything goes according to plan, you guys should be out of here by this afternoon."
"You hear that, Shane? All I hear is I can't fuck you." Ilya groaned half-heartedly, staring at Shane with nothing but devotion.Â
"Ilya!" Shane scolded, looking at Samira nervously.Â
There was more than nervousness there.Â
Panic.
"Nothing will leave this room. I meanâyou have my entire confidentiality. I don't like to gossip about my patients, much less get sued for violating the Hippocratic oath. You guys are safe here, I promise." She tried her best to reassure them, mind spinning with the tactics she learnt throughout her time in the ER.Â
Reassure the patient and their loved ones. Keep the room calm. Don't show anxiety. Listen to them and their concerns. Offer the best responses.
For the first time since he's been there, Shane made eye contact with Samira. Whatever he found, he approved of. With a nod, he focused his attention back on Ilya, who was poking him.
"Was I this annoying when I was in the hospital?"Â
"Mmmmmâno. You were very cute. Like when you go under."
Samira took that as her cue to leave. "I'll be back in two hours to test his mobility. Ilya, try not to move much, alright? If you need anything, tell the woman at the front desk to call for me. Nothing is a burden."
"Thank you, Dr. Mohan." Shane said genuinely.Â
---
Not an hour later and Dana was paging her.Â
She knocked on the door before entering, closing it to avoid any privacy leaks. Ilya was sitting on the side of the bed, trying to get up, but was actively stopped by Shane.
"Stop, Ilya. You heard the doctor. Don't move!"
"My body will not fall apart if I do, ĐŒĐŸŃ Đ»ŃĐ±ĐŸĐČŃ. I have to piss."
Samira cleared her throat, alerting them of her presence like the knock was supposed to do.Â
"Dr. Mohanâis he allowed to get up for the bathroom?" Shane was ignoring Ilya's claims as he asked.
She adjusted his IVs with the machine, making sure everything was in place. "Should be alright." Samira put a singular glove on. "Ilya, I'm going to put light pressure on your groin. I want you to scale your pain from one to ten. Ten being the worst you ever felt."
Samira applied light pressure, stopping short when Ilya recoiled back from the touch. "Seven! Pain is seven."
Shane didn't leave his side for a second, placing a comforting touch on his arm.Â
"Your groin is still very sensitive, but you're able to use the bathroom. You'll need support."
"I can help him." Shane jumped at the opportunity.Â
Samira helped Ilya stand, trailing behind the two men while she wheeled the IV. From behind, she could see the way theshorter man kept a firm, but loving grip on her patient. He wouldn't let him fall. Not a chance. Ilya was leaning into the touch, as if he wanted to melt onto the other.
She found it endearing. It was always a silent bet with the countless couples who came into the ER: would they hate each other? Be cheesy? Was there a quiet animosity that the staff was picking up? Are they safe to be around one another?
You never knew what dynamic you would receive.Â
Samira rolled the equipment in the bathroom, turning her back to them to give them privacy. She wasn't worried about Ilya falling. Shane had him.
---
She went into the room for a quick check-up. To check Ilya's vitals and confirm he was soon ready to leave, unlike Samira. She still had six more hours of her shiftâsix more hours of avoiding Trinity and her questions.Â
They were endless, even as silent as they were. It was less of "are Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov fucking?" and more eyebrows raised with a knowing look. Even hiding next to Mel wasn't stopping Trinity.
Santos had an impeccable gaydar, but Samira wouldn't be the one to confirm anything. She meant it when she told the hockey players that they were safe at PTMC, even from her gossipy friend.Â
But when she walked into the room, forgetfully not knocking, she was met with a scene that she would have to keep a lid on.Â
Shane and Ilya were⊠making out, to put it lightly. In realistic terms, they were devouring each other. Shane's knee was propped on the bed to give him support, careful of where Ilya's injuries were, but no less passionate. Ilya had a grip on Shane's nape. They were swallowing each other's moans as they kissed, oblivious to the doctor who entered.Â
"I see we're feeling better," she said as a way to introduce herself.Â
Shane didn't scramble away from the bed like she thought he would have. From the way they've been acting, they clearlywanted to keep their relationship a secret.
"Much better," Ilya was smiling like a lovesick fool.Â
Shane addressed her. "Dr. Mohan,"Â
"Sorry to cut the kiss short, boys. I'll check your vitals really quick and I'll let you get back to it." She didn't wait for a response, opening Ilya's chart on the computer so she could transfer data.
"You are very⊠how do you say? Calm. Not caring that weâ"
"Nonchalant." Shane provided.
"Yes, that is it. Nonchalant. Not many would be so uncaring after seeing two hockey players kiss." Ilya pointed out.Â
And fair. Samira was probably freaking them out.Â
With a shrug, she kept her usual demeanor. "It's not my place to judge what my patients do outside of the ER. We all live our own lives with our own circumstances. And if it makes you more comfortable to know, I'm bi. So me saying anything would just be hypocritical."
Like a lightbulb was properly screwed in, Ilya lit up. "You are bi? Me too! Let's form a secret bi alliance for this hospital, so is like base."Â
Shane put his head in his hands.Â
Samira indulged him. "Bet. It's formed. Whenever a bi needs help, we'll shine the signal into the night."
"Like Batman."Â
"Like Batman."
As she was putting the last of his information into the digital file, a question was burning at the tip of her tongue. I question she would have already asked, but was holding back because of their DL high-profile status.Â
Afterall, you can't just ask famous hockey players when they started dating, even if you don't like hockey and couldn't care less about their fame.
But she did, anyway. "So," she started, trying to find the right words. "When did you two begin dating?"
For a moment, she thought she overstepped, ready to retract the question when Ilya and Shane looked at each other, searching. But then Shane opened his mouth, no fear or panic in his eyes. There was a light there that Samira hadn't seen when he first entered the hospital.
"Two years ago, we made it official, but we've been seeing each other since the summer before rookie season."
"I have no idea when that is," Samira admitted bashfully.
"Years and years ago," Ilya helpfully provided.
Samira grimaced, not able to imagine a situationship lasting that long. "That must have been hard for you both. I'm not into hockey, but I hear about their discrimination against queers and people of color. If you don't mind me asking, why do you stay?"
"We don't mind. At least, not anymore. Not after today." Shane said. He let a pause sit in the room, collecting his thoughts. Samira didn't burst it. "WeâI stay because I love the sport. Despite everythingâall their faultsâhockey has always been mine. Even if I was accused of letting Ilya winâI don't think I could quit."
Ilya intertwined their hands. "Is little different for me. I'm good, so I play. Shane is there, so I stay."
He said it so simply. As if it wasn't his entire career.
"Ilya," Shane's voice dipped in emotion.Â
"ĐŒĐŸĐ” ŃĐŸĐ»ĐœŃŃĐșĐŸ, are you surprised? Don't you know the planets revolve around the sun? You learn this in grade school, yes?"
When Shane's tears began to fall, Samira exited the room without a word.
---
Samira was doing one last motion exam before she could discharge Ilya Rozanov. She had him do an assortment of movements, checking the areas of his body as he followed her direction.Â
"Finally, I want you to put your arms up and twist the other way." She instructed, carrying out the movement herself.Â
Shane was watching them like a hawk, much less tense once the lights in the room were dimmed. Samira had clocked early on his avoidance of lights and noises, doing her best to turn off the beeping monitors. It was something she learned from Mel, a beautiful way to lessen the anxiety for some people.
Ilya followed, wincing once his hip made the rotation.
"Pain scale?"
"Eh, is not bad. Only three."
Samira typed that in. "Great. Looks like you guys can be discharged. I'll go get the paperwork."
Thirty minutes later, Shane had effectively helped Ilya into a pair of clothes. They didn't fit him right, considering they were Shane's.
He kept trying to pull the pants down so they would cover his ankle.
"Leave it," Shane said as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. "We'll need to swing by your hotel to pick up some clothes. For now, you'll have to look like a dishevelled toddler."
Ilya left the fabric alone.
Whipped. Samira recognized him as entirely whipped.
"I don't want you on the ice for a month, Ilya. But other than that, you can return to more taxing movements in two weeks. That means no sex where the hips are involved, okay?"Â
Ilya gafawed as Shane blushed a deep scarlet red. "Can he ride me? At least?"Â
Shane smacked him on the arm. "Ilya." He warned.Â
"No, that would add too much pressure on top of the hips." She smiled, "I'm sure you two'll figure it out." Her voice held a teasing lilt at the end.
Shane huffed. "Sorry about him. He has no filter."
"I think it's sweet. You love and care for one another deeply. I can tell." She handed Shane Ilya's papers.Â
"Oh, she can tell, Shane. Are you scary psychic?"
Samira chuckled. "No, unfortunately not. I'm just very attentive. And what I'm seeing is a bond." She carefully tacked on, "Don't let hockey ruin that."
The two men froze where they were, staring at Samira as if she had grown a second head.Â
"I'm serious. You know what I'm talking about." The hiding. The fear. It wasn't fair to them. "Both of you deserve to be happy. I mean that."Â
---
BREAKING! Shane Hollander seen leaving Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center with Ilya Rozanov. Holding hands! Is there more to these 'rivals'? Click HERE to read moreâŠ
Shane turned his phone off, cuddling into Ilya's side. It was midnight, the day officially bleeding into the next.Â
Ilya pulled him closer. Shane made sure none of his weight was on Ilya's groin.Â
"You are thinking too much," his accent was thick from sleep.
"Hard no to when we just soft-launched our relationship."
"Soft launched?"
"Yeah. We made it official without officially saying anything." Shane tucked his face into Ilya's neck, his favorite place to hide when his mind gets too loud.Â
Ilya kissed the crown of his head. "So we hard-launch tomorrow. Tell the world how much we really love each other."Â
Shane thought it over, finding it odd that he didn't immediately kick out the idea. There had always been that boundary thereâan invisible force field that kept their private lives at bay. But now it was gone, and Shane didn't know how to tread the new landscape.
"Tell me again when we wake up. Don't let me change my mind." Shane pleaded.Â
đĄïž Ser Ilya is assigned to be Prince Shane's personal guard after Ser Hayden marries Princess Jackie. What follows is humorous banter that grows into something more profound.
"No," were the first words Shane said in response to his mom. They weren't words that he said often, let alone to the force of a woman his mother was.
They were in his parents' study, Queen Yuna pacing as King David lounged in a chair. Her hands were tightly grasped together, eyebrow ticking up in response to Shane's refusal.
He was seated on a window cushion, his gaze darting out at the scenery before him. Their land of ZyĂĄre was rich with people, the group individuals filled with charisma and warmth. City life didn't die down with the sun; the moon alighted the space with an atmosphere that was just as exciting as the day.
"Excuse me?" Yuna replied with a tone that was all mom and no queen. "And why not?"
Shane didn't know how to tell her that Hayden leaving was an entire page ripped out of his book of routines. The man, whom he was comfortable in calling his best friend, had been his knight since they were seventeen years old. He was accustomed to shooting his friend withering looks during meetings and talking to an ear that could lend actual advice instead of the censored nonsense the council offered.Â
At twenty-one, Knight Hayden met Princess Jackie of Ysia during her visit to their kingdom, and the pair instantly became smitten with one another. He would go on to court her for nearly a year; the wedding was held only a few days ago.
Now Prince Hayden stood beside Princess Jackie in the royal family portrait of Ysia, hung next to the Hollander's similar smiling faces.
"I don't need a guard." Was what Shane landed on instead. "I'm fully trained with a sword, Mom."Â
She tittered, and even David shot Shane a warning look.Â
"Son," David started.
Yuna let out a harsh breath. She wasn't always so stiff, but Shane knew what had happened recently for her to be reacting so seriously.
"The son of Brune was found beheaded next to his body, his sword still in the holster."
Shane stiffened at the reminder. He hadn't known the man well, but it was still a shocking revelation even though it had happened more than a week ago.
"The young man was quite well in wielding his sword, if I remember correctly." David interjected.
Shane opened his mouth to objectâto come up with any excuse for why he didn't need his best friend replaced.Â
But Yuna beat him to it. "I'm not changing my mind, Shane. You need a knight with you at all times. This is not up for discussion." She trailed off. "Especially since he is already here. That would be terribly rude to send him away."
"What do you mean he's already here?" Shane was standing, looking at his dad for answers.Â
David wasn't shocked by this announcement, based on the way he bashfully dodged Shane's gaze.
His mom looped her arm with his, tugging him close. Shane fought the urge to melt into her side. Even with their petty squabbles they would have, Shane still felt like a little boy clinging to his mother.
"Yes, honey. He is already here. Now, be polite and let's go greet our guest."
*****
Shane kept his arms crossed and his eyes sorrowful the entire welcoming, unable to look the newcomerâno, his new protector for all intents and purposesâin the eyes. He didn't have a vendetta against the man, but Hayden was his familiarâhis best friendâand this Ser was not him.
His eyes roamed the heavy armor donning his skin, no doubt weighing more than Shane's silks and intricate linings of gold on his own clothes. His family's flag hung from his back. Shane wondered what type of strength he had beneath the heavy suit. Beauty marks dotted along his face, leading him to a pair of smirking lips.Â
Knowing lips. He met the knight's eyes for the first time, glaring at the hazel. They only captured Shane more.
Getting down on one knee, the knight took Shane's hand from their blocked off position.Â
"Prince Shane Hollander," His R's rolled, accent heavy but not indistinguishable. "Is honor for House Rozanov from RiĂȘ to be a service. I am Ser Ilya."
Because Shane wasn't raised to be rude, he returned the greeting. "Thank you for coming all this way," and pulled his hand away. Maybe not the politest, but it was the best he could manage at the moment.
He could feel his parents sharing concerned gazes behind his back.Â
Ser Ilya glanced at his empty hand, briefly standing up after he realized Shane wouldn't be giving him a warm acknowledgment. The kind reputation of the Prince of ZyĂĄre was officially ruined.
"Is pleasure and honor to serve. I will protect you with my life."
It was about the same speech Hayden had given Shane when they first met, but yet it felt different. Charged with a different energy he couldn't place his finger on. Shane wasn't eager to obtain a knight back then, either, adamant he was fine on his own.Â
He had given Ser Hayden the cold shoulder for the first few weeks of his position, the ice melting around his heart when they learned they both liked skating. Yet this time around, he wasn't sure if a friendship would form with Ser Ilya.
Shane nodded in gratitude, his tongue too heavy to move.
*****
Shane had another round of studies that evening. His peersâlords, ladies, and even the citizensâfinished their schooling long before Shane did. And it wasn't because he had a difficult time with the material; it was because he was a prince, and the task of learning was never-ending.Â
Ser Ilya had been with them for almost a month now, dutifully trailing behind Shane as he kept a watchful eye for any danger. There were times when Ser Ilya would sneakily begin walking next to Shane, his mouth running at lightning speed.Â
Like now, for instance.Â
"More classes?" Ser Ilya kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, a whining note to his tone.Â
"No, I'm just carrying a pile of books to a selected part of the castle for fun." Shane sniped.
There wasn't a hint of surprise in the other man's response. "Mm, you would find that fun."Â
He scoffed, "What does that mean?"Â
They stopped walking now, turning to each other so they were face to face. Shane struggled to maintain eye contact as he did with everyone. Ser Ilya didn't comment on it as anyone else would have. He huffed out a soft laugh.
"You are boring, Prince Shane. The same routine every day. Walking around with books would be fun for you, yes?" He phrased the third part like a question, so Shane answered.
"No, it wouldn't." He said matter of factly. He actually hated how busy his schedule was and would prefer to have a relaxing day in the sauna.Â
But his own pension for routines and the demands of a prince would never allow that. They continued walking.
Ser Ilya smacked his lips. "Aw, don't pout. Actually, do not stop. I like it."
Shane curled his lips, the grip on his books tightening. Ser Ilya took note of it, too. Just like how he took note of everything.
"Why so mad, Prince Shane? You will kill the poor books." He grabbed the stack out of Shane's hold before he could stop him, settling the pile in his free arm.Â
He opted to clench his fists instead.Â
"Oh, now you will kill own hands? That is what happens when you do not have your way?"Â
Shane wanted to drown in his voice, to fully succumb to the deep rumblingâWait, no! He wanted to drown Ser Ilya, which was what he meant. There was a lengthy lake that wrapped around their land, some of the areas deep enough to hide a bodyâ
"What are you thinking about?"
"We're here!" Shane quickly darted to the double doors a few feet away.
Pushing them open, he grabbed the books back from Ser Ilya. With an embarrassed flush, he pointedly did not look back at his knight.Â
"I think I know," Ser Ilya mumbled.
Shane couldn't retort because the governess (who was subsequently his Aunt Yoko) entered the room. Ser Ilya got the last word in, and it was the only thing he could think about the entire lesson.
*****
On top of his studies, Shane regularly practiced with various weapons. Today, it was the sword.Â
The courtyard was buzzing with focused people, all of whom were sweating in some capacity due to the blistering sun. Some were dressed in loose clothing, shirts and pants flapping with the rare breeze. Others had tight, fitted fabric on, opting for the least amount of distraction while they honed their skills.
No one cared about what others were wearing. That wasâuntil Ser Ilya stepped out of the hutch where armor was keptâthen Shane cared very much. His underarmor did what it was supposed toâhugged everything tightly. His nipples were poking through the black long-sleeve shirt, his pecs on practical display. The muscles lining his arm were pronounced, along with the bare skin that was shown when his shorts cut off mid-thigh.Â
By all accounts, Shane was nearly the same stature as him. Obviously, they had different builds, but the level of strength must be nearly equal. Despite that thought, Shane was bombarded with the image of Ser Ilya pounding him into his bed, firmly holding him down.Â
Andâwhat the fuck?! Shane drove his sword into the mannequin's side, releasing his anger. Or in other termsâsexual arousal.Â
Ser Ilya was beelining straight for him, despite him being off the clock. For the few hours Shane trained twice a week, Ser Ilya was free to do as he saw fit since Prince Shane was in a courtyard with handfuls of knights.Â
Why was he here?
"You are bad with sword, Prince Shane."Â
Right. "Fuck off."
Gritting his teeth, Shane struck the mannequin's side again, using a combo of footwork and upper body movement Hayden had taught him.
Ser Ilya shook his head. "No, no, no. You are doing wrong." There wasn't the usual teasing lilt to his voice; instead, a deadly seriousness took over his expression.
"Let me help you?" He asked for permission, his palm upward as his hand slowly made its way to Shane.Â
And because his hair was sitting on his head like a halo, hazel eyes bearing into Shane's brown, he agreed. Eye contact was becoming easier with the other man.Â
"Fine, but don't be an asshole about it."
Ilya mocked a gasp. "Me? Never?"Â
They were both smiling after that, a joke that was meant just for them.
Ilya fixed Shane's posture, lining his feet into different angles. Shane mentally cursed at his heart to stop beating so fast. He was thankful for the other people around them, the sounds of talking and metal against metal drowning out his clear sign of affection.
He didn't know why he was acting so weird around him. Ser Ilya was just Ser Ilya, even with all of his beauty marks and stupid, perfect Cupid's bow. And while Shane was perfectly aware he was gay after the fiasco of his engagement to Princess Rose the year before, that didn't mean Shane thought of Ilya in that way.
"Focus," Ser Ilya commanded.Â
Shane did, hitting the mannequin with more force this time.
Ser Ilya nodded his head. "Close. You are missing something."Â
He circled around Shane, assessing what he lacked that time. Shane was appreciative that he wasn't sugarcoating the short lesson. Because he was the prince, his mentors lacked the backbone to tell him the truth about his development, despite the Queen's orders not to treat Shane differently from their other students.
He waited for Ser Ilya's next instruction, his entire focus centered on the knight.Â
Standing behind Shane, the man leaned down to speak into his ear. "May I?"Â
Shane wasn't sure what he was asking, but he allowed it anyway. "Go for it." He said while suppressing a shudder.
Ser Ilya became Shane's second skin. He connected his chest to the prince's back, hands wrapping around Shane's on the sword's hilt.
"We move together. I show you how is really done."Â
They went through the motions again, the movements much more fluid and precise than before. Ser Ilya was doing most of the work because the second he felt his breath hit his neck, Shane's mind floated to the clouds.
He could feel Ser Ilya's cock poking through his shorts, nudging against Shane's upper ass. Suddenly, he wished there weren't so many people around.
*****
They were in the only woodland ZyĂĄre had to give, not a big deal to a population that found most of their resources from the lakes and land. It was rare for anyone to be in the forest, much to a younger Shane's elation.Â
There was a time when he could travel to the forest alone, Ser Hayden staying back at his parents' permission. It seemed they detested Shane now, because they were immovable about the prospect of Ser Ilya accompanying him.
Thus, the two additional presences as Shane's horse trotted along the trail were not welcomed.Â
"What is horse name?" Ser Ilya asked, close to Shane and where he rode.
He had been ignoring the knight's attempts in small talk, which was hard to do considering he kept talking until Shane answered.
Shane looked down at the brown mare. Rubbing his hand along her neck, he praised the horse he had had since he was thirteen. "Makoto. It means truth. She's always been well-behaved since she was a foal. Her mother is my Mom's horse, Emi. They're basically one in the same, Emi and my Mom, I mean. I think that's why Makoto is so good."
Ser Ilya hummed. "Is that why you are so good? Because of Queen Yuna?"
He thought Shane was good? But of course he would find a way to make this about Shane. "Ser Ilyaâ"
"Ilya."
Shane spluttered, "Excuse me?"
"Call me Ilya. No Ser between us." He said firmly, petting his own mare.Â
The prince gulped, squeezing Makoto's side to slow her to a stop. Looking up at Ilya (because of course his horse was taller, giving him additional height on Shane), Shane said the thing that was reserved only for immediate family or spouses.
"Call me Shane. No Prince between us."
Judging by the way Ilya's eyes widened, he knew the significance as well.
They were impossibly close now, their horses side eyeing each other as their humans conversed on top of them.Â
"Shane?"
"Ilya."Â
Ripped away from their titles, they were just two men staring at one another. One dressed in knight armor and the other in a fine fabric with specialized patterns unique to his kingdomâbut you get the idea.
Ilya leaned closer, his lips quirking into a smile that Shane couldn't help but mirror. Their eyes effortlessly met, and Shane held them as long as he could before they scattered against his will.Â
Ilya's hand found its way on Shane's jaw, pulling him back into the waves of affection.Â
"Shane," Ilya said again, the reverence dripping from his mouth.
They were kissing before Shane could establish what was going on. He had kissed beforeâHayden, when they were eighteen and drunker than a celebratory army. Rose, who he was selfishly using the prove to himself that he liked women. But neither of those two compared to the kiss Ilya was giving him.
It was all encompassing, pulling Shane deeper into the infatuation he had for the knight. Their tongues slid together, Shane following Ilya's movements and applying his own ministrations. They were moaning and grunting into each other's mouths, only pulling away when Ilya's horse moved a few feet towards the rightâeffectively getting them off each other.
They laughedâShane's dying out faster as he took in the full effect of Ilya. His laughter, his delight, his joy.Â
It was perfect.
When they were leaving the forest, Ilya shared that his horse's name was Ekaterina.Â
*****
Shane hated Ser Ilya Rozanov. He hated the way his hair was practically a honey gold when the light hit it just right. He hated the way Ilya was brash and sly, but insufferably smart and witty. He hated the way his muscles contracted during training, his tan body glistening with sweat as he held a tight grip on his sword.Â
He hated the way Ilya could undo Shane with just a few sentences.Â
Prince Shane was sitting in the garden, his knight standing close next to his left shoulder. To anyone else, it might have appeared as a studious knight taking his role quite seriously, but they both knew better.
"Please stop being angry with me, moya lyubov'." Ilya pleaded, his hand running through the hair at the base of his skull.
Shane swatted his hand away, arms crossed like the first time they met a year ago, as he glanced at the flowers his dad adored. He wouldn't be giving Ilya the benefit of the doubt, even if he spoke Rii, the native language of the people from RiĂȘ.
Since there was enough room on the bench, Ilya plopped down next to him, armor crinking with every movement.Â
"One thing I will not miss is this," He said, knocking against the metal. "Is pain to live in."
"I cannot be knight forever. You want me as your husband, not guard, yes?"
And fine. Shane was being unreasonable, but he really hated change. Even if it was good change.Â
"I don't want another knight." Shane pleaded to no one in particular. He didn't want Ilya to be his knight forever, but maybe⊠no. That wasn't fair to ask.
The hand running through his hair gripped it lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind Shane to take a deep breath in. He leaned into the touch and exhaled.
The repulsive energy that made him want to flee was still coursing through his veins, but it was settled with Ilya's guiding self.
"I know. Will be strange for me to have one, too."
And suddenly, Shane realized how unfair he was being to Ilya. Ilya, the man who loved every part of Shaneâthe man who treasured him like a god above all else. Leaning against the armor that wasn't in the slightest bit comfortable, Shane pecked his lips.Â
"I'm sorry," He apologized.
Ilya rested their foreheads together, the tick in his eyebrows smoothing out. "No need. Is okay if you feel off. You do not like change."Â
How he ever disliked Ilya, Shane didn't know. The Prince of ZyĂĄre had a reputation for his sweetness, but Shane was unconvinced the title belonged to him.
đ kiss me one more time, make all my problems disappear
đ Haas was too focused on watching Ilya circulate around the room, the captain making his usual rounds with the teammates. Shane could see the awe in his features, how much he admired his husband.
But all it did was sour the feeling forming in his gut.
Stop. Stop it. Luca is just a kid. Be good. He strictly tried to reel himself in. Be good.
IN WHICH Shane drops before practice. Ilya has to do his best to bring his husband back up.
đ subdrop, hurt/comfort, semi-smut, frottage, shower sex, semi-public sex, soft dom ilya, sub shane, married shane/ilya. contains SPOILERS post season 1.
đ https://archiveofourown.org/works/76695626
đ5.2k+
Shane knew practice was going to kill him as he put on his gear. The fabric felt unusually rough against his skin, scratching against places that made him feel like he was about to lose his mind. His head was stinging like a headache was threatening to come on, and no matter how many times Shane adjusted his neck, the feeling just didn't go away.
He was unusually cold, even for being at the ice rink.Â
His teammates were laughing and being rowdy as usual, Hayes and Dykstra trying to hit each other with towels. Barrett was talking to Harris in some corner, leaning suggestively close, which let everyone know what the topic was about. Boodram was telling Haas how to grill a steak to perfection.
"You have to sweet-talk it. The steak is doing you a favor. Giving you a delicacy. When you let it know how much you appreciate it, the juicier it turns out!"
Haas was too focused on watching Ilya circulate around the room, the captain making his usual rounds with the teammates. Shane could see the awe in his features, how much he admired his husband.Â
But all it did was sour the feeling forming in his gut.
Stop. Stop it. Luca is just a kid. Be good. He strictly tried to reel himself in. Be good.Â
The Ottawa Centaurs quickly felt like a family when Shane joined their team last year, freshly outed (fuck you, Brad) and married (thanks, Brad?). They had team nights where they would alternate between houses, play video games, cook food, and forget problems. Everyone's partner was intermingled within the group, a whole message chat that everyone was a part of.
Kids were handed off when they could be; exhausted parents were more than happy to take a break.Â
Shane appreciated the closeness. How fast they had welcomed him into their family when his own team found it impossible to accept Shane. His team, with which he played for more than ten seasons, disregarded Shane as if he hadn't helped them win three Stanley Cups. His team that thought he purposely let Ilya win.
It was a good riddance from that team that rarely got together, unless it was in a bar after a win. Otherwise, they only got together when crammed into hotel rooms or sat close at airports. No one invited the other for dinner, that was, until Shane had made friends with Hayden. Now he had a real team. A team that felt like a family. A team where the members would just casually stop by your house to drop off hard apple cider. Or extra steak. Or a niche comic to add to Shane's growing Nightwing collection.
No one to question Shane if he slipped on the ice on purpose.
Yet only being around people right now worsened Shane's mood. Even if they were his friends. Even if he usually appreciated their company.
The pit in his stomach deepened as sweat formed against his temple. Despite the cold shivers that wracked his body, Shane still managed to feel hot at the same time. His vision was going cloudy with unshed tears as he bit on his lip, willing himself to act normal.
What is wrong with you?! Pull yourself together. Not even a little over a year of being on the team and you're already showing how much of a failure you can be. He couldn't stop the thoughts invading his mind, his heart picking up with every pounding word.
The morning had started fine. Shane kissed Ilya awake until they had a quick fuck followed by taking Anya out for a walk, then they ate breakfast together. The weather was nice in early October. Rays from the sun beamed down on them, warming them from the chill that was starting to set in in the mornings. It was a nice difference from the freezing winters.
Everything about today was great, yet Shane didn't feel great. He didn't even feel fine. There was a nagging feeling in his gut. A feeling that roared at him to go home and cocoon himself in the room. Shane didn't want to listen to it because fuck, he never missed practice. He wouldn't start now when he'd only been on the team for a year.Â
He felt weighed down, like the ground was trying to siphon him in. Shane couldnât help but sit on the bench, hanging his head as he rested his elbows on his knees. His gear hugged everything too tightly, sucking him beneath it until Shane felt like nothing. He wished it would just squeeze him out of oblivion by now. Shivers wracked his body despite the sweat forming, disappointment in himself clawing at Shane.Â
Ilya suddenly appeared at his side, half-dressed and missing his upper gear. Shane sat up straighter, following Ilya's happy trail up his body until he met hazel eyes. They were full of concern, reserved only for Shane. Shane felt himself almost crumble at that, barely holding himself together.
You can't even breathe properly. The voice inside him mocked. You're weak. Useless. Ilya will realize just how much he doesn't need you soon enough.
"What is wrong?" Ilya asked loud enough so only they would hear it.
Shane wanted to fall into the voice, wanted to let him take over completely. Wanted to not worry about a sinlge thing.Â
"I want to go home,"Â Shane wanted to say.Â
Instead, he shook his head, not having the words to explain. Yuna Hollander didn't raise her child to be a quitter. Let alone to quit on something as simple as practice.
Ilya huffed through his nose, sitting on the bench next to Shane so they were eye level. Some of the other guys had looked at them, but as soon as their eyes landed on the scene, their gaze darted away. They were clearly curious about what was going on, but gave them privacy instead. If he were back in Montreal, half the guys would be in their business about now.
Shane jutted out his bottom lip against his will. He felt pathetic. Probably looked like it too.
Pathetic, Shane. Nothing new. You always find new ways to disappoint.
He wanted to cry. And he wouldn't be fucking crying here. Not in front of everyone. The cold feeling that surrounded him grew endless, the thick gear he had on doing nothing to stop the numbing that began to set in his fingers. He needed his gear off before it suffocated him.
But despite all he was feeling, his body remained frozen. Hands unwilling to extract the protective pads and everything else that came after it.
Ilya grabbed his chin, prodding the lip with his thumb. With this position, Shane had no choice but to look Ilya in the eyes. He wanted to listen, to follow orders without delay. Yet his tongue wouldn't move in accordance.
"Shane. What is wrong?" He asked more firmly this time.Â
It was a tone that left no argument between them. A tone that Ilya only used when he was actively domming Shane.Â
His eyes went lidded, the urge to follow his Dom's every order short-circuiting something within Shane's brain.
Be good. Be good for Ilya.
Shane couldn't say he wanted to go home. That he wanted to cuddle with Ilya without any clothes so that their bodies could become one. With how comfortable and accepted he felt on the team, he still didn't like overly public displays of affection. It wasn't because he felt ashamed of Ilya or their relationship in any way. It just felt⊠weird having eyes on them as they shared something personal. No one was meant to see Shane like that, just as no one was meant to see Ilya in such a way.
It was for them, and them only. An outsider's eyes felt like a bug under his skin.
He couldn't say that he was pretty sure he was dropping, because Ilya had pampered Shane all morning after they had fucked. He shouldn't be dropping, so he wouldn't be dropping. It had been a while since the last time he dropped, the enhanced emotions mostly finding him when Ilya and he were still working out their relationship and communication. Back then, they were meant to mean nothing, just a quick, exciting hookup that lasted years. So he would drop every once in a while, because shitâone of them was always gone so fast, and Shane never had the guts to ask for aftercare.Â
But that had been then. When Ilya was so hellbent on pretending he didn't feel the spark between Shane and him. It was completely different from the Ilya he knew now.
That morning, after Ilya fucked him hard and fast, Shane had rested his face against his husband's chest, listening to how his heart beat a rhythm that calmed into a steady one. Then they took Anya on a short walk, touching in some capacity at all times. Ilya was so reassuring, calling Shane his perfect, good boy. Reminding Shane that he was Shane and he lovedhim for that simple fact. He was pulled out of his earlier headspace, content in the quick scene they had.
Ilya had fed him his breakfast that morning. Shane went back into that dopey, floating mind space, unable to focus on anything besides Ilya and when to open his mouth to accept the food. It felt so easy to take what Ilya gave him. Each bite left him sinking further into that frame of mind. The frame of mind where only Ilya and his praise existed.
They left for practice soon after, Ilya driving as he gripped firmly at Shane's thigh. It took everything in him not to get hard from the touch. To not rut into the hand connected to his husband, who kept lathering the praise on throughout the whole ride. The floating feeling remained until they had pulled into the parking lot.Â
Ilya pulled him in by his neck, placing a dirty, rough kiss on Shane's lips before exiting the car.
Then Shane started to feel like shit.
"I don'tâ" He couldn't finish his sentence.Â
If he thought the tears were building up previously, they certainly were now. He could feel the weight of the droplets hanging in the ducts in his eyes, pure stubbornness refusing to let them fall. He stopped short on his sentence before they fell.
He bit his lip and looked down, forcing his mind to focus on the gear that wrapped around Ilya's thighs. It looked similar to Shane's own gear, but it was more worn out since he had had his for longer.
Shane didn't know how long he kept his gaze fixed on that central spot, feeling an icy heat rise in his lungs. The stupid gear was making it impossible to breathe. He could feel himself crashing, unsteady and falling.
He felt large hands engulf either side of his face, cupping his cheeks delicately. It forced Shane to look up, noticing that no one else was in the locker room anymore. Where had they all gone? To practice? When? Shane hadn't even noticed them leaving.
"What...?" The Canadian muttered under his breath, the words illegible in the real world.
Ilya's hands slipped until only one remained, the fingers working their way into his jaw. The slightly younger man kept his grip light, craning Shane's neck further until their eyes met.
The Russian man's eyebrows were furrowed into the middle, his lips puckered thin like they only got when he was concentrated or about to come. He tenderly rubbed his thumb against Shane's freckles, watching them disappear then reappear under his prints.
Before Shane could process what was happening, he kissed his forehead and let him go. He felt his heart stutter from the loss of touch, rejected without the use of words.Â
He doesn't want youâ
But then the hands returned, guiding Shane to stand.
"Up, moya lyubov'."Â Ilya lightly commanded.
Shane recognized the firm tone and stood, no room for argument when Ilya was domming. With the blood rushing to his ears and air leaving his lungs, it was hard to understand and process anything. But Ilya's dom voice made Shane want to listen. To be good. To prove that he was more than trash that could be sent away without a second thought.
"I'm going to take off your gear, yes?"
Shane shook his head, his heart spiking. With his heavy tongue, he said, "We have practice! We need to..." he couldn't articulate his thoughts; the words jumbled into a mess of nonsense.
Ilya looked softly at him, pecking his lips that promised more later.
"Do not worry, solnishko. Today was optional practice. We do not have to be here." Ilya explained.
If Shane were in his right mind, he would have refused. Would have insisted they stay whether the practice was optional or not. Ilya was the captain and the season was starting next week. He was meant to be there and set an example for the rookies. But he wasn't in his right mind, so he didn't fight it as Ilya stripped Shane out of the hockey get-up until he was only in his boxers. His husband neatly folded his belongings, sliding them into Shane's cubby.
Hands caressed down his side, steadily placing on his hips. Shane couldn't stop the upper half of his body leaning forward on instinct, every part of him wanting comfort from his husband. It had been so long since he dropped. He forgot how horrible it felt.
"You are dropping." Ilya stated, running a hand into Shane's hair.
He pressed the other man more firmly into his collarbone, trailing down until he was gripping at the base of his neck.Â
"Nod if you are listening to me, Shane."Â
God, Shane was obsessed with the way Ilya said his name. He said it as if he were speaking to a deity, so loving and devout that Shane felt his heart rate rise every time he was reminded of Ilya's love.
He nodded.
The grip Ilya had on him hardened, pressing into the stiff muscles of his neck that left him sighing in gratitude as his hip was squeezed. A kiss was placed on the top of Shane's head, centering the man once more.Â
"We will shower here, because I know you hate sitting in the sweat from your gear. You do not like to be dirty, right, sweet boy?"Â
Shane nodded in agreement. He hated when he or Ilya left the ice rink unwashed, dragging back whatever germs the other men had brought into the car and eventually the house. Call Shane what you wanted to, but dirty was never one of them.
Shane pressed a light kiss to the exposed juncture between Ilya's shoulder and neck.
"Hm, I knew so. Maybe in the shower, I will rub your dick. After we are clean, we will get dressed and leave. Leave for home." Ilya clarified the last part, pulling Shane's head back so their eyes could connect.
As much as he avoided the contact, Shane wanted to melt into his Dom's hazel. Ilya wanted to keep Shane solid for a little bit longer. When Shane tried to drop to his knees, the other man kept a firm hold on his elbows.Â
"Net." No. Ilya took his gear off, even if he just denied Shane access. He didn't bother folding his stuff, uncaring if it stayed on the ground or not. "Did I say suck my cock, Shane?" He placed his leading hand on the small of Shane's back. "Be a good boy and come shower."
All Shane wanted to do was be good for Ilya, so he followed the man into the showers, mind drifting away from his rejection and into the hands expertly massaging the soap into his hair. The NHL provided a wide range of products for its players, but Shane noticed Ottawa got the cheaper brands compared to Montreal. And Boston, for that matter. And Toronto, according to Wyatt.Â
But still, even if the mint smelled more like chemicals and less like a toothpaste brand shoving a commercial down your throat, the person applying it was all that mattered.
Ilya deftly worked the shampoo into his hair, using his skilled hands in a controlled head massage. The water pelting against his chest was soothing, like a beat knocking against his skin. He could feel his husband's body all around him, the man surrounding him even outside of his thoughts.
"Mm," Shane moaned as he leaned into the touch, gripping Ilya's forearm behind him.Â
He closed his eyes out of tendency, drifting away from the bad place and into the headspace he adored. It wasn't immediate, but soon his depressing thoughts turned to studying Ilya's movements.
The touch wasn't to stop him, but to stabilize Shane.Â
"Feel good, sweetheart?" Ilya purred, the words ghosting on the back of Shane's neck.
Shane could only manage the movement of his head in agreement. Ilya stepped closer to him, placing his half-hard dick on top of Shane's ass. It took everything within Shane not to roll his hips into a seductive motion. Ilya hadn't instructed him to do so, so he wouldn't.
"Words, milyy. You are doing so good for me. So good, Shane." Ilya's Russian accent got thicker the longer he talked, arousal displayed.
His arms flexed with every passing motion, a determined look set in his eye. One that Shane could openly see once Ilya flipped him around, placing the crown of his head under the spray. He could sense the suds running down his shoulders and onto his back, effectively down the drain as Ilya maintained his tender touch.
"Ilya," He whimpered, hoping that alone would convey what it needed to.
Based on the way Ilya bit his lip and grabbed the body wash, it did.Â
"I am so sorry, Shane." Ilya said as he squirted the blue gel into his hand, spreading the soap along his hands before he placed them wide-palm on his chest.Â
Ilya squeezed his pecs with less fervor than usual, his eyes clouding with the same guilt that would stumble upon him anytime Shane dropped. Shane didn't like that look on him, so he tried to wash it away with his own kiss.
Ilya fell into it easily, setting the pace to a slow one. Controlled. Ilya explored the entirety of his mouth as Shane dociely took it, pacified by his husband's mouth on his. It was warm and everything Shane needed it to be. Their lips moved in sync without a rush, the couple languidly kissing each other in the team's public showers, the Russian towering over Shane's form.
Being four inches shorter than his husband wasn't that much of a difference, but when Shane wanted Ilya to cover him in every aspect⊠it wasn't a hard task to complete. All he had to do was give himself to Ilya and the rest came naturally.
"I should have known⊠this morning. You looked soâfuck, what is the word? Out of realm, like you were still far away." He didn't let his hands wander, strictly using them to clean his and Shane's bodies.Â
Ilya was placing tender kisses along Shane's neck, reverence articulated in the way his lips lingered on his husband's skin.
It electrocuted fire in Shane, the ruining cold that was in his body gone for good. "No, it'sânot your fault."
Ilya nibbled his lips against the spot on Shane's shoulder that always made his dick harden. Shane could feel it reacting to Ilya's ministrations without fault, twitching between his legs. In this position, his and Ilya's cock's were so close together, mere inches apart from giving Shane the pleasure he desired.Â
Ilya had caught sight of it as well, teasingly pushing his hips into Shane's before pulling away. It was a small dose of what he had to offer, lips curling up as Shane whimpered from the loss.
His hands trailed lower, rubbing the soap into Shane's sides and hips. He hardened his touch, nothing to hurt, but a firm reminder that Ilya was there. He was with Shane, taking care of him like he always did.
"We discuss later?"Â
That sounded wonderful.
"Yeah, later's good."Â
Ilya pressed his lips against Shane's, no longer the delicate movements he had earlier. Shane leaned into the kiss, reveling at the way Ilya occupied his own. His time. His body. All of his thoughts were on Ilya and the teasing hands and sharp mouth. Even if he wanted to move his hips, they would be firmly denied by Ilya's awaiting grip.Â
They played this game often. How long could Ilya deny Shane before the older man attempted to control the situation, where Ilya and his pleased smirk would promptly stop him. Sometimes it wasn't Shane who caved first, but rather Ilya himself. In those moments he was just as needy as Shane, unwilling to let anymore distance or space stand in their way.
When Shane pulled away, it wasn't to catch his breath but to speak to Ilya. He wasn't in the mood for games.
"Please?" He looked down at his half-hard dick, looking especially pathetic next to Ilya's full erection.
"You like?" Ilya teased, kissing Shane quickly. Their lips parted with a smack that resonated over the water spraying onto them.Â
"Shut upâ" Shane's insult was interrupted by a moan. His own moan. Because Ilya was suddenly stroking his cock at an impossible pace.
"Mmm, I don't think you want me to. Is this okay?" He bit Shane's ear, delighting as his husband shivered against him.Â
When Shane gave him the verbalized consent he needed, he kept on. "This reminds you of anything?"
Shane's brain was still fuzzy around the edges. All he could think about was this moment, how Ilya was leisurely moving his hand up and down. His back was taking the brunt of the water, so it was obvious when Shane's dick began to slick up from his excessive precum.
"You always leak so much, sweetheart. So good for me. So wet." Ilya didn't quicken his pace, rubbing his thumb over Shane's head, spreading the fluid around.
Shane couldn't find it in him to be embarrassed about it anymore. He's come a long way from hating how much precum the tip of his cock oozed, especially when Ilya was so taken by the feature.Â
"You remember all those years ago? The looks you were giving me in the showers?"
Shane shook his head.
"No? Oh, Shane. I don't think you realized what you were doing. Trying to wash your body, but your eyes couldn't help but keep looking at me." His R's rolled thicker against Shane's ear, the heat sending a blush to Shane's cheeks. "Just like now."
"Fuck off," He weakly managed in return.Â
"There was so much lust in the way you looked at me. Like you couldn't wait to have my big cock in your ass. Or maybe, your mouth? Would you like that tonight, Shane? Want me to fuck you and that mouth of yours? I know how much you crave both."
He sped up his ministrations, angling them so the water gave relief to the dry strokes.Â
"Ah," Shane whimpered as his body folded in half, his head resting on Ilya's collarbone. "Please, Ilya. Needâahâneed it."Â
Shane bit and sucked at the exposed skin, watching as the pale dermis turned darker the longer he sucked. Ilya groaned, tilting his neck to the side to give Shane more access. The Canadian happily trailed his lips along Ilya's pulse, lessening his force the higher he went up. While they liked to leave marks on each other, hickeys above the neckline were strictly not meant to last longer than a few hours during the season.
He found the special spot behind his husband's ear, rolling the skin between his teeth before letting go.
"Yours too. Yours too." He desperately managed out, bucking his hips into each stroke.Â
It felt wrong not to have Ilya's dick pressed up against his in this moment.
Ilya gripped the base of his hair and forced Shane's head up, sliding his tongue into the shorter man's mouth as he took his and Shane's cock in hand. His wide palm easily wrapped around them without problem, calloused fingers roughly smothering their heats together.Â
Chest to chest, Shane was tweaking one of Ilya's nipples with his digits, using the edge of his nails to bring the sharp pain Ilya liked applied to his nipples. His free hand roamed to Ilya's back, slowly falling lower until he had a grasp on the ass he adored so much.
It earned a moan from Ilya, so Shane gripped harder.
Sometimes Shane was sad that he wasn't a top, never getting to see the way Ilya's roundness would move on him. Then Ilya would fuck him as Shane clenched onto his globes for dear life, content to hold onto them rather than fuck into them.
They moaned into each other, Ilya maintaining a controlled pace that left both of them reeling. Shane could feel the bulging veins of Ilya's dick pressing against his, the head of their cocks rubbing together every time Ilya brought his hand near the tips.Â
Their vocal sounds were echoing around the room, fwap fwap fwap drowned out by their deep groans and the singular shower they hand running.Â
His foreskin nudged into the tip of Shane's cock every time, too. Stimulating him just a little bit more with each passing movement. Ilya's breathing was harsh exiting his nostrils, his silent sounds of pleasure spurring Shane on just as the audible ones. Their tongues were dancing together in a similar fashion their cocks wereâwet and messy.
Shane let himself fall into the feeling, the building wave of relief washing over him entirely. He couldn't even remember why he was upset in the first place.
His hips unwillingly bucked into Ilya's hand, erratic and about to burst.Â
"'M gonna cum. CanâCan Iâ"
"Net. Such a good boy, waiting for me, Shane. You have been so good, so lovely." He picked up the pace, Shane crying out as he held off his impending orgasm.Â
"That's it, solnishko. Hold it for me." Ilya growled out.Â
It was the tone that would make Shane fall to his knees. The tone that left Shane only wanting for Ilya's cock to be in him, somehow, someway. But that wasn't a part of the plans he had set. At least not while they were still at the ice rink. Shane had to wait for that for just a bit longer. But if one thing served them true over the years, it was that the wait can be worth it.Â
When Shane let out a particularly gutting moan next to Ilya's ear, the Russian man pushed him against the tiled wall. He didn't care for the water that fell in his face, too preoccupied with ensuring Shane's head didn't slam against the tile.
Shane kept himself positioned as he was, satisfied with the way Ilya's long hair was pooling over his hand and how big his ass felt in his hand. He gripped both possessively tight, rolling his hips once more as soon as Ilya started.
Ilya was less rolling his hips, but more so slamming Shane into the wall with every thrust. He worked his hips as if he were in Shane, unforgiving and dominant. Shane wished his back was to Ilya, face forced against the wall as Ilya fucked into him good from behind.Â
As if reading his mind, Ilya snuck a finger into Shane's mouth. Shane sucked it in without a problem, wrapping his lips around the digit as if it were Ilya's cock being shoved down his throat. He caressed it with his tongue, dousing it in his saliva as he worked the finger like it was Ilya's cock.
"Fuuuck," Ilya pressed it deeper, his thrusts into his palm beginning to grow uneven and less measured. "You want to cum, Shane? Be good, cum for me. Now."
His words were precise and smooth, the voice of a man who had done this a thousand times over. His lips were scrunched up in the way Shane adored, jaw ticked at how hard he was clenching it.
Shane followed the command, his body working on overdrive to shoot the load out the second Ilya demanded it. "Mmf, shit. Ilya."
His head tilted back from the pleasure, pushing off the wall and into Ilya's grasp. It felt like too much, but not enough.
Ilya was following him soon after, punched out growls vibrating against his chest as he swiped another kiss from Shane. It was a swift peck, one involved with no tongue or lip locking of any kind.Â
"Shane," Was the first thing he said when they parted.Â
"Ilya," Shane's voice sounded heavier, as if he just woke up from a nap that left him questioning what time zone he was in. His eyes were lidded, a perfect compliment to match his dopey smile.
Shane knew he probably looked like he was high on a few different substances, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. All he could think about was Ilya. His husband, the man standing in front of him, who made it his life's mission to care for Shane.
Ilya planted featherlight kisses on the crown of his head, guiding him back under the water before he could get cold. "I love you,"
"I love you, too."
"We clean for real this time." Ilya instructed, pumping soap onto Shane's body once more.Â
Shane didn't respond, content to let Ilya's palms roam over his body. The man kept his touch delicate, cleaning Shane's cock without a hint of sexual arousal. It was almost like getting a massage, except the masseuse was a mouthy Dom who had more in store for later.
Throughout the aftercare, Ilya muttered words of encouragement and praise in Russian. They were phrases that Shane distantly recognized, but he was too far in his head to cling to them long enough to translate.Â
By the time he was coming out of the fog, he was already in his boxers with a Snickers bar pressed to his lips. Shane was sitting in front of his cubby in the locker room, and Ilya was standing in front of him expectantly.
"Eat, sweetheart." He tried shoving the candy into Shane's mouth.Â
Shane's eyes went wide, ready to smack the death bar (only during the season, now) away from his body. Nothing unhealthy should even think about entering Shane's perfectly curated diet.
"Yes, you eat it. Vy zhe znayete, chto sakhar pomogayet."Â You know sugar helps.
Shane begrudgingly took a bite. He tried to ignore how the flavor bloomed against his taste buds. It was a flavor he would do his best to forget after today, at least until the season was over and he could be more lenient about what he consumed.
"Where'd you get this anyway?" Shane asked around a mouthful.
Ilya was dressing himself, putting on the clothes he had arrived in. "Was there on bench when we got out."
He froze mid-bite. "You mean�"
Ilya nodded. "Probably Harris. Nothing to worry about. That man and Troy go round after round in his office." The was something akin to pride in the way he said it.
And because Shane still had the content ball of yarn wrapped tightly around his heart, for once in his life, he let it go.Â
peter parker in gotham au - congratulations, you adopted a spider!
rating: teen
tags: found family, hurt/comfort, peter parker needs a hug, everyone loves peter parker, peter parker is 8yo, bruce wayne is a good dad
ch8 word count: 6.2k+
read here on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74900086/chapters/199511776
steph and duke.
Warmth surrounded Peter. The deep-seated warmth that tingled at the ends of his fingers and made him curl in on himself. It was the promise of protection and no worries. The kind that he released himself to, having no fight to stop the comfort that surrounded him. It pulled him under, reminding Peter what couldnât or shouldnât be his. In the end he couldnât protect his city from the damage he caused. He couldnât protect May. He couldnât seem to do a single thing right anymore.
It had been so long since he felt this kind of warmth. Or rather, safety. All the nights he had been in Gotham ended in Peterâs stiffening body as he passed in and out of consciousness. The nights were horrifically cold and harsh on Peter, even though he knew it wasnât as freezing as his body made it out to be. Once the temperature dipped with the hidden sun, he would fight his body to remain moving. To keep pushing so that his joints didnât lock up and betray him. He hated the helpless feeling he got, unable to move, vulnerable to anyone who could find him.
This had never happened to him before. He had plenty of chilly nights in Queens, but none of them left him dormant as his body fought to preserve energy.
He wasnât sure why the cold was affecting him so much, but Peter had a few guesses about what could be the cause.
Peter had always been small for his age. Short and skinny, as most people liked to point out. Where someone would wear a simple jacket, Peter would have layers underneath that rivaled trends. His Mom had always made sure he had enough coats on, and when she died, Aunt May took over the role like a champ. She wasnât as much of a worrywart as Uncle Ben wasâbut she couldnât stand the thought of Peterâs skin nipping from the temperature.
On top of that, he was eating less than what he was used to, and mixing that with a high metabolism was an equation for disaster. His body went through food faster than he cared to admit to anyone, so Peter was used to being hungry the majority of the time. But now his meals were significantly reduced. It made sense why he was losing weight against his will. His stomach was probably eating itself.
This type of environment wasnât meant to nourish. It was meant to destroy and decay anything that couldnât withstand it. It was meant to feast on the ones who couldnât survive. Natural selection and all that. He knew it would be a matter of time before he was just another digested, lost case. Swallowed into the mouth of Gotham and never returned.
Even though Peter was significantly weaker compared to before, unprotected without a fight left in him, there was reason for his shivering at night. But it still made no sense as to why his joints were locking up, why his body refused to move until the temperature started rising. He would unfreeze at random, like a living statue getting off his shift.
No matter how much he willed his limbs to move, they refused. It was horrible. He would lay there all night falling in and out of sleep, stiffened like he was in sleep paralysis. His dreams were no help either. They were memories that he refused to remember during the day, haunting him at night and reminding Peter exactly why he was alone.Â
But Peter noticed the slight energy gain he would have in the mornings. He wouldnât be so sluggish; his mind and joints working faster even without food. With the addition of his body going into a coma-like state with the cold weather, it seemed it was preserving his energy as well.
He cuddled more into the soft fabric pressed against his cheek as his mind galloped.
Peter had a sinking suspicion his inability to function with freezing temps had something to do with the way his abilities were becoming moreâŠarachnid-like.
His wrists had been aching for a few days, but Peter pushed it off as if it were like every other ache in his body. Sleeping on the hard ground didnât do wonders for the body, especially one with a mindset already defeated. He gave up a long time ago. Long before Dr. Strange threw him into Gotham. Going to sleep every night on uneven floorboards solidified that this was meant to be a punishment.Â
Dr. Strange tossed him into another universe, forcing him to live out his days without being able to check on or protect his loved ones. The brunette supposed he deserved it. What good could he do anyway? He proved himself a failure time and time again. With Iron Man. With Mysterio. With Dr. Strange. He could barely protect his friends.
So what if his wrists were aching? Every part of him deserved whither in pain.
Peter shouldnât have pushed it off, because the morning after he met Nightwing and Robin, he woke up in a webbed cocoon. In the corner of the ceiling. The blanket Nightwing (Dick!) had gotten Peter was woven into the webs alongside his Red Robin figurine.
He was confused at first, encapsulated in the dark. That was until he felt the familiar slickness of webs. Webs that shouldnât be around him because he didnât have his web-shooters.
He had screamed bloody murder, crawling out of the web with his sticky hands and scattering from the wall to the floor in an instant. He wasnât a real fucking spider, so he quickly crawled back up to dislodge the web. As he folded the blanket neatly next to his small pile of belongings he managed to obtain over the week, Peter tried to ignore the feeling of loss that overwhelmed him.
The web had felt nice. Peter was unworthy of something feeling nice.
There were clear spinnerets lined on his wrist, the same ones he had seen on Peter Three. His pale skin was dusted with a light pink tint around it, sore from the first usage. He stared long and hard at the slight shift in his body, willing the marks to go away. Willing them to disappear just like every person in his life. In any other circumstance, he would have thought that requiring natural spinnerets to be the epitome of Spiderman.
Real webs were fucking awesome! He loved designing and improving his web-shooters any chance he got, but it would certainly save money and time to have the real thing. Except, he wasnât Spiderman anymore. He was just Peter.Â
Poor Peter, who couldnât seem to catch a break in any direction he went. Any of his abilities would classify him as a meta, and Peter had seen enough billboards and signs to know that Batman was an enforcer with the lack of them in Gotham.
At current, the warmth wasnât the same level the web had offered, nor was it near the same level of safety, but he accepted it all the same. Anything beats shivering on a floor with no escape to a better place. There was a small voice in the back of his head (when he would later wake up he would realize it was his spidey-sense) whispering for him to wake up, but Peter was too comfortable to acknowledge it.
That was until the events with Jay clotted in the forefront of his mind.
He was already having an off day by waking up cocooned in a web of his own doing, no memory of yielding his apparent new abilities. That was just the tip of the iceberg, proving to Peter that his luck was exactly as he knew it to be.
Shit.
On his way to the soup kitchen, he made the stupid mistake of allowing the gloves on his hands to be visible. He usually kept them buried in his pockets, though that morning he had felt better despite his souring mood. Thus, Peter was robbed. Plain and simple. The guy looked like he felt bad enough as he held Peter in place, yanking the only protection for his fingers off. He had said something about his kid needing them. That he was sorry.
So Peter didnât fight him. Didnât find out if the man was willing to hit a kid when his own was in need. And if a kid needed themâwell Peter couldnât demand them back. He would hate to be the cause of someone else misery. If he could help this one person, he would. The guy had darted off and left Peter to fix his jacket, going on his way as if nothing had happened.
Then he had tripped from a dip in the sidewalk, eyes on the clouds that blocked the sun, and slammed his shoulder into the concrete. Peter chose to ignore the other street kids cackling at him, hopeful in the fact that the food he would be eating soon would boost his healing.
When he finally managed to get to the soup kitchen, he had knocked with the belief that Jay would be there. That Jay would feed him early like he always did. But a woman answered the door, keen on keeping Peter out until it was time to open.
Peter tried not to feel defeated as he lowered himself onto the steps, the resounding thought that it was what he warranted floating through him. He didnât deserve kindness. He didnât deserve leniency. He didnât deserve people who would help because in the end it was all useless. Peter was useless.
What Jay offered him was more than Peter could ever give back.
Then he miraculously appeared and every bite of food felt like guilt washing down his throat. Peter didnât want to take advantage of Jay, yet that was exactly what he was doing. Halfway through eating, his spidey-sense went off like an alarm, unsure where or what the danger was, but positive something was coming.
Peter ignored it. His spidey-sense had been out of whack for the past few days. He just wanted to enjoy his last meal with Jay. Because after that day, Peter would find a different soup kitchen to leech off of. No one should take on the charity case cause that Peter was, so he decided to bounce around for a bit.
He could tell Jay was trying to lift his mood, making jokes that he wouldnât bother with if Peter were acting normal. Jay was cool like that. He didnât try at all, and he had an effortless air about him that Peter wished he could apply to a quality of his own. But Peter was having a bad day, so it wasnât until the memory of his figurine that he showed actual joy.
Peter didnât mind if his Red Robin figurine was described as a toy. Or if he was viewed as a child with one. When he had lived with May, he had a whole shelf of figurines and Funko Pops of his favorite comic heroes. MJ had teased him relentlessly when she first saw them, calling them toys anytime she mentioned the shelf or something adjacent to it. Then she bought him a limited-edition Iron Man figurine, so any grievances he had against her were erased.
But, of course, a bomb went off. Or something of the sort, because the next thing Peter knew he was flung out of Jayâs orbit. The world was on fire around them, debris and smoke filling Peterâs lungs with every gasp of breath. He groaned when he tried to move his body, everything feeling like a building was crashing down on him and he didnât catch it this time. His muscles felt impossible to use, like gravity was holding him down.
He heard his name being shouted. Someone engulfed him into their body.
âIâI canâtââ He gasped, clutching at the person's sleeve. When his hand came into contact with the arm, he distantly registered the individual as Jay.
Okay. It wasâokay. Jay had him.
âIâve got you,â Jay said.
He felt his body being lifted, the older man staggering around with him in his arms. Peter wanted to shout at Jay to forget him, to run and not be weighed down by Peter. Useless Peter who couldnât do anything to save the one person who showed him the time of day. Both of them didnât have to die, and Peter was fine with being the one left behind. It was the least he could do after all Jay had done for him.
Another shockwave sent them to the ground, Jay curling around him as Peter clutched on for dear life. Tears gathered behind Peterâs eyes, this time not from the smoke that choked them, but from the impending loss of another. Despite his strength, despite the abilities he possessed, Peter would lose an additional person in his life. He would once more fail to save someone close to him.
Flashes of May and her horrible cooking invaded him at that moment, her sweet hugs and unwavering loyalty leaving an impression on Peter ever since he was young.
âDonât be sad, baby.â Her smooth voice was whispering in his ear. âThis is just the start.â
The tears fell down his cheeks as he tried to remain conscious, his grip on Jay wavering against his will.
Just the start? How many more people would die because of him?
He could feel the grip he had on Jay loosening faster than he could register. In the back of his mind, he hoped Jay wouldnât leave him there. Wouldnât leave his body to burn to ash along with the street. Peter wasnât worthy of another act of kindness, but maybe Jay would give him one more.
His vision dipped into an unseeing one, replaying the memory as it had unfolded. He curled in on himself further, hoping he could just rest for a few more minutes.
âPeter!â A voice called out. One not associated with the memory he was reliving.
âPete,â Another said more calmly. Grounding.
Blearily, he realized that the warmth and protectiveness that surrounded him wasnât from his web, but rather a bed. A soft bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets. The position was foreign.
It was also completely wrong.
As much as he wanted to remain in bed, a faint beeping noise became more prominent with the speed of Peterâs heart, alerting him that he was in some type of medical room. Annoyance filled his being. Where the fuck was he?
The scent around the room wasnât disinfected enough for it to be a hospital, but it still had the crisp smell of cleanliness. When he honed his hearing to focus on the hallway, he noted the distinct lack of movement outside. Hospitals and clinics always had people moving in a rush, nurses and doctors jumping from one room to the next. It shouldnât be quiet. Peter focused on the room he was in, hearing several active monitors and people trying to remain still.
The side of his face was snuggled into one of the best pillows he had ever had the chance of sleeping on. There was a blanket pulled to his shoulders, his hand clutched tightly around a section of it. It felt impossibly soft rubbing against his chin, attempting to lull him back to sleep.
He let himself have another moment of comfortable peace before blinking his eyes awake. He forced them open, deciding he needed to see where he was and who he was with now. Despite the temptation to go back to bed, Peter knew he wasnât somewhere public and that didnât pair well with remaining blissfully unconscious. It left him at a greater risk than he was willing to accept.
His eyes fluttered open with difficulty, his lids feeling lighter with each blink as he forced himself awake. There was a dryness to them that crusted in the corner, making each blink feel as if he was dragging sandpaper across his eyeballs.
The lights overhead were dimmed which his retinas took kindly to. It allowed him to take the room in full without a massive headache attacking him. The last thing he needed was a migraine as he tried to figure out an escape plan.
Since he was on his side, the first thing Peter saw was the bed situated on his left. There was a teenager resting on the bed, several IVs running into her arm. Her other one was thickly wrapped in white bandages, a tint of red leaking through on a particular zone. She didnât have the usual âIâm being experimented/tested onâ clothes. Instead, she wore a band T-shirt with basketball shorts. The musical group wasnât one Peter recognized, so he couldnât even begin to make friendly conversation as he normally would.
Peter was told all his life that he talked too much. Lately, he couldnât find words to say much at all.
âHey! Peter, right?â She asked, her tired, blue eyes piercing into him.
She looked exhausted, but had the type of look that quietly knew everything. Her blonde hair was combed almost purposefully messy below her shoulders. Peter noticed a few pieces were singed, as if they came into contact with fire.
âLeave âim alone.â A voice Peter recognized all too well said across from him.
Peter jolted into a sitting position on the bed, noticing there werenât IVs connected to him. He wasnât sure if that was a good thing or not. He wasn't in the outfit he was wearing last, but instead a silk set that covered him to wrist and ankle. That meant whoever changed him knew regular needles didn't work on him. They probably also noticed the abnormal circles on Peter's wrists.
âJay!â
He bolted from underneath the covers and excessive pillows, running to the only familiar thing in the room. The heart monitor connected to his finger fell off, clattering onto the floor.
âPete,â Jay greeted, watching as the kid took up as little space as possible next to him.
âAre you okay? Whatâwhatââ
Peterâs gaze took the room in full now, confirming his suspicions that it wasnât a hospital or clinic that he was at. Rich wallpaper held the medical equipment against its walls with grace, beds that looked like they were from hospitals firmly pushed up against the wall. There were four beds in the room and all of them were occupied.
The only person who hadn't spoken to him yet was the other teenager on Jayâs right. He had a black eye and IVs also inserted into him, but other than that he looked fine. There were three stylish cuts into his coiled hair that Peter took an interest in. He had always wanted to get a haircut with a shaved design, but his Dad wouldnât ever allow him. By the time he was living with May and Uncle Ben, they were too broke to afford anything other than Mayâs attempts with scissors.
âWhat if I donât?â The girl shot back.
Peter fully looked at Jay for the first time since opening his eyes, keen on his response. But when he looked back, all he did was gasp.
Jay was wrapped up in the same bandages as the girl across from them, though this time they spanned from his neck to the bottom of his torso. His hands were thickly wrapped in it as well, and it looked like any thought of movement caused pain to Jay.
Heâhe didnât look like this because of Peter, did he?
âIâll hit you with my fuckingââ
âWhat happened?â Peter said the words barely above a whisper, looking at Jay as if he might disappear.
If Jay was perturbed from getting cut off, he didnât show it. He focused his steady gaze on Peter, the green reeling him away from the depths his brain enjoyed to punish him with.
âA lot, Pete. Nothing we gotta worry about right now.â
Peter felt himself bristle at the dismissal. How could he not worry about it? Someone was blowing up Crime Alley, nearly killed Jay, and now the man was telling him they didnât have to worry about it? Yeah, no. He wouldnât just brush this under the rug. He used to be Spiderman, for crying out loud. He should be able to stop this.
âDonât have to worry?â He said it with more attitude than he intended, but he wouldn't apologize.Â
Jay squinted at him. âIâm fine, Pete. A little fire damage isnât something Iâm not used to.â
Peter wanted to scream. He wanted to cry and flail his body across the ground like a child who was denied candy. He wanted to throw a fucking tantrum so that Jay could realize just how un-fine he looks. He knew how childish that sounded, but honestly he didn't give a fuck.
âHe looks beat up, but heâll be fine.â The teenager next to Jay said. His voice was thick and soothing, but it still didnât alleviate Peterâs fears. He was messing with something in his hands. He never looked up from the device as he rapidly clicked on the buttons, muscles tensed as he focused in on the game.
After clicking a particularly button that made him wince at the screen, he continued. âThe guys handled worse, believe me. A little bombing with fire isnât anything new to him.â
âThanks, Duke. Appreciate it.â Jay replied sarcastically.
Peter could tell when Jay was truly agitated, and with the lack of a particular look behind his eyes, Peter could tell he was rather fond of Duke.
âLet me rephrase. We wonât be worrying about it right now.â He settled his attention on Peter, no room for argument left in the way he spoke.
Peter stood there for a few passing moments deciding on what to say next. He didnât know whether he should fight Jay over the matter or let the man rest, since he clearly needed it. He was at war with himself. With the old him that would have dove headfirst into this problem versus the meek child he now was.
What would he even do if Jay gave in to him anyway? If Jay determined he was worth the while in divulging the explanation of their shared problem. Peter wasnât what he used to be. He wasnât much use without a proper shelter and diet. Anything Peter would do would be in vain.
The sound of certain death pulled him away from his less-than-forgiving thoughts. They were sad electronic noises, a tune of beats that echoed in the room and alerted everyone that Duke had died in whatever game he was playing.
âDamn,â Duke huffed somberly, throwing the device across the room.
The blonde girl caught it using her good arm with a wide grin. âTime to beat your ass.â She shook the small device back and forth, waving her eyebrows suggestively.
Peter had a suspicion that there was an ongoing gamer war between the two. If Dukeâs glare and the girlâs triumphant appearance were anything to go by, it was an intense battle that the former was losing. It reminded him of MJ and Ned. Mario Kart was one of their favorite games to play, and they would get so competitive that they would shove each other in an attempt to wreck their chance at winning. Peter was never allowed to play because he always won.
ButâŠwho were they? Jay wouldn't explain what caused the bombing or his injuries, but surely he would introduce him to these people. He knew Duke's name and the girl knew his, which left little to go on.
As if he could read the expression on his face, Jay gestured to the two other people in the room with them. He winced as he moved his arm, quickly covering the moment of weakness by biting his lip. No one missed it though.
âMeet Stephanie and Duke,â He introduced.
âHey, Peter.â Stephanie said casually as if she were greeting a longtime friend.
âNice to meet you.â Duke waved his hand kindly, a tender expression as he looked at Peter. âWe were all worried about youâespecially Jay. Had us all scared when you werenât waking up for a few days.â
What? Peter tilted his head. âUhm. Hi.â His gaze darted between the three people, waiting for one of them to offer an answer. He had been unconscious for two days?
âSit down, Pete. Ya making me anxious with all your jitters.â Jay asked, easing into the light command.
Pete complied and sat in the chair nearest to Jayâs bed. When he took notice, all of the beds had a chair next to them. Wherever they were, the design of the room hinted to Peter that the owner cared for those who were required to rest. No one was meant to be alone.
In their own corner Peter felt a tad at ease, the exit and two strangers in his direct line of eyesight. The more he took in the room, the more he realized it looked like it was a part of a house, with a wooden floor recently refinished. It only served to confuse him more.
Threatened was the last thing Jay appeared as, so Peter kept his cool despite instincts shouting at him to scatter up the wall and into a small, dark corner for safety. There was no doubt that whoever was caring for him had to be suspicious of the way Peter's skin rejected the needle. Thanks to the spider bite that resulted in superhuman abilities, Peter also needed a Captain America sized needle. And if they had tried inserting oneâwhich Peter knew with a burning passion they didâthey also saw the marks that weren't human at all on his wrists.
Fine. Don't run. His spidey-sense instructed. He decided to listen to it, since last time it went ignored it literally backfired in his face.
Without looking at himself, Peter could tell that any trace of damage the explosions might have caused was completely erased. Anything different about him spoke volumes in the infirmary filled with three occupants which were all wounded in some type of way. Duke didn't look as bad as the others, but he still had visible wounds that he couldn't just sleep off.
He wasn't going to question why he slept for two days. His body needed all the energy it could get to heal the wounds that Peter actively felt burn into his body. If that meant they wouldn't talk about what caused those burns, then so be it.
âSo,â Jay started, his voice tipping into the candid sort where he didnât sugarcoat things. Peter appreciated it instead of tiptoeing around the topic. âWhat do ya remember last?â
Peter was folding in on himself, his foot resting on the chair as he hugged his knee to his chest. âThe explosion.â He recalled the detail as shutters wracked through him. He had been in a handful of them, but there was something horrifically different about being thrown from it as a child. âYou were carrying me and then we fell.â
He had felt so secure in Jay's arms, assured that nothing could harm them and that he wasn't being left behind. Peter'll admit wanting Jay to stay with him was a selfish thing to desire after how many people had died on his watch, but it was human instinct to crave a life force when your own was teetering on the edge of death.
Jay faltered, but despite his heart skipping a beat on the monitor, he kept a calm face. âYeah, well.â He peered around the room, causing Peter to follow his line of sight.
âThose two so happen to be wards of Bruce Wayne. And I unfortunately have the specialty of knowing them." The man with a white streak in his hair said, grumbling but not irritated. "They weren't far from where we were, and the hospital was already packed."
Peter leaned further back in his chair, the rush that was surging through his body finally settling down. He hadn't realized how much of an energy rush he had, so as his rates stabilized, it felt more like a crash.
There was something familiar about the name Jay had mentioned that Peter couldn't quite put his finger on. He scoured his head for where he could have heard or seen the name, but nothing came forward.
"Bruce Wayne?" Peter repeated, not trying to sound as confused as he was. "As in...?" He was waiting for one of the others to fill in the sentence, but they all stared blankly at him.
Even Stephanie stopped playing her game to give Peter a once-over. The same dying music played from her game, but no one made a teasing remark.
"As in Bruce Wayne. The wealthy playboy who funds Gotham?" She provided and was waiting for a mark of recognition to cross Peter's face. When it didn't come, she went on. "Irresponsible? Can always be found at a party? Has a disturbing smugness to him? Subsidizes all the soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and foster homes. Basically owns Gotham Academy?"
Peter perked up on the last one, remembering something about a Gotham Academy when he used a computer at the library. "Oh! The Wayne Foundation? That Bruce Wayne?"
Jay frowned as he answered. "The only one."
He tried to ignore the pensive tick in Jay's jaw. "So you two are...?"
"Basically his kids at this point. Not officially, but like, we live here and eat the food Alfred cooksâwhich you're going to die for, by the way. He pays for all our clothes and schoolâwhich again I have a feeling you're going to die for. You look like a nerd, kiddo." Stephanie threw what Peter now recognized to be a Nintendo DS back at Duke. At least that was familiar.
Unease was stirring in his gut. Why would he be eating Alfred's food or worried about school being paid for?
Jay leaned over to tap Peter's knee with his bandaged hand. The latter wanted to scold Jay about moving when he was in such a bad state, but knew better than to draw attention to his lack of injury.
"We're in Bruce Wayne's manor." Jay swiftly rubbed at his nose, a nervous tick he rarely acted out. "Turns out knowing his kids can come in handy for us. This whole thing?" He looked from the ceiling to the floor, "This whole thing is him."
"And he isn't as bad as Steph describes him," Duke cut in, sitting up straighter in the bed. His words were choppy since he was focused on the game in hand. Literally. "Yeah, the papers make him out to be kinda...wild."
Stephanie's eyes bulged out of her head. "Type of man who can party hard without any influence. Absolutely sober."
"He's eight!" Jay bit out.
Peter didn't correct him because that was the age he told Jay, and it wouldn't make any sense to argue against something that looked visually correct. To them, Peter was a helpless child. And he was starting to feel like it too.
Stephanie had the decency to look ashamed. "Sorry. Forgot. Not used to censoring myself even if I'm with the demon-brat."
Duke took hold of the reins of the conversation, guiding them back onto the subject. "Like IÂ said, the papers make him out to be outlandish and ridiculous, but he's really not that bad."
Stephanie nodded her head in accord. Jay grunted, like he couldn't quite bring himself to agree with what Duke said.
The teenage boy went on. "He's been in a stable relationship for almost seven months."
"And the guy isn't crazy like some of his other exes! He's the opposite, actually."
"Alright, Stephanie. Seriously, enough outta you. You aren't gossiping with Tim, so try to keep the extra-ness to a minimum." Jay reprimanded.
It reminded Peter of the siblings he would see arguing in the school hallways, familiarity laced with the penance of having to see your sibling around the clock. But the interaction could simply be the result of knowing one another for a long time, and since Peter was in a manor instead of a general hospital, he assumed that was the case with Jay and the wards of Bruce Wayne.
If they were really friends, why hadnât Jay mentioned either of them? Peter internally cursed his around-the-clock worrying. It would be worse if they were siblings and Jay hadn't mentioned them. But, there was no reason for Jay to mention the people close to him. After all, he was just helping a kid who needed it. Jay didnât owe him any sort of explanation or backstory.
Stephanie really did feel bad for saying that part, catching the Nintendo DS without a word.
"He's great!" Duke chimed in again, like sunshine through Gotham's horrid weather. "I'm sure you'll make your own opinion of him though, Pete. Don't bother listening to any of us."
Peter was sure he could come to like Duke just as he did with Jay.
"Especially him. He's got some top-tier bad decisions." Duke ragged on Jay.
From the way Jay fired back, it appeared that their banter was a part of their own relationship. âAnd you got some top-tier shitty outfits.â
Duke lifted an eyebrow. âOh, and you know all about that Mr. Fashion Designer? Half the time I see you, youâre covered in grime.â
âThatâs because Iâm out here doing actual workââ
The teen rolled his eyes and groaned. âHere we go. Another excuse for why he perpetually stinks.â
Stephanie cackled at that, tilting her head back as she died in the game.
Now that Peter thought about it, Jay was always dirty in some sort of way. A grease-stained shirt, ripped pants (and not the kind that were sold that way), bloodied knuckles, and messy hair.
The three heads whipped in his direction, Duke clearly beaming with pride as Stephanie fell into another fit of laughter. Jay narrowed his gaze at Peter, but the latter could tell there was no real heat behind it.
Did he say that out loud?
âAlready selling me short, kid?â Jay shook his head, stopping short when it jostled his brain.
Peter watched as Stephanie threw the game back to Duke.
âItâs true! Youâre the one who told me where the free showers are soâŠâ Peterâs accusation hung in the air. âŠso, why donât you use them?
Instead of defending himself, Jay turned his attention towards Duke. âLet the kid have a damn try at the game. Whatâs wrong with ya two? Hogginâ something that Tim has plenty of.â
Peter felt a flush crawl up his neck. Was his staring that obvious that Jay felt the need to say something? He knew he was ogling at the exchange with grief; MJ and Ned were seen wherever he went. But that didnât give him the right to take their game from them.
He shook his head, eyes wide as his gut cramped. âNo! IâUh. Itâs fine. Really.â Peter stuttered out, hoping no one would notice the nervousness that began to stiffen his body.
The Nintendo DS was thrown into Jayâs lap, who stretched out his arm towards Peter with the device in hand. Despite the clear pain it was causing him, Jay kept his arm outstretched.
âTake it, Pete,â Stephanie said from across the room, her thumbs expertly moving across her phone. âIâll have Tim bring us more so we can play a match together.â
She said it so matter-of-factly, like it was going to happen either way. Peter took the outstretched gaming device, nervously taking it into his hold.
âYou ever play Mario Kart before, Peter?â Duke asked, kicking the sheets off of him. He had the same expensive pajamas that Peter had on.
He nodded, afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he opened it. A sob? A scream? He didnât want to risk it and find out.Â
âGreat! Just so you know, Stephâs really competitive. By law, we have to team together.â
âYou canât do that every time we play in trios!â Stephanie complained, roughly setting her phone in her lap. âArenât there rules about attacking a singular player?â
âThen stop beating me when we play duos,â Duke countered.
âThen stop sucking!â
Though Peter was in an unfamiliar place, in a room with unfamiliar people (except for Jay, thankfully), he could recognize when people were true to their character. There was no alarm from his spidey-sense, so he relaxed. His stiffened shoulders eased just a bit. He could wait for Jay to explain everything if he just had this one moment of normality. The suspense, the revealment that they knew Peter was a meta and how disgusting he was, could all come later.
For now, Peter would play along that everything was fine. He really liked Duke and Stephanie and didnât want to see their scowls of contempt once they realized he was a meta.
âDonât worry, Duke. Weâll definitely beat her!â Ned and MJ had always banned Peter from playing, accusing him of cheating since he would win every time. âEasy peasy.â
peter parker in gotham au - congratulations, you adopted a spider!
rating: teen
tags: found family, hurt/comfort, peter parker needs a hug, everyone loves peter parker, peter parker is 8yo, bruce wayne is a good dad
ch7 word count: 5.6k+
read here on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74900086/chapters/198988151
"Little Wing?! Answer me!"
After Bruce finished his dinner, he, Tim, and Cass went into the Batcave. Barbara had decided to return home, wishing them luck on their search.
"I don't plan to stay up late tonight." She said as she left, a knowing smile on her face.
"Very wise of you, Miss Barbara." Alfred had complimented, giving them a pointed look.
Tim's shoulder raised to the tip of his ears, and he waved awkwardly. Bruce and Cassandra avoided his gaze like scolded children.
The three of them were notorious for the lack of sleep they got, all for their different reasons. Cass was often plagued by nightmares of her past, of the machine she used to be before she broke free. She would fend off sleep until it was physically impossible to keep her eyes open.
Tim had an official case of insomnia, so even if he wanted to sleepâit felt impossible most times. So he would nurse a cup of coffee (that had no effect on him anymore, thank you) and would work on as many cases as he could. A lot of people assumed Tim stayed awake for that sole purpose, but in truth it was the only thing keeping him sane.
Bruce was Bruce. He left at odd hours and returned at odd hours. He could run on days of no sleep. Tim knew, because he kind of knew everything eventually. And unlike Tim, he would work on cases to avoid sleep. Lately, Clark had been staying over in Bruce's bed, so his father figure had been more than willing to rest.
The budding relationship between the recently divorced popular journalist Clark Kent and the rich, infamous playboy Bruce Wayne was a shock to society that kept up with useless news. Even Bruce's kids raised their eyebrows. That was until it was revealed that Clark was Superman. Then the dots connected.
Superman and Batman were more than a bro-mance. Their tension could stifle a room, which Tim would always have to exit as fast as possible because ew. But now Clark was coming over for dinner once a month, leading Tim to learn how to focus on his food and not the ogling eyes they would give each other.
They trailed silently to the cave, Bruce wrapping his fingers around an insuspicous book lined next to others. When he tugged it forward, the shelf opened to an elevator that would take them directly down below.
Tim anxiously tapped his fingers against his leg, feeling the dropping motion swirl in his gut as they descended. There wasn't a rhythm to it, just like his thoughts. They bounced from one place to another.
Cass eyed him, tilting her head in silent question.
Tim looked down at his phone then back to his sister. "You'll see," he weakly warned.
Bruce watched the interaction. He was the first to exit the elevator when it opened, the stiffness in his back easing as he stepped into the underground of his home.
It was dim, per usual, and the faint squeaks of bats resonated to the three people as they walked. Tim was pretty sure Bruce had made friends with them when he was little. It would be the only explanation for why they didn't attack. With all the arguing, fighting, and crash landings the Batcave faced, the vigilantes should have been attacked a million times over.
His eyes trailed away from the pointed ceiling, slowly falling to the phone in his hand and the lack of knowledge they had about Peter. With a sigh and a few clicks, he pulled up all the information he had on the child. It connected to the biggest screen in the room, Bruce and Cassandra's attention shifting.
"He was first spotted in Gotham nine days ago by Babs when he entered the library," Tim spoke out loud, a pixelated photo of Peter appearing on the screen. It was security footage from the library, and Peter looked worse for wear.
He clicked through a few photos throughout the week. In some of them Peter looked grimy, dirt covering his clothes and face. Other days he was completely free of the crud, as if he took a shower and washed his clothes.
Most of the footage they had was from the soup kitchen in Crime Alley, where Peter was a regular visitor. The three of them watched videos of Peter staggering in for the first time, blood coating his face as he shivered from the cold. Jason had fixed him up and given him a few clothes that would keep him warm. Gave him food earlier than they served, which wasn't technically permitted.
Tim sadly watched as Peter frequented his hunched shoulders enough to hint that his eyes were darting around too. His stance was one like how people ate in prison, keeping a watchful eye out for anyone who wanted to pick a fight with them when vulnerable.
"I wonder what made him weary," Bruce thought out loud, picking up on the body language as well.
The video had no sound, but they could all see the way Jason would talk to him. Would try to coax the child out of his shell. Tim tried to ignore the fact that Jason looked more real there, a sparkle behind his eyes that didn't loom with a threat of a beatdown. Whenever Jason was in the manor, that sparkle fizzled dangerously, waiting for Bruce to say one wrong thing before a heated rage would overtake him.
He was real enough that Peter would be giggling kidishly by the end of their interaction, lightheartedly kicking Jason's ankles. He would return melancholy the next day, but Jason had enough antics up his sleeve that Peter always left with a smile.
Tim looked at Bruce from the corner of his eye, watching as anguish overcame Bruce's features. He was sure it wasn't because of Peter, but rather the son he lost.
When Tim was (he'll admit, a tad insane) investigating Batman and his young duo's identities, he had been a little enamored with the second Robin. He was the second duo to Batman, a child filled with so much energy and laughter that the first Robin's past antics had been forgotten about. Tim had loved his energy and the craving he had to defeat villains. And he was also Jason Todd, when Tim figured out their identities. The second ward of Bruce Wayne who knocked socialites off their feet. Literally.
Jason wasn't that person anymore. He rarely fell into a fit of laughter, rarely cheered with a big smile, and rarely interacted with Bruce unless needed. But in that video, there was a glimpse of who Jason used to be.
Tim's focus trailed from Jason's wide smile, the smile he hadn't seen since the Joker, and settled back onto Peter.
No matter how many times Peter returned and filled his stomach with food, he seemed to only get skinnier.
He cleared his throat, "Babs mentioned how he was spotted in an abandoned building. Well, I was looking at some surrounding cameras to see if I could figure out where he was staying before that."
Tim pressed a pattern of buttons. Several photos were lined next to each other, all with Peter entering or exiting a rundown bookstore.
"This place closed down a few months ago due to mold infestation." He gestured to the screen, ignoring the lump forming in his throat. "Based on the amount of images that show him entering and exiting, I know that's where he was staying before he moved on."
Cass gave his shoulder a supporting squeeze. "Depending on how bad it was, he likely needs to see a doctor for mold exposure." She signed.
"I only accessed images of him," Tim explained. "I hadn't checked anything else yet." He didn't know whether Peter had a primary doctor or even a family. But he had a hunch.
Bruce got to work on the computer, the world's greatest detective activated as he expertly worked the keys. Tim had practically claimed the spot as his by now, so to see Bruce using the technology efficiently reminded him that Bruce could be competent with technology when he wanted to.
"Do you think," Cass started to move her hands, "That he has an increased metabolism?"
"What makes you think that?" Bruce questioned, not once taking his eyes away from the computer.
Tim wanted to know how he did that.
She sat in one of the various chairs next to Bruce. There hadn't always been so many. Originally, it was a singular chair meant for Batman alone. Then he started to adopt kids. Kids who sassed him and did what they wanted without regard to what he said, as Bruce liked to continually remind them.
"He's having at least one meal a day, yet he's rapidly losing weight." She pointed out.
They had all noticed that the jacket Jason gave Peter was hanging off his frame more and more. How he would tug his pants up continuously.
"There could be another factor at play that we aren't aware of." Bruce said, clicking on a file. "There's a chance he isn't holding that meal down. Or he isn't used to one meal a day."
He didn't want to dismiss her conclusions, but they had little information to go on. Bruce didn't want to make any assumptions that would affect them in the future. If it was one thing he learned in his long career as Batman (not emotional availability), it was how to gather all the facts before coming to a conclusion.
Tim hummed, considering both possibilities. Then his thoughts froze before they began. It was pathetic how they were conspiring over a clearly starving and homeless child. He should just be with them already, belly full and safely tucked under pounds of warmed blankets. Rather, Nightwing and Robin were out there, probably annoying the fuck out of a kid who just wanted to survive.
And Damian... wasn't the most socialable. There was a bite to him that Tim found himself often combating. He pondered if it would be the same for Peter.
"Yeah, but he's for sure a meta. One with a healing factor at least. That type of thing would take energy, so it would make sense if he needed more food than an average person." He settled on instead. When Bruce had a plan, he found it best to stay out of his way unless absolutely necessary.
For now, he would allow Bruce to do what he wanted. But if it took more than two days to get Peter into the manor, he would recruit his siblings to rule out B's plan and conjure their own.
He met Cass's eye and knew she was thinking the same thing. They stealthily nodded at one another. Tim and Cass already accepted Peter as their little brother, and they were willing to do anything to protect him.
Tim remembered the first time Peter was brought up in the text chain; Barbara and Cassandra's string of messages interested him. There were plenty of children that they helped around Gotham, but Tim firmly believed they all felt differently about Peter for a certain reason.
They all subconsciously knew he would become the next Wayne.
Their dinner that evening confirmed everything it needed to for Tim. Peter was destined to join their family, one way or another.
Cass and Tim directed their attention to Bruce as he sighed, the older man leaning back in the chair as he crossed his arms. The movement was controlledâtoo controlled. It was the posture he took when something didnât fit the world the way it was supposed to. They followed his gaze to the screen, confusion sparking in Tim at the blankness of it.
âNo way,â Tim muttered under his breath, already pulling up secondary windows. âDid the system crash?â
Bruce didnât answer immediately.
âI used the face tracker,â he said at last, voice low. âThe full version. Cross-referenced with every civilian database, missing persons registry, birth records, hospital intakes, school enrollments, foster systems, immigration logs, and black-site archives.â
Timâs fingers paused mid-motion.
âThatâs⊠everything,â he said carefully.
Bruce nodded once. âIt can identify a person from a partial reflection in a window. It can pull a name from a thirty-year-old security feed. It can match a face altered by surgery, trauma, or age regression.â
Cass shifted her weight, eyes narrowing slightly.
Bruce gestured to the screen. âIt returned nothing.â
Tim stared at the blank display, disbelief giving way to something stinging.
âNothing as in⊠no match?â
âNothing as in no record,â Bruce clarified. âNo near matches. No flagged similarities. No statistical approximations. The system didnât fail.â
âIt refused,â Cass said quietly.
Bruce looked at her.
âThe system looked,â she continued, voice calm but certain. âAnd found no pattern to follow.â
âI went through the raw data myself,â Bruce said. âFacial geometry. Bone structure. Proportions. Micro-asymmetries.â His gaze hardened. âThere is no one on Earth with that face.â
Tim didn't know what to say.
"Why do you think I was taking so long?"
The teenager honestly hadn't been paying attention to what Bruce was doing, too caught up in different variations of how things could turn out swirling through his thoughts.
The cave felt colder.
Tim let out a short, incredulous laugh. âOkay. Thatâs unsettling. But maybe heâs undocumented? Off-grid birth? No hospital, no paper trail?â
âI accounted for that.â
âCloned?â Tim offered weakly. âArtificially grown? Some kind of experimentalââ
"The most plausible."
Cassâs hands movedâprecise, economical. "He bleeds and cries. He starves. He's real."
Bruce nodded. âYes. Heâs real.â
Tim froze, fingers hovering uselessly above the console. Of all the answers Bruce could have given, agreement wasnât the one heâd braced for. He looked back at the dataâat the absence where a childâs life should have beenâand felt something stony settle in his stomach.
âYouâre saying someone made him,â Tim said. âOn purpose.â
Bruce didnât deny it.
âCloning technology exists,â Bruce continued, voice steady but stripped of comfort. âSo does artificial gestation. So do enhancement trials. Most of them illegal. All of them cruel. And children are⊠adaptable.â His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. âWhich makes them attractive subjects.â
Tim swallowed hard. âAnd disposable.â
The room went still around them.
Bruce turned slightly toward him, the edge in his posture easing just enough to acknowledge the truth he anchored them to.
âYes,â he agreed. âAnd disposable.â
Not a construct. Not a prototype.
A child.
Tim exhaled shakily, pressing his palms flat against the console as if grounding himself. âIf he were grown or engineered outside standard systems, that would explain the gaps. No birth record. No genetic matches. No facial overlap. He wouldnât resemble anyone because he wasnât meant to.â
âHe was meant to function,â Bruce said.
The word landed wrongâclinical, ugly.
Cassâs gaze hardened. âThey trained him.â
âConditioned reflexes. Threat response. Situational awareness beyond his age. None of it instinctive. All of it learned.â Bruce let his words hang in the air. "Though I don't want to confirm anything before seeing his behavior in person."
Tim shook his head. âGod. Heâs like eight.â
âAnd already in survival mode,â Bruce said. "Which means there could be individuals after him."
That silenced Tim completely.
Cass signed again, slower this time. "He escaped. He wasn't discarded."
Bruceâs eyes followed her hands. âThat matters.â
Tim frowned. âHow?â
âIf heâd been released,â Bruce's voice was gravely, âheâd be tracked. Monitored. Retrieved. Escape implies error. Or urgency. Or compassion from someone inside the system.â
Cass tilted her head. "Or fear."
Bruce nodded.
Tim straightened suddenly. âThen weâre on a clock.â
âYes.â
âBecause if they lost himââ
âTheyâll want him back,â Bruce finished. âOr silenced.â
Cassâs hands curled briefly at her sides.
âHe hides like prey,â she signed. âBut he watches like someone who knows hunters.â
Bruce looked back at the blank screenâthe void where a childhood should have been documented.
âThen we do what we always do,â he formed, unyielding in what he was about to say. âWe take away the huntersâ advantage.â
Tim glanced at him. âBy finding out who made him.â
âThat. And by making sure they never touch him again,â Bruce corrected.
Cass nodded once, sharp and certain.
âHeâs real,â she repeated. âThatâs enough.â
Bruceâs expression softenedâjust a fractionâbut his resolve sharpened all the same.
Before they could continue their conversation, Nightwing and Robin entered through one of the rear entrances.
The difference was immediate.
Nightwing didnât look tenseâno tight shoulders, no clipped movements. He peeled his mask off as he walked a faint, thoughtful crease between his brows like someone still replaying a conversation in their head. Robin followed him, cape settling neatly behind him, posture alert but not combative.
Bruce straightened. âReport.â
Nightwing stopped near the main console. âWe found him.â
Timâs breath caught. Cass went utterly still.
âAnd?â Bruce asked.
Dick huffed out a breath, something between relief and disbelief. âHe didnât run.â
That earned him everyoneâs full attention.
Tim straightened from where heâd been leaning. âYouâre kidding.â
âNo,â Dick said. âRoof of a seven-story walk-up. He was sitting near the ledge just kicking his feet, watching the street like he was counting people.â
Cass signed quickly. "He's aware of things more than the average person is." She had almost been caught spying on him in crowds on multiple occasions, ducking out of the way before he made eye contact with her.
âVery,â Dick agreed. âHe clocked us before we even landed. He didn't even bother to back away from the edge. I ended up sitting with him for a bit.â
Bruce frowned. âWhy did he not flee?â
âBecause I didnât approach like a threat,â Dick replied calmly. âNo sudden movements. No orders. I talked first.â
Bruceâs eyes narrowed slightly. âWhat did you say?â
Dick smiled faintly. âNothing important. Complained about this and that. Asked him a few questions.â
Tim blinked. âThat worked?â
âHe laughed,â Dick said softly. âJust a little. Like he forgot not to. Or I guessâhe was laughing at me. He was also really sassy. Jason level I'd say.â
Cassâs expression softened almost imperceptibly. Tim was beginning to worry she would find a new favorite.
âAnd Robin?â Bruce asked.
Damian stiffened. âI attempted to gain his trust.â
Dick shot him an approving look. âHe did. In his own way of course, which I think the kid actually took to."
Tim crossed his arms. âSo how did you get him off the roof?â
Dickâs smile widened, this time genuine. âI didnât push. I offered food.â
Tim snorted. âOf course you did.â
âI told him there was a place a few blocks over,â Dick continued, âserved burgers shaped with bat-nuggets. Said it was safe to eat at and would be warmer than outside, because you knowâevery homeless kid's dream, am I right?"
Tim looked horrified. "No way you just said that?" He spoke it as a question, looking Dick up and down.
"But am I wrong?"
Cass cut their bickering short. âAnd?â
Dick exhaled, his demeanor wincing by a fraction. âHe hesitated. Asked if it cost money.â
Bruce's jaw tightened.
âI told him I had it covered,â Dick was twirling a pencil on his finger attempting to balance it. âNo strings. No questions. Just burgers.â
Cass signed, "He trusts food."
Dick nodded. âHe trusts choice.â
Damian added, âHe evaluated the risk for thirty-seven seconds.â
Everyone looked at him.
âWhat?â Damian said. âI counted.â
Bruce absorbed that. âAnd he went?â
âDuh,â Dick couldn't stop from rolling his eyes. âBut he, uhm, kept his distance. Walked a little ways from us. Also chose streets with more light, but there wasn't a lot of working bulbs. Kid also sat where he could see the door.â
Cass signed again. "He's smart."
âHe ate,â The oldest sibling looked like he struggled with the next words that came out of his mouth. âFast. Like he expected someone to take it away.â
Tim ground his teeth together, his nails embedding themselves into his palms. Peter should already be with them. They shouldn't be fucking waiting.
Bruce turned slightly, gaze drifting back toward the monitorsâthe city beyond them.
âAnd now?â he asked.
Dick sobered. âI didnât push after that. Like you said, I didn't want to come on strong and scare him away. We walked him back near where we found him. Got him a thick blanket. Told him weâd be around.â
Bruce folded his arms, decision already forming. âGood work,â he said. âThat means we proceed carefully.â
Cass nodded. "He opened a door. He is willing to let people in."
Bruce folded his fingers together. "Let's just hope it stays that way. I won't let him live like that for much longer."
"Tt," Damian muttered, lifting his chin away like he was fighting a snobbish sentence.Â
Â
"What?" Tim asked, already feeling annoyance brew within him.
Â
Damian looked him up and down. As if evaluating his worth. Tim fucking hated when he did that.Â
Â
He took off his domino mask, looking directly at Tim as he plainly spoke. "He seemed content with the Red Robin toy. It was discouraging, to put it simply."
Â
Tim felt a smile spread across his face. He walked closer to Damian, appeased that his younger brother was jealous. "You're mad because I'm the favorite!"
Â
"Do not be ridiculous, Drake. I could never waste an emotion on you." There was a scoff in his voice. "Now I am not sure whether he would be a good addition to the family."
Â
Before they could get into another verbal argument, Dick wrapped an arm around Damian's neck and pulled him close. "Awe, Dami! You thought he would be a good addition to the family?"Â
Â
Damian's lips pinched like he wanted to refuse the claim. Instead, when he found Cassandra's gaze, he kept the burning retort to himself. The girl already viewed Peter as a part of the family, and he wouldn't purposely slight her if he could help it.
Â
Bruce watched the interaction with a resigned look of a father who long ago gave up on stopping his children from fighting.Â
Jason clocked him from half a block away.
It wasnât hard. The kid was a small, hunched shape on the concrete steps, like if he stayed still enough the city might forget he was there. His knees were pulled to his chest. Hands locked around his elbows. Chin resting on one bony knee like it weighed too much to hold up on its own.
Too thin of a jacket, the only one Jason could offer the kid. No gloves. Where were the gloves that Jason had given him?
His jaw tightened.
Gotham days cut cold this time of year, the kind that slid under your clothes and settled in your bones. It wasnât the dramatic kind of chillâno snow, no ice storms. Just enough to hurt if you stayed still too long. Just enough to punish you for not having somewhere to go.
His time in the league had taught him how to make his footsteps untraceable, even in the combat boots he had on. But Jason made his steps louder, not wanting to startle the kid who seemed to pick up on everything with little fanfare. He didnât want to startle the kid. Didnât want to see him bolt again, eyes wide and feral, already halfway gone before Jason could even open his mouth.
Peter didnât look up.
Of course he didnât.
Jason fished the keys out of his pocket, let them jingle on purpose. Not loud. Just enough warning. He watched Peter out of the corner of his eyeâsaw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his grip tightened around himself.
Yeah. The kid was freezing. Jason was certain Pete knew he was there, but was either frozen in place from the temperature or was in a world of his own.
Jason stopped at the door and turned his back slightly so he wasnât looming. The metal scraped loud in the hushed street and when it clicked open Jason felt that familiar tug in his chestâthe one that always came when he unlocked this door too early for someone who needed it.
He pushed it open.
Warm air spilled out, smelling like soup base and old coffee and something faintly medicinal. Familiar smells.
âMorning,â Jason said, keeping his voice rough but low.
Peter looked up then. He had big, brown eyes. Too old for his face. Too careful.
âThey wonât open for a bit and it's my day off,â Jason added, like this was no big deal. âBut Iâve got a key.â
He stepped aside.
Didnât say come in. Didnât reach. Didnât rush. He knew Peter would follow him in.
The kid hesitated. Jason could practically see the math running behind those eyesârisk versus reward, warmth versus escape routes. Jason waited.
Eventually, Peter slid off the step and slipped inside like a ghost. The older of the two shut the door behind them, delicately this time.
Inside was calm. The chairs were still stacked with light slanting through the windows. One of the volunteers glanced up, startled.
âOhâJay!â she said. âYouâre early.â
âKid was cold,â Jason replied easily. He grabbed a stack of chairs before she could ask questions. âIâll set up.â
She smiled at Peter. Jason shifted just enough to break the line of sight, not blocking herâjust redirecting attention. The smile faded into something gentler.
"Hey, Pete. Good seeing you again." Annie acknowledged.
Peter waved his small hand, offering a polite smile. "Nice to see you, Miss Annie."
"Honestly, hun. You ain't gottaâ"
Jay cut her off by handing her a chair. With their faces turned to each other, he shook his head.
She nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen, setting the chair down at a random table.
Jason crouched a few feet away from Peter but remained in his peripheral vision. âYou alright?â
Peter nodded. Then shook his head. Then nodded again.
Jason pretended not to notice the contradiction.
He dug into his jacket and pulled out the gloves. Heâd brought them on purpose. Pretended he hadnât.
âForgot to grab these yesterday,â he easily lied. âGuess theyâre yours now.â
Peter stared at them like they might explode.
Jason set them down on the table instead of handing them over. Gave him the choice.
Peter took them. Slipped them on. Flexed his fingers.
Good.
Jason busied himself with chairs, moving slow but staying visible. He didnât disappear. Wouldnât. Kids like this noticed that kind of thing. Noticed when adults vanished without warning.
They ate before the crowd showed up. Soup, bread. Jason made sure Peterâs bowl got refilled without saying a word about it. Watched the way he ateâmeticulous and calculated, like food might get taken away if he went too fast.
Jason hated that. Hated the world for teaching him that.
âYou sit there every time,â Jason noticed lightly, nodding to the corner seat.
Peter stiffened.
Jason added quickly, âSmart. Good sightlines.â
Peter relaxed just a bit. "It's a comfy spot."
When the room started filling, Jason saw the signs before Peter said anything. Shoulders creeping up. Eyes tracking movement faster. Breathing shallower.
He looked like he was bracing for something.
âYou wanna head out before it gets loud?â Jason asked quietly.
Peter nodded.
Outside again Jason closed the door behind them, the click deliberate. He didnât walk off. Instead, he leaned against the brick beside the kid, close enough to be there, far enough not to crowd. The anxiety that had risen in Peter began to melt as they separated themselves from the numerous people.
Peter hugged his elbows again. Jason internally cursed himself. The kid was fucking cold, why would he bring him outside? He shrugged his leather jacket off and put it over Peter's shoulder, stopping the kid as he tried to remove the item.
"Keep it on as long as we're out here, kid. You'll turn into a popsicle." Jason had a thick, long-sleeve shirt underneath, so the temperature didn't affect him as much as it did Peter.
Jason glanced at the too-small frame, the way the chill still clung to him despite the gloves and additional jacket. Something hot and ugly twisted in his chest. Not anger exactly. Something worse. Something protective.
âYou sleeping okay?â He asked. Jesus, he sounded like Bruce.
Peter shrugged. âI moved.â
Jason nodded. Yeah. That tracked. But Peter didn't know that he knew.
âThereâs a drop-in center a couple blocks east,â Jason offered after a beat. âNo intake crap. Nice room upstairs. I can show you sometime. Or not.â
Peter thought about it. Long enough Jason knew he was taking it seriously.
ââŠLater,â Peter landed on.
Jason smiled, just a little. âLater works.â
They stood there for a few minutes in silence, Peter's face morphing like he was fighting himself internally. Then his face lit up. He pulled something out of his pocket and showed it to Jason. Jason soaked up the shift in mood, always trying endlessly to cheer the kid up by the end of his visit.Â
"Look what I got!" He screeched as he waved the Red Robin figurine around. "Doesn't he look so cool?!"
An actual smile wormed its way onto Jason's face. He was glad Peter still had moments to be a kid, even though his life was fit for anything but.
"The coolest, Pete." He never thought he would say that about his replacement, but then again, a lot of things in his life happened that way. And because he isn't supposed to know about Nightwing and Robin visiting him, he asked, "Where'd ya get him?"
Peter's mouth opened to animatedly tell Jay about his night. How two strange vigilantes visited him and took him to a place called Bat Burger that sold everything fucking bat-themed. But before he could work those words out, an explosion knocked everyone off their feet.
The world split open.
The sound hit firstâan ear-splitting crack that tore through the street like the sky had been punched. The ground lurched beneath them, concrete buckling as a wall of heat slammed outward. Jason barely had time to register the orange bloom before instinct took over.
âPeterâ!â
The blast threw them apart. Jason hit the pavement hard, his side screaming as debris rained down in a violent hail. Windows shattered above them, glass screaming as it fell. Somewhere nearby a car alarm wailed, then cut out abruptly as flames rolled over the hood.
Fire surged up the side of the building across the street licking greedily at the air. Smoke poured thick and black mixing with the gloomy clouds that overhung Gotham.
For a second he thought he was back thereâback in Joker's clutches andâJason forced himself upright, ears ringing, vision blurred at the edges.
âPeter!â he shouted, panic ripping the name out of his chest.
He spotted him a few feet awayâtoo small amid the chaos, knocked onto his side, the Red Robin figurine skittering across the pavement before disappearing under rubble. Flames boxed them in from two directions, heat searing and impossible.
Another explosion detonated farther down the block.
Screams were erupting from all around them, the people in the soup kitchen running out with panicked movements. They weren't the only people who were running. It seemed like Jason and Peter were the only people who weren't.
Jasonâs blood ran cold. He knew the force of those fires and explosions. Fucking Firefly.
âHeyâhey, eyes on me,â Jason said hoarsely as he crawled to Peter, shielding him with his body as a chunk of masonry crashed down inches from them.
The jacket he placed on Peter was a few inches away, thrown off the child's body from the force. Jason grabbed it and placed it over the kid's head, shielding him from the debris and smoke.
Peter was shaking. His eyes were wide, unfocused, breath coming too fast.
âIâI canâtââ Peter gasped, clutching at Jasonâs sleeve.
âIâve got you,â Jason said, voice ironed flat through sheer will. He scooped Peter up and ignored the pain screaming through his ribs. Fire roared around them, heat pressing in like a living thing.
Jason staggered toward an alley, boots slipping on broken glass. A flaming beam collapsed behind them, the shockwave slamming into Jasonâs back and knocking the air from his lungs. He hit the ground hard, curling around Peter instinctively.
Smoke poured in all around them, thick and choking. Jason had to will everything within his body to stay in the present, to not slip into past memories with horrid laughter and taunts. What a shitty day.
Peterâs small body went limp in his arms.
âHeyâno, no, no,â Jason said urgently, cupping Peterâs face, smearing soot across his cheeks. âStay with me, kid. Pete. Look at me.â
Peterâs lashes fluttered. His breathing stuttered onceâtwice.
Then he went slack.
Jason felt it like a knife between the ribs.
âDammit,â Jason growled, pulling Peter tighter against his chest, shielding him as embers rained down. Sirens wailed in the distanceâtoo far, not fast enough.
Jason bowed his head over Peterâs still form, jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
âHold on,â he whispered fiercely, surrounded by fire and ruin. âYouâre not doing this. Not today.â
He desperately needed his family to get there. And fast. Jason pulled out his phone and called the one person he knew wouldn't disappoint him.
"Jay!" Dick's worried voice entered on the other line. "Are you okay? Don't worry, we heard about Firefly. We'll be thereâ" The acrobat had started to rant, unaware of the true damage.
"It's Peter," Jason said. "He'sâI don't know? Passed out? Weâ"
His frantic words were cut off by another explosion, one that threw Jason to curl himself tighter around Peter. His ears were ringing now, the only sound he could make out despite wanting more.
peter parker in gotham au - congratulations, you adopted a spider!
rating: teen
tags: found family, hurt/comfort, peter parker needs a hug, everyone loves peter parker, peter parker is 8yo, bruce wayne is a good dad
ch6 word count: 5.4k+
read here on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74900086/chapters/198626486#workskin
the wayne family
A few hours before Nightwing and Robin met Peter
Jason didnât often go to the manor anymore. He told himself he didnât avoid it, not reallyâjust didnât need it, didnât belong to it the way he once had. But every time he saw the sharp silhouette of the roofline against the sky, or caught the familiar scent of old oak and the faint sweetness of Alfredâs polish, something in him went tight and wary, like an animal remembering where it flourished and died.
When he did show up, it was because he absolutely had to, because circumstances forced him into crossing that threshold again. His relationship with Bruce had been unstable for years. Fractured was the polite word for it; ruined was the more accurate one.
After the Joker, after the crowbar and the warehouse and the fire and all the awful silence that came after, nothing between them had gone back to the shape it used to be. Jason couldnât just forgive him. Couldnât forgive Bruce for letting the Joker live after everything he had done to Jason, Bruceâs acclaimed son, his bloody, broken second ward left for dead on a warehouse floor.
Jason had imagined it too many times to count: If the Joker had done to Bruce what he did to himâif Bruce had been the one beaten, tortured, blown apartâif the Joker had laid a finger on the Bat rather than the boyâJason knew Bruce would have torn Gotham apart brick by brick to avenge him. The Joker would be a corpse by sunrise. No question. No hesitation. No moral preening. Jason knew it in his bones.
It was the kind of knowledge that left scars. Ones beneath all the ones the Joker left.
He never went to the manor for Bruce. If anything, Bruce was the reason he stayed away. Much less would he ever choose to be alone in a room with him. Being near Bruce demanded too much of Jasonâtoo much restraint, too much swallowing down the old instinctual anger. He could talk to Bruce now without wanting to tear him to pieces, but there was still a limit.
A point where Bruce's desperate attempts to rebuild their relationship became too much. His polite words and desperate eyes called out to Jason as Bruce would do anything to make Jason talk to him again. A point where Bruceâs brooding or cold detachment could flip a switch inside him, old and ugly, one heâd spent years learning to cage. When Bruce slipped into one of those moodsâsilent, sharp-edged, unreachableâJason gave him a wide berth. Heâd learned. He wasnât that sixteen-year-old anymore, angry and feral and desperate for Bruce to look at him, to hear him, to pick him.
His days of throwing fists at Batmanâs armored chest, of screaming at him to fight back, to see him, were long over. The desire to pummel Batman until Bruce bled for onceâthat had died eventually, even if the bruise of it still throbbed sometimes.
Now he walked a different line. Not healed, but⊠functional. Tolerant.
Civil, on a good day.
And today, sitting stiffly at the long, absurdly polished dining table, Jason was still very glad Bruce was nowhere in sight. The empty chair at the head of the table was a reliefâlike a pressure in the room had eased just enough that he could breathe without feeling the weight of old ghosts pressing against his ribs.
The manor hummed with a familiar kind of noiseâthe clatter of Tim typing on something he refused to put down, Dickâs easy chatter drifting in from the hallway, the faint rhythm of Damianâs irritated scoffs, Cassandraâs near-silent movement, and the subtle whirr of Barbaraâs chair as she adjusted her position. It wasnât loud, not really. Simply lived-in. The kind of soundscape Jason remembered from before everything went to hell. But more. Bruce had a penchant for gathering children and recruiting them, and since Jason's death and revival, he had only collected more.
But even surrounded by them, even with a nearly full house, Wayne Manor still felt too bigâevery voice swallowed by vaulted ceilings, every footstep echoing like an old memory coming back to check if heâd stayed gone.
Jason leaned back in his chair, arms loosely crossed as he tried not to breathe too deeply. The air still held that unmistakable mixture of polished wood, old books, and Alfredâs impossible cleanliness. It smelled like childhood. Like obligation. Like a home heâd aged out of long before he ever died.
He wasnât here for Bruce.
He wasnât sure he ever would be again.
But he was hereâbegrudgingly, reluctantlyâbecause an eight-year-old with doe-brown eyes and a voice barely above a whisper had somehow fallen into their orbit. And because Jason had seen enough scared kids in Gotham to recognize that more was going on with Peter that met the eye.
That look alone had been enough to drag Jason back through the manor doors, whether he liked it or not.
Alfredâs arrival was as seamless as everâsubtle but commanding, the room shifting around him the way it always had. He glided in with a tray balanced effortlessly, steam rising from dishes that smelled like comfort and discipline all at once.
âDinner is served," Alfred said, giving Jason a pointed look that suggested
donât even think about skipping vegetables tonight.
Then he moved on, expression softening as he set down a plate for Barbara, then Cassandra, then Damian with Tim following after. Jason was next and as always, Dick was served last.
Jason didnât miss the way Damian tried to discreetly inspect his serving size, or the way Dick nudged him with a grin that all but spoke mischief. Tim hardly looked up from whatever glowing screen heâd smuggled to the table until Barbara cleared her throat sharplyâjust one sound, but enough to snap him back to the room.
Alfred rested his hands behind his back. âIf I may remind the table,â he said, âwe observe a no-technology rule during evening meals. Master Timothy.â
His tone held no heat, but Tim still winced like heâd been scolded by a disappointed deity, tucking the device under his thigh.
Jason snorted. âSome rules never die.â
âUnlike some people at this table,â Tim muttered.
âWatch it,â Jason shot back, though the edge wasnât real. Not anymore.
Everyone settled. The sound of utensils meeting plates filled the dining roomâcheerful domestic noise so at odds with their actual lives that Jason didnât know whether to laugh or leave. Alfred moved with practiced ease, topping off glasses, adjusting a serving bowl, granting a smile when Damian actually said thank you.
Dick started the small talk first. Dick always started the small talk.
âSo,â he said brightly, âanyone else have a crazy day, or just me? BlĂŒdhaven is wild right now."
Cassandra swallowed a bite of her food. "Boring. Not cut out for BlĂŒdhaven?" She didn't often speak, but when she did it was always a melody.
Dick laughed, Barbara smirked, Tim rolled his eyes, and Damian muttered under his breath in Arabic. Jason couldnât help the faint tug of amusement in his chest. The chaos was familiar. Strange comfort.
For a while, they just ate. Alfred had made something deceptively simpleâroast chicken, mashed potatoes, roasted vegetablesâbut everything tasted exactly like it should. Cass ate neatly, Damian ate efficiently, Tim ate distractedly, Dick ate like he hadnât seen a meal in days, and Barbara paced herself with grace. Jason ate because Alfred had cooked it, and there were very few things Jason respected in this manor more than Alfred Pennyworthâs cooking.
To put it simply, he ate like a beast and caused a mess. But he didn't care. The food was fucking good.
But slowlyâinevitablyâthe easy hum of conversation faded. A shift in the air. A pause that hung just long enough for Jason to sense what was coming.
Because none of them could avoid the subject forever.
Dickâs smile dimmed first, dampening with something more serious behind it. Tim pushed his plate back slightly, the way he did when his brain was moving faster than his appetite. Cass glanced between the boys, picking up tension before a word was spoken. Damian straightened, sensing the mood. Barbara folded her hands neatly in her lap, her expression calm but focused.
Jason knew that look.
The we need to talk about the kid look. The one they had all been discussing in the group chat since Peter's arrival in Babs library.
Barbara cleared her throat. âSo.â
Dick echoed her. âYeah. So.â
Tim exhaled. âWe should probably talk about Peter.â
The room went quietâbut not empty. Not hostile. It was bracing.
Waiting for the first opinion to break the surface.
It was Dick who spoke first, because of course it was Dick. Jason was sure the older man would be able to carry a conversation for ten people.
âOkay,â he said, setting his fork down with a soft clink. âWeâre doing this. Weâre actually talking about him. Good. Because Iâve been trying to pretend for the last week that Iâm not worried out of my mind.â
When he met Peter that day, he was incidentally in Gotham on his way to visit Babs. She had sent a mass text to the family (the one without Bruce) to keep an eye out for a frightened kid named Peter. Peter had been easy to pick out, almost as if he didn't belong in Gotham. Dick had given the kid a snack he brought with him, pointing to an area that looked like it would keep him a bit dry from the oncoming storm. After he spoke with Babs, Dick unfortunately had to rush back to BĂŒdhaven for a case. Even when he was inspecting bloody scenes, the hope that Peter was okay kept circling in his mind.
Daminan scoffed, faint but unmistakably defensive. âYou worry about useless things.â
Jason could pick out the jealousy laced in his voice. Out of everyone who sat here, he was confident to say he knew the little brat the best. The League of Assassins had trained Jason and Damian side by side, and during that time the older boy learned how to pick out Damian's shift in mood.
âI don't!" Dick shot back, then eased. âBut Peterâs not that. Heâs⊠different.â
Tim leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. âBab has some evidence,â he said. âLetâs start there.â
Barbara nodded once, wheels shifting an inch as she reached for a folder resting beside her chair. âA few days ago, I traced one of the cityâs unregistered movement sensorsâold tech, but reliable when you know where to look.â
She tapped the folder. âThere were repeated movements in a condemned building. Itâs structurally unsafe, closed off six years ago, slated for demolition before budget cuts shelved it.â
Jasonâs jaw tightened. âAnd youâre thinking Peter was living there.â
âNot thinking,â Barbara corrected gently. âConfirming. The thermal readings match the size of a small child, plus mealsâpackets, basic canned goods, things a child could carry without suspicion. The pattern suggests heâs been staying there for at least two days and three nights.â
âThree nights,â Tim murmured.
Jason sat back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth. âYeah,â he muttered. âThat tracks.â
Dick looked between them. âYou knew?â
âNot exactly,â Jason said, dropping his hand. âBut heââ He paused, frustration flickering across his expression. âI tried taking him in the next day I met him. Told him I would cook or whatever.â
It sounded foolish saying it out loud, but there was something about Peter that Jason wanted to shelter. The kid obviously couldn't protect himself on the streets and refused to go to shelters, no matter how much Jason recommended it. Some shelters didn't ask kids why they were alone, Jason had reassured. Peter still said no.
His fingers drummed lightly on the table. âHe ran out and didn't show the next day. Completely gone. Day after he came back without a word 'bout it.â
Cassandraâs brows pinched together. She signed, "He didn't trust you."
She hesitated before correcting aloud, âAnyone,â the words shaped with deliberate care. âHe moves like someone who knows what happens when you trust the wrong adult.â
Damian looked up nattily. âWe would know,â he saidânot mocking, just observational.
Cassandra nodded once.
"He also hadn't been back to the library after I tried to offer support," Barbara pointed out.
"Maybe it has less to do with Jason but with where he needs to go. Soup kitchen's got food." Tim reasoned.
"But why always the same one?"
Dick piped up. "That day I was in Gotham, when I ran into him? I said the soup kitchen in Crime Alley was the best. Probably doesn't want to risk anywhere else."
"Flattering, dickhead."
Dick sighed. âSo the kidâs been sleeping in a deathtrap building, dodging every attempt at help, and ghosting the one person who actually managed to get close to him.â
He looked at Jason and Barbara. "Did he say anything? Anything that might give us a clue why he ran?â
Barbara nodded a fraction. "He mentioned he didn't have anyone for me to call. Almost looked frightened at the idea."
Jason shook his head. âNot really. Some kids beat him up, though, and his wounds...they were gone too fast."
"What do you mean by too fast?" Damian analyzed.
"I think he's a meta."
Tim frowned. âOkay so, possible meta with no family who looks jumpy? You think he's being followed?â
âSomeone hunting him, maybe,â Jason said. âOr someone he thought was. Either wayâhe wasnât just scared. He was lived-through-scared.â
Damian crossed his arms. âRegardless, the child is reckless. He should take adequate help when he needs it."
Dick glanced at him. âYou do realize you do the exact thing. Evade help?â
Damian lifted his chin. âTt. That is different. I was trained since infancy to be self-sufficient.â
âAnd what if Peter was too?â Cassandra cut in.
Everyone stilled.
Cass rarely interrupted. When she did, it meant something.
Her hands movedâfluid, precise. âHe moves efficiently. Reacts fast. He has awareness of space. Body listens before mind. Like soldier.â
Tim blinked. âWaitâyou think heâs been trained?â
Cassandra nodded once. âNot Gotham street-trained. Not instinct. Training. Small but deadly.â
Jasonâs brow lifted. âIf he's trained, how did he get beaten up by some street kids?â
Cass turned this around in her head for a moment. "He did not fight back. He did not want to hurt them."
Barbaraâs expression grew thoughtful. âIf heâs been trained⊠by who?â
Timâs mind was already racing. âGotham traffickers recruit kids sometimes, but never ones this young. League of Assassinsââ
âNo,â Damian cut in immediately, bristling. âGrandfather would not waste resources on an eight-year-old unless they showed extraordinary potential. And if the League trained him, I would know of it.â
Jason snorted. âYou sound real proud of that.â
âI simply know the difference,â Damian muttered.
Tim tapped the table lightly. âCould be runaway metahuman experimentation? Gothamâs seen its fair share.â
âNo,â Jason said immediately, voice low but firm. âPeter didnât have that look.â
âWhat look?â
âThe look kids get when someoneâs done tests on them. Thereâs a⊠detachment. Like theyâre living half a step outside their own skin. Peterâs grounded. Anxious, but grounded.â
Tim considered that. âSo either heâs been trained to survive, or heâs had life experience that forced him to learn.â
Cass, who had taken to watching over him whenever he was in a crowd, continued. âHe watches exits. Always.â
Dick nodded. âTrue. Even when I talked to him, he kept looking for ways to run away."
âThe position of someone expecting danger,â Damian observed.
Barbara flipped open the folder again. âThe building had evidence of someone reinforcing one of the upper rooms. Not structurally, but defensivelyâmakeshift barricade, coverage lines, a vantage point to see anyone coming through the lower stairwell.â
Jason leaned forward. âKid did that?â
âI canât imagine a grown adult staying in that room,â Barbara said. âIt was too small. Too efficient. Like a den.â
Dick let out a low whistle. âSo heâs not just hiding. Heâs preparing to defend himself.â
Jason felt something tighten in his throat, old and familiar. âHeâs eight,â he muttered. âHe shouldnât know how to do any of that.â
Damianâs voice softenedârare, but real. âMost children do not.â
There was a moment of silence againâbut heavier this time. More restrained. Something like collective grief.
âOkay,â Dick started. âSo what do we know? Kidâs scared, trained in some way, hiding in condemned buildings, and trust is a foreign language to him.â
Tim rubbed his temples. âWe donât know his identity, his guardian status, his reason for coming to Gotham, or how long heâs been like this.â
Cass tapped the table once, drawing all attention. âWe know he is alone.â
"He told me he's eight," Jason clarified.
That landed harder than any of them expected.
Barbara cleared her throat, her voice steadier than her expression. âWhich means we need to figure out how to help him without pushing him away.â
Jason let out a slow breath. âGood luck with that. Kid bolted the second he sensed I wanted him safe.â
Damian tilted his head. âPerhaps you were too blunt.â
Jason gave him a flat look. âI was not blunt.â
âYou told him he was staying with you,â Damian said dryly. âThat is not an invitation. That is a command.â
Dick snorted. âOkay, thatâs fair.â
Jason rolled his eyes. âYeah, yeah, everyone pile on Jason. Got it.â
Tim leaned forward again. âJay⊠has he show any other signs of being meta?â
Jason hesitated.
That pause was noticeable.
Dickâs expression sharpened. âJason.â
âLook,â Jason said, rubbing the back of his neck. âIâm not saying he is. Iâm saying he moves weird sometimes.â
âWeird how?â Barbara pressed.
âLike⊠fast. Reflexive. Too controlled for a fucking kid. And one time he flinched from a sound across the street before any of us even heard it.â
Tim frowned. âEnhanced hearing?â
âOr paranoia,â Damian countered.
Cass shook her head. âNot paranoia. He tracked the sound right.â
Jason nodded. âYeah. Like he wasnât surprisedâjust reacting.â
Tim leaned back, gears turning. âGotham is notoriously anti-meta. If he is one, that would explain his secrecy.â
Dickâs expression melted into something sadder. âThat would explain a lot.â
Barbara set the folder aside, folding her hands. âEverything we know points to one conclusion: Peter is not a normal kid.â
âYeah,â Jason muttered. âI figured that out when he vanished without a sound.â
âNot normal,â Cass agreed quietly, âbut not bad.â
Jason looked across the table at her, and she met his eyes with a certainty that made his chest loosen. Cass didnât lie with her body. Didnât guess. If she said the kid wasnât dangerousâ
Jason believed her.
Dick drummed his fingers lightly. âSo⊠what do we do? As a family? Because like it or not, weâve adopted every stray in a fifteen-mile radius of Gotham.â
Damianâs eyes narrowed. âI am here.â
Dick grinned. âStill act like a wild stray, Dami.â
Damian groaned.
Barbara smiled faintly. âWe need a strategy. Slowly build trust. Establish contact without overwhelming him. Confirm his health and safety.â
Tim added, âAnd figure out why he came here.â
Jason exhaled, long and low. âIâll reach out again. Gently this time.â
Dick raised a brow. âYour version of gently?â
Jason glared. âI can be gentle.â
Cass nodded. âHe likes you.â
Jason blinked. âHe⊠what?â
Cass tapped her own chest, then pointed at Jason. âHe watched you. Like someone watching a safe person. Not safe place. Safe person.â
Jason didn't bother asking how she knew that. Cass somehow managed to have eyes everywhere, cameras be damned.
Jason felt something uncomfortable twist in his ribs. âGreat,â he muttered. âKidâs got bad taste.â
âNo,â Cass diffused. âHe sees you.â
The table stilled againâlike that could ever be possible. Like everyone was recalibrating their understanding at once.
Barbara cleared her throat gently. âWell. Then you might be the key to him.â
Jason looked down at his plate, jaw tightening. âYeah. I figured.â
Tim watched him for a long moment before speaking. âYou okay with that?â
Jason hesitated. Then, with surprising honesty. âNo. But Iâll do it anyway.â
Dick smiled, warm. âThatâs why we trust you with him.â
Jason scowled, looking away. âDonât get sentimental.â
Tim smirked. âAdmit it. You care.â
Jason stabbed a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. âI donât care.â
Tim snorted. âVery compelling.â
Barbara took a sip of coffee. âWhat matters is that we have a starting point.â
Cass nodded. She signed, "We befriend. Not chase.â
Jason nodded back. âYeah. No chasing.â
"May I recommend something?" Alfred quietly snuck up on them.
Every head at the table turnedâsome with surprise, others with deep, instinctive familiarity. Alfred had moved so silently that even Cassandra hadnât noticed him approach, and she looked mildly impressed.
Alfred folded his hands behind his back, gaze moving steadily from face to face before settling on Jason.
âMaster Bruce should be informed.â
The reaction was immediate.
Timâs eyebrows shot up. Dick straightened in his chair. Damian made a choking noise halfway between protest and indignation. Cassandra blinked once, slow and assessing. Jason simply stared at Alfred like the man had suddenly grown horns.
Jason was the first to speak, so similarly to Bruce that everyone at the table had to do a double-take. "No."
âAlfred,â Barbara said gently, âyou know how Bruce gets. Heâll descend like a bat out of hell. Peter will bolt the second he senses anything that feels like surveillance.â
Alfredâs expression didnât waver. âMaster Bruce is many things, Miss Barbara, but he is not incapable of restraint. Particularly when a vulnerable child is involved.â
Jason barked an incredulous laugh. âAre we talking about the same Bruce? Batman Bruce? Moody-as-hell Bruce? Because last time I checked, the manâs idea of subtlety is standing in a dark corner and glaring until people confess their sins.â
Dick rubbed the back of his neck. âHeâs⊠not wrong.â
Damian scowled at all of them. âFather is perfectly capable of handling children.â
Tim snorted. âSays the kid who got recruited at ten to stab people.â
Damian lifted a fork defensively. âAnd I was very good at it.â
Jason waved a hand. âYou really think B should take on another kid? After the shit job he did with me?"
Alfred cleared his throat softlyâthe kind of sound that somehow commanded more respect than a shout. The table calmed.
âMaster Bruce,â Alfred said, âhas raised each of you through disaster, trauma, and circumstances no ordinary household would survive. His methods,â he allowed, âare occasionally⊠rigid. But his intentions are unwavering.â
Jason leaned back, arms crossing automatically. âIntentions arenât the issue. Peter doesnât need Batman right now.â
âHe needs Bruce,â Alfred corrected. âAnd the two are not always one and the same. Since his relationship with Master Clark, especially." His tone hinted towards the end, the corner of his lips curling up.
That gave Jason pauseânot enough to fully silence him, but enough for him to tilt his head in cautious acknowledgement.
Barbara exhaled. âWhat exactly do you want us to tell him, Alfred?â
âThe truth,â Alfred replied simply. âThat a child, frightened and alone, has come into your orbit. One who may be in danger. One who has survived conditions no child ought to survive. One who,â he added gently, âis already forming an attachment to Master Jason.â
Jason opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked briefly betrayed.
Tim blinked. âYou knew that?â
âMy dear boy,â Alfred said, âI knew the moment I saw the look on your face when you mentioned him.â
Dick grinned. âKnew it.â
Jason flipped him off under the table.
Alfred continued calmly, âMaster Bruce would not seek to interrogate this child. He would seek to protect him.â
âAnd what if that scares Peter off?â Dick asked, worry tugging at his voice. âWe canât risk losing him.â
âYou assume,â Alfred said gently, âthat Master Bruce would approach the boy as Batman.â
Tim frowned. âWouldnât he?â
Alfred smiled faintly. âIn my experience, Master Bruce approaches children quite differently. Despite his reputation, he does in fact have a heart.â
Damian nodded with great seriousness, as if defending a parentâs honor. âFather is quite good with children. His sternness instills discipline.â
Jason rolled his eyes. âYeah, thatâs exactly what a traumatized kid needs. Discipline.â
âNot discipline,â Alfred corrected. âStability.â
The room hushed.
The word sat heavyâaccurate, unavoidable.
Because Peter didnât have stability. Not in any capacity. Not with the condemned building, not with the bolted windows at night, not with the skittish silence. And Jason, for all he could offer, was one man with a history stained in bullets and anger.
Bruce had⊠something else. Something foundational. Something unshakable.
And maybe, Alfredâs look seemed to say, that was what Peter needed most.
Jason exhaled slowly, staring at the table. âIf we tell him, heâll jump into this.â
âYes,â Alfred agreed. âHe will.â
Jasonâs jaw clenched. âAnd if he scares the kidââ
âThen,â Alfred said, voice steady as steel and warm as a blanket, âMaster Bruce will adjust. He is not as fragile as you think, nor as blind. He has learned from each of you. He will learn again.â
Cassandra nodded. âHe should know.â
Damian added, âFather can protect him.â
Tim sighed. âBab's keeping information from Batman. Thatâs a first.â
Barbara didnât argue.
Dick glanced at Jason, expression gentle. âLittle wing⊠this doesnât take anything away from you. The kid trusts you. That matters.â
Jason swallowed. Looked at Alfred. âYou really think Bruce is the right move?â
Alfred nodded onceâfirm, unshakable.
âI think,â he looked around the table, âthat Master Peter may soon need more than one guardian angel.â
Jason ran a hand through his hair, muttering a curse under his breath.
âFine,â he said. âWeâll tell him.â
Alfred smiledânot smug, not victorious. But relieved.
"Tell him what?" Bruce asked as he stepped into the dining area, noticing the mood that befell his children.
âYou have much to be informed of, Master Bruce.â Alfred paused only long enough to add, âMiss Stephanie accompanied Master Duke in visiting his parents,â and then took his leave.
Bruceâs gaze swept the table. âDo I want to know?â
The table descended instantly into chaos.
Dick blurted, âWe found a kidâkind ofâwell, Babs and Cass and Jason found himâheâs eightâmaybeâsort ofââ
Tim cut him off. âOracle found signs heâd been sleeping in that condemned building east of Grant Avenue.â
Damian added, âHe possesses highly advanced reflexes for a child. Suspiciously so.â
Cassandra signed swiftly. "He moves as a soldier."
Barbara summarized in one breath, âWe think heâs homeless, hiding from someone, maybe meta-adjacent, definitely traumatized, and Jason accidentally terrified him by trying to bring him home.â
Jason groaned. âOkay. That was⊠technically accurate, but damn.â
Bruce stood completely still.
That alone forced the room quiet.
He didnât sit. Didnât blink. Just processed.
And Bruce Wayne processed fast.
His tone dropped into the low gravel they all recognizedâthe one he used when a situation instantly reshaped itself into mission parameters.
âStart from the beginning. Cleanly.â
There was no refusal in the room.
Barbara pulled up the footage on her tablet, turning it so Bruce could see. The thermal scans of the condemned building. The small body curled behind broken drywall. The evidence of consistent returnâdisturbed dust patterns, recent footprints and improvised insulation. Everything Babs had collected in the last twenty-four hours.
Dick filled in the gaps. Tim added timestamps. Damian provided a clinical behavioral analysis no child his age should naturally know. Cass layered on her observations of body language. Jason sat there, jaw tight, every muscle in his shoulders coiled, occasionally grunting a reluctant clarification.
Bruce listened.
He didnât interrupt.
His face was unreadableâbut the stillness was telling. Stoic for anyone else, but the family knew the micro-expressions, the microscopic shifts under the surface.
Bruce Wayne was angry.
Deeply angry.
Not at them.
At the fact that a child had been living in a condemned building unnoticed.
At Gotham.
At himself.
He finally spoke. âThis boy. Peter. Heâs been approached more than once by you?â
Jason stiffened. âYeah. Second time I met him I tried to bring him somewhere safe. He panicked. Didn't see him the whole next day. He's been showing up lately, though.â
Bruce nodded slowly. âMeaning heâs distrustful of adults. Possibly authority figures. Possibly all of the above.â
Jason looked away.
Cass signed, "He hides his hurt."
Bruce dimmed. âYes. I figured.â
Tim tapped the table with two fingers, thinking aloud. âIf he has enhanced reflexes, we should consider whether heâs a meta. Or experimented on. Orââ
âNo,â Jason cut in. âIf he is, he doesnât want anyone knowing. He flinched at the idea of anyone paying attention to him.â
Bruce absorbed that too.
He had seen children like that. Far too many.
He inhaled through his nose, exhaled once, and the entire room straightened. Mission voice activated.
âAll right. Here is what we do.â
Dick leaned forward instinctively.
Damian folded his arms, prepared for assignment.
Tim already opened a notes app.
Barbara braced herself.
Cass simply watched him.
Jason looked like he wanted to argue before hearing the plan.
âFirst,â Bruce said, âI cannot approach him as Batman. Not now at least.â
Dick nodded quickly. âYeah, we figured that much.â
âSecond,â Bruce continued, âhe is already wary of Jasonâs involvement. So another adult approaching him directly is likely to make him run.â
Jason muttered, âI didnât even do anythingââ
Barbara kicked his shin lightly. âLet him finish.â
Bruce resumed. âThird: we need to identify him. Background. Guardian status. School enrollment. Medical history. Legal records. Missing child reports.â
Timâs fingers flew. âOn it.â
Barbara nodded. âIâll dig into police reports, shelters, emergency rooms, and city records.â
Cass offered her help. Bruce acknowledged her with a nod.
âFourth,â Bruce said, âwe need eyes on him. Calm, familiar faces. People who wonât trigger a flight response. People who arenât me.â
Jason opened his mouth to object until Bruce added, âBecause youâre too close to it.â
Jason shut it again.
Bruce turned to Dick and Damian.
âYou two will make contact.â
Damian perked up instantly.
Dick blinked. ââŠUs?â
âYou,â Bruce confirmed. âNightwing is approachable. Nonthreatening to children. And Robin is small enough not to intimidate. Peter will likely see him as a friend."
Damian sat up straighter, pride shimmering beneath his scowl. âI accept.â
Dick grinned sideways at him. âYeah, heâs gonna terrify the kid, B.â
âNo,â Bruce said. âHeâll follow your leadâand you will keep him from scaring the boy.â
Damian bristled. âI do not scare children.â
Jason snorted. âYou scare adults.â
Bruce pressed on as if none of that happened. âYou will go in costume. But not the full patrol gear. Casual versions. Light armor. No weapons displayed.â
Damian frowned. âTt. So we are to appear weak?â
Bruce gave him a look so sharp Damian froze.
âYou are to appear safe.â
Dick jumped in. âWe can do safe. Right, Dami?â
Damian was hesitant. âYes," he said eventually.
Bruce turned to Jason finally.
And unwound just a tad. Jason had to stop his fist from connecting with the man's face.
âYou care about this boy.â
Jason stiffened. âHeâs a kid. Living alone in a death trap. Yeah, of course I care.â
Bruce nodded once. âThen trust me to handle the next steps.â
Jason hesitatedâthen gave a reluctant, silent nod.
Bruce continued, âWhile Nightwing and Robin locate him, the rest of us will identify his background. Find out who he is. Where he came from. Who let this happen to him.â
Barbara muttered, âGCPD is gonna hate us.â
Bruce replied, âGCPD can file a complaint.â
Tim added, âTheyâll lose it.â
Bruce said, âThey always do.â
A beat.
Then he straightened fully, switching from father to general.
âMove out. Dick, Damianâsuit up. Barbara, Tim, Cassâinvestigate everything. Jason, I suggest you get some rest. You'll need it for your shift tomorrow."
"I don't haveâ"
"I'm well aware you don't go on Wednesdays. This Wednesday you are."
Jason exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. âYeah. All right.â This was the shit that pissed him off.
Bruce finally sat. He loaded his plate with food and hazardously tried to cut into it. It looked like he had just returned from patrol, exhausted and hungry by the way he barely bothered with utensils.
Only then did the tension in the room break.
With food in his mouth, Bruce spoke. "Once I'm done eating, I will join you in the batcave."
And they disbanded. Damian with a disgusted look on his face. He hated slobs.
đ Ilya has the flu and is in denial that he could ever be sick. Cue Shane cooking him the soup Irina would prepare for Ilya when he was ill as a child.
đ established relationship. sick fic. ilya needs a hug. hurt/comfort.
đ https://archiveofourown.org/works/75675931
đ 6,022 words
The day started out normally for Shane as it always did in the Summer of Ottawa. Even though he didn't have to wake up as early as game season required, Shane still enjoyed partaking in his morning yoga and run. As of two years ago, feeding and walking Anya became part of that task. His routine was something that shouldn't be messed with, but was one of many things Ilya loved to provoke.Â
Sometimes his husband woke up early enough to halt Shane in bed with a sensual blow job that left the Canadian reeling or to 'assist' in stretching. Other times Ilya woke up by the time Shane was making breakfast, showered and dressed already. There was a perfect middle ground, though, where Ilya would wake up after Shane had already fed Anya and done his morning yoga and would accompany his husband and their dog on a jog. Those were Shane's favorite mornings because Ilya would join in on cooking breakfast with him.
That morning hadn't been the case.Â
In fact, by the time Shane had laid out breakfast for them, freshly showered after his run with Anya, he knew something was wrong when Ilya still hadn't woken up, and Shane's stomach was growling.Â
Anya whimpered, lifting her head from the toy she was viciously chewing.
Shane's leg was bouncing up and down as he played with the fork in his hand, running his tongue over his lips as his eyes darted to the room where Ilya was sleeping. He glanced down at the plates full of eggs, sausage, toast, jam (Ilya's favorite brand), yogurt, and fruit. Shane had forgone his restrictive diet about a year ago and was enjoying all things food again with Ilya.
That was, he was supposed to be sharing this breakfast with him.
"Where is he, huh?" Shane abruptly asked Anya, standing from the small table that looked out into the backyard.
The breakfast table was perfectly located to view the beautiful scenery that overlooked part of the lake that wound near Shane's cottage. When the sun was at an agreeable angle, which Shane learned was in the morning, it cast a halo into the cottage. It was the best location to enjoy a hearty breakfast with your hot husband and adorable dog. Except that his husband wasn't there, so it wasn't being put to good use.Â
Their dog barely acknowledged him, too busy with a toy Harris and Troy had bought for her birthday. They didn't know her exact birthday since she was abandoned on the Drover property, but decided the day Ilya took her in was good as any.
"Ilya?" Shane called out as he made his way to the room.Â
When he entered their bedroom, the first thing Shane noticed was the several blankets discarded onto the floor. His eyes trailed to the bed, a sheen of sweat coating Ilya's exposed body. A thin sheet covered his lower half, but his back, arms, and half of his face were fully visible. His hair was damp and clinging to the edge of his neck, curls darkening in a way they only did when wet.Â
Ilya's pale lips were cracked open as he breathed through them raggedly, eyes scrunched together as if he were in distress. There was a wheezing to him, as if there was a weight slathered across his lungs. One of his hands had a loose grip around the corner of his pillow.
"Baby?" Shane called out, knowing that if he used the pet name, Ilya would have no choice but to reply.
He remembered the first time he called Ilya the endearment, so unwound from his multiple orgasms and soâsoâdesperate to get off one more time, had begged Ilya with a sob and a "Please, baby!". Ever since then, Ilya had been the one begging for Shane to keep saying it. It would be a lie if Shane said he wasn't embarrassed by repeating the word, feeling like a high school couple that couldn't keep their hands off each other. At least the second part was true, Shane internally admonished.
It was why he reserved the nickname for special momentsâlike when he really wanted something. Sometimes that something was Ilya's attention.
A half-hearted groan came out of Ilya, one barely there as if the user was in too much pain to make a sound.Â
Shane cursed under his breath and rushed to the bed with a concerned look. He placed his hand on Ilya's forehead, pushing his curls out of the way. More sweat was gathered underneath Ilya's fringe, encasing Shane's hand in a grimey warmth.
Shane didn't even think about how disgusting the piled sweat smeared against him. Ilya was fucking burning. He was running a fever, at the least.Â
Ilya was blearily blinking now that a hand was infringing on his space, trailing dazedly from Shane's wrist to his face. At closer inspection, Shane could see exactly how pale Ilya was. The Russian man always had a light tan, as if he spent his days in the sun rather than on a hockey rink. But now, any life was zapped from the man's body.
"Shit, Ilya. I think you've got the flu."Â
The grip that Ilya had on the pillow dissipated, his hand wrapping firmly around the wrist connected to the hand Shane was using to check his temperature. He didn't do anything with the clasp he had on Shane, simply content to keep his hold there.
"Hm?" Ilya asked, then immediately regretted it once pain shot throughout his head.Â
Shane nodded, "Yeah."Â
He inspected Ilya a little more closely, biting his lip in worry. And guilt.
Ilya didn't like to see that look on his face. Through his pain, he spoke, "What you had the week before? Yes?"
"I told you not to kiss me. Now you're sick." Shane muttered.Â
Ilya shook his head as if that was impossible. âNot sick.âÂ
The shorter man got the thermometer out of their conjoined bathroom. Ilya whined when he had pulled away, but stopped when it served no purpose. Shane had just gotten over the flu as of yesterday, so every item to treat the damn virus was nearby.Â
As Shane was taking the other man's temperature via ear, his brows furrowed in a deep worry that mirrored Ilya's the week prior.
Ilya found his voice again. "Was worth it. You are pouty and cute when sick."
Shane bit back a chastise, a heckler but not a big enough one to scold someone while they were sick.
âThanks,â he managed sarcastically instead.Â
The thermometer beeped, the temperature displayed in big, unavoidable numbers.Â
Thirty-eight point five Celsius.Â
âFuck,â Shane didnât bother to hide the curse. That was a pretty bad temp.
âWhat? Is not bad.â Ilya decided before he knew anything.
âNah. Youâre definitely sick.â Shane sat the thermometer on the bedside table, hoping that Anya hadnât gotten to the food he left out.
âMm,â Ilya looked like he had difficulty speaking. âNot true.â He settled on after a few moments. âSee, I get up.âÂ
He tried and struggled to get out of bed. Shane watched him, baffled. He didnât think he had ever seen Ilya sick. Injured from a game, maybe. A few sniffles from a lingering cold. But sick, sick?
âI guess thereâs still room for first times.â Shane thought out loud.Â
Ilya attempted to squint at him, as if he knew what he was trying to get at.
After some difficulty. Ilya managed to get in a sitting position on the bed, slightly swaying.
âSee? Not sickâŠâÂ
His words trailed off into a sneeze.
âI bet your head is killing you,â Shane sympathized, kissing Ilyaâs temple.
The other man leaned into it, a small smile spreading across his face as he took it in.
âNo. No is fine.â
Shane let out a sort of huff-laugh. One that was filled with doubt. âSpeaking from experience, you are totally not fucking fine. I know your head is killing you and despite the sweat, I bet youâre freezing.âÂ
Shaneâs voice was so gentle next to Ilyaâs ear, not wanting to be the cause of any pain. He knew Ilya like the back of his hand, or he should say Ilyaâs cock, since he definitely knew it a lot better. Anyways, he knew how stubborn and ridiculous Ilya could be when it came to people caring for him.
Ilya couldnât clench his teeth together, so his lips were firmly pressed in place. The silence spoke what it needed to.
Shane trailed encouraging, featherlight kisses from Ilyaâs temple to his exposed shoulder. âIâm going to go start you a cold bath so your temp can calm down, okay? Iâll get you some pills, too. Oneâs thatâll get rid of the headache.â
Ilya opened his mouth as if he were about to protest.
Shane interrupted him before he could begin. He honestly didnât want to hear his nasally husband swear up and down that he was fine.Â
âIâm not asking, Ilya. Youâre sick whether you like it or not. So I will be taking care of you whether you like it or not.â
âNot sick,â Ilya attempted to protest for the last time.
Shane pulled out his final weapon. He knew it was a dirty and underhanded move, especially with Ilya in such poor condition. There was no other way to convince his husband otherwise.Â
âPlease, baby.âÂ
Ilya always gave in to his begging one way or another.Â
Ilya and Shane had a large bathtub in their attached bathroom, big enough for four people if they really wanted. The downside, it took for-fucking-ever to get a substantial amount of water in it. Shane decided to use the bathtub in the next room over, a space that only fit for one person. Filling the bathtub was faster when you didn't have to wait for the water to get hot or the ample area to fill up.
Ilya was scowling at him through his haze, shivering with his arms wrapped around himself. He looked like a wet, grouchy cat. Shane wouldnât mind getting a cat.
âI know, I know.â Shane soothed, taking handfuls of water and slathering it on his chest and back. âYou hate me now, but you wonât in ten minutes,â he justified.Â
âDonât hate you, moy lyubimyy.â Ilya whined, as if it were the biggest grievance of all.Â
He grabbed Shaneâs hand and adoringly set it on his cheek, leaning into the touch much like a cat would.
Shane cupped Ilyaâs cheek, following his loverâs request by applying light pressure to reassure Ilya of his presence. Of his love. Ilya rarely acted on his emotions so fast and so adoringly when it came to himself, so to see Ilya guide his hand where he wanted itâShane was happy to indulge in the consolation.
His thumb rubbed the curve of Ilyaâs cheekbone, feeling the smooth skin of his freshly shaven face against his fingertips. Ilya had grown a light scruff over the few days Shane had been out with the flu, only to shave it off immediately once Shane was no longer hysterical.
âI know Ilya. I was only teasing,â Shane still kept his tone light, not wanting it to echo off the sparse bathroom.
He had given Ilya medicine as soon as he submerged into the cold water, wanting his husbandâs pain to evaporate along with the fever.
They stayed there like that for a few moments, Ilya shivering with his hands clinging to the arm that offered him comfort. Shaneâs hand remained in its position, thumb rubbing soft circles into his cheekbone.
Shane was straining to maintain the position, half of his body pulled over subconsciously by Ilya. He wasnât a hockey player who exercised every day for no reason, though, so he could stay like that as long as Ilya needed. He dotted more delicate kisses along his forehead and neck, glad to feel the physical body temperature reducing little by little.
Ilya was practically purring by that point, head tilting to the side until his wet mop of curls soaked into Shaneâs shoulder.
Shane adored when Ilya got like that: melty and soft for love and affection from Shane. Ilya adored his attention, and Shane felt foolish for ever once thinking that it would be impossible. There was no imbalance in their love, in their devotion. Never for a second.Â
He persuaded Ilya back into their bedroom with the promise to cuddle, picking out loose clothes since theyâd be under the blanket. Ilya would need to be able to bury under the covers or throw them off of him, depending on how hot he was.
Afterwards, he trailed downstairs to grab ginger ale and crackers, not wanting to risk heavier foods yet. He stumbled when he turned around after closing the pantry, Anya somehow managing to sneak up on him from behind. He nearly stepped on her paw, but stopped just in time.Â
âSorry, girl.â He apologized anyway. âYou scared me,âÂ
She wagged her tail at him.Â
âGuess another quiet week with us. Isnât that right?â He scratched her favorite spot behind her ear. She followed him towards the room. âIâll be sure to give you lots of treats for being our good girl.â
âLots of treats?â Ilya parroted, voice almost raw.Â
âThisâll be her second week cooped up in the house. You should have seen her this morning! I was out there for an extra forty-five minutes because she refused to come inside.â
Shane retold the story with faux anger. The truth was, he hadnât really tried to bring Anya inside. After calling her name twice and getting no response, Shane decided she deserved extra time outdoors after the past week. The flu really did him in. Ilya refused to leave his side unless Anya had to use the bathroom or when playing for their scheduled thirty minutes. It was difficult for a dog who went on walks or whatever the morning entailed with Shane for an hour each day.
âShe is very good dog.â Ilya agreed.
He was propped up against a few pillows with blankets pulled to his shoulders. His body shook every other second despite the heat that was damaging ecosystems outside. Anya jumped and settled between his outstretched legs, burying her nose into the crevice of Ilyaâs knee.Â
Shane couldnât stop himself as he pulled his phone out from his pocket, snapping a few photos that would definitely become a wallpaper or widget in the near future. It was a sight to behold, but not a rare one. The only thing out of place about the photo was the clear exhaustion that lined Ilyaâs features.Â
Instead of the worked-out, hockey-honed look that Ilya wore so sexily, it was a look drained of energy.
Shane held up the hand now holding the crackers and ginger ale, shaking it slightly as if it were a prize to behold.Â
âWhere is my drink?â Ilya had the audacity to ask. âYou have ginger ale. And me?â His English was getting choppier the longer he ruminated with the flu.Â
âGinger ale is your drink while youâre sick.â Shane clarified, opening the can and getting two crackers. âDo you think you can eat this?âÂ
Shane had no appetite when he had the flu, stomach lurching up anything that tried to digest. He wouldnât force Ilya to eat anything yet.
âMm. Not sick.â Ilya said as he took the offerings. âBut is our drink.â
Shane shook his head. âNope. Absolutely not. Iâll stick with my protein shakes and water. You are strictly on a ginger ale and Gatorade diet. So.â
âSo.â Ilya repeated in a grumbling manner.
âLet me know if youâre about to be sick.â
âI thought I am sick?âÂ
âNo, like. Sick as in like puke. Let me know if youâre about to puke.â
âAh.â Ilya frowned. âImpossible. Will not happen.âÂ
He took the crackers and shoved them both into his mouth for show, biting harshly against the dry saltines. Except, the more he chewed, the more wrong it felt. Ilya could practically eat anythingâhe loved foodâbut the very thought of swallowing what was in his mouth at the moment felt impossible.
Shane yelped as Ilya suddenly grabbed a startled Anya and removed her from his lap, darting out of the bed. He ran into the bathroom after his husband, cringing as he heard the wretching sounds Ilya unleashed into the puking bucket. His generous frame practically wrapped around the thankfully clean pail.Â
When it was Shane who was (what it felt like slowly dying) sick, Ilya cleaned the bucket after every time Shane threw up. Because Shane hated puke. He hated the sound of it, the smell, and the action of it. But what he hated the most was hearing someone else throw up.Â
âOhâum.â Shane stuttered standing next to him, feeling the back of his neck prickle.
âIs fine. You go.â Ilya managed before directing his attention to dry heaving.
Shane felt tears gather behind his eyes. Ilya sounded so helpless. So hurt. And all Shane could do was watch him. It was so rare to see Ilya vulnerable to the point where it showed physically, let alone audibly. He had a good mask of indifference, tone cool as he told people the opposite of his true feelings.
Shane felt like an asshole, and despite the risk of himself puking, he didn't have to be. So he lowered himself next to Ilya and rubbed his back soothingly.
âIâm not going anywhere, Ilya. Iâm right here.â Shane spoke sweet nothings into Ilyaâs ear.
Eventually it was over. Anya had attempted to check in on Ilya, her whining sounds of distress and snuffling nose appearing under the gap of the door.Â
âIs okay! Papa is okay, sobachka.â Ilya exclaimed as Shane helped him stand up from the ground.
âCâmon. Come rinse your mouth and brush your teeth.â Shane guided Ilya to their porcelain counter, handing his husband a disposable miniature cup filled with water and his toothbrush ready to be used. "I'm so glad that is over."
The bathroom had two sinks next to each other, a feature Shane adored simply from the way toothpaste would sit on Ilyaâs side. He left globs of toothpaste in the sink. Shane was glad it wasnât his sink. Yeah, he did clean up Ilyaâs mess anyway. But he literally couldnât go on about his day knowing the sink next to his was a mess!
âSpasibo. Ya lyublyu tebya, moya lyubimaya.â Thank you. I love you, my darling.
âYouâre welcome, and I love you too.â Shane replied back in English.Â
His Russian was fluent enough where he could hold a conversation in the language, even joining Ilya once a month in his therapy. But he liked to tease.
âSay in Russian,â Ilya said after he swished his mouth with water, beginning to brush his teeth. His eyes were looking at Shane expectantly from the mirror.
Over the next few days, it was the same routine. Shane had an alarm on his phone for the hours he had to give Ilya his medicine, never missing a beat. The younger man repeatedly tried denying he was sick, but wouldnât deny the pills Shane would give him to control his fever and nausea. Ilya had managed to eat a few crackers, but beyond that was on a diet of ginger ale and Gatorade.
Ilya was taking the sickness worse than Shane had. He complained of muscle soreness and pounding headaches, but his fever was slowly going away. Shane wished there was more he could do for him, but for now, it was just a matter of assuring he was cared for.
Three days later, Ilya even went on a ten-minute walk with him and Anya. Shane had reluctantly agreed to Ilya tagging along after his husband spouted the benefits of sunlight, fresh air, and moving his stiff jointsâall cures for sickness. After, he was curled up on the couch with their dog as a movie played.Â
It was again, an adorable sight, one that Shane snapped a few shots of unabashedly. He stood in front of them, turning his phone all types of angles as he clicked and clicked and clicked. Ilya wore a lazy smile, proud that he and his dog were being fawned over.
Shane was gathering ingredients to make himself a protein shake, humming a song he recognized from Ilya. His husband had never sung a Russian song so lovingly, as if the lyrics themselves were a gift or memory he held onto with all of his might. While Shane had been sick, Ilya was settled next to him singing or humming the same song until he would fall asleep.
The melody encased Shane. He hadnât noticed he was humming loud enough for Ilya to hear until the other man spoke.
âMama?â Ilya called out, sounding desperate and in disbelief.
Shane stopped cutting the celery, eyes landing on the back of the couch. Where he stood in the kitchen offered a slight view of the living room, Ilyaâs light brown hair peaking over the top.
âMama? Ty gotovishâ sup?â Ilya called out again, this time sounding more eager.
Why does he think his mom is making soup? Shane internally asked himself.Â
He set the knife he was holding onto the cutting board next to the fruits and vegetables, trying not to trip over his feet as he rushed to the living room.
Ilya was snuggled under a blanket with Anya standing on the couch next to him, her snout nestled into Ilyaâs neck. Shane had been lenient on the âno dogs on sofaâ rule since he was sick, Ilya almost childlike in the comfort their dog offered.When Shane walked over, her panicked eyes shot to him and he realized that comfort wasnât the only reason she was up there. She jumped from the couch and circled around his legs, causing Shaneâs worry to spike.
âIlya!â He couldnât keep the worry out of his voice, not when he saw how Ilya could barely keep his eyes open.
He was pale, like the first time Shane had found him sprawled on the bed. Some of Ilyaâs color had returned to him after their walkâlight brain hair almost golden with some shine to his face. Now, that was all ripped away.
âFuck, your temp is spiking.â Shane already knew what the problem was without even having to check.
Shaneâs acquaintance with the flu at least a handful of times throughout his life let him know what was happening. Ilya was having his last spike of a fever, the worst one to come yet. After that, it would be steady sailing, the amount of medication lessened throughout the day until he didnât need it anymore.
Heâd be fine in less than three days.
Ilya looked at him strangely. As if he was seeing Shane but not fully.
âShane,â he started. âMama skoro zakonchit gotovitâ shchi?â Is Mama almost done with shchi?
âShchi?â Shane asked, it was the only word he didnât recognize.
Ilya let out a loopy laugh. âDa. Eto kapustnyy sup. Ya slyshal, kak ona napevala.â Yes. It is a cabbage soup. I heard her humming.
A weight settled on his chest at the realization. The song Ilya had sung for Shane when he was in the pits of his last fever was passed down from Ilyaâs mother. From Irina. The one woman Shane wished he could talk to, if only once. He saw a few photos of her, but unfortunately, there werenât many of her. There were no photographs from her childhood, seldomphotos taken that included her throughout the years of her marriage. She had a short time on the earth, and the lacking number of photographs of Irina was only further proof.
Shane didnât know what to say, so he didnât say anything at all. He rubbed his hands together, heart tugging down the middle in opposite directions. He wanted to tell Ilya that his mom wasnât there. She had passed when he was twelve, and he knew that. Another part didnât have the courage to tell Ilya the truth. To watch as he found out all over again.
Instead, he asked, âHow do you make shchi?âÂ
Ilya rambled for ten minutes in broken English, switching between Russian when a word was too difficult to work around his mind. Shane kept asking questions to ensure Ilya would keep talking, anything to make him forget he ever thought his mom was there.Â
Ilya finally yawned and rubbed his face against the pillow. He settled down with Anya tucked by his legs, a dopey smile on his face. He was rubbing his hand against her fur, twirling the longer pieces.
âI love you,â Ilya said with his eyes looking like mush. His smile was worship-like.
Shane would sometimes catch Ilya giving him the look he had right now, a simple glimpse in the mirror or a second when he saw it out of the corner of his eye. Shane never had the best words to describe it, because as soon as he caught a peek, Ilya's expression would fizzle into practiced coolness.
But as he looked at Ilya, there was no doubt that something greater than love rested beneath the surface.
Love, absolutely. But a version so intense it spoke across all levels of rationalism.
Shane kissed the mole on his cheek before he could fall deeper into his gaze. âI love you, too.â
When he was sure Ilya was in a deep sleep, Shane trekked back to the kitchen, a recipe for shchi pulled up on his phone. After he made sure he had all the ingredients to start cooking, Shane got to work. He wasnât the best chef by any means, but a soup was simple enough.Â
Shane started a broth with beef bones (they really had everything) that would take about two hours to cook, so he busied himself by cutting the vegetables heâd be using ahead of time. The food he was messing with earlier sat forgotten on the other side of the counter, ripening beyond Shaneâs taste. Ilya would definitely eat a warm strawberry though. The way he preferred them.
He was halfway through simmering the vegetables, timed to finish along with the broth, when arms wrapped around his waist from behind.
Shane squeaked, yes, squeakedâalmost dropping a dish in the sink. His heart raced in his chest, pounding like it wanted to escape his flesh. He put the cup down but kept his hands in the sink, not wanting to make a mess. Shane eased into the hold, tipping his body back to rest against Ilya.Â
Ilya placed his chin on his shoulder, pulling Shane closer to him.Â
âYou are making shchi?â Ilya questioned, taking a deep breath into the air. âSmells delicious.âÂ
Shane cuddled the side of their faces together, content that Ilya wasnât burning up anymore. He had to sleep off the worst of his fever, but he was still sick. Shane would need to give him more ibuprofen soon.
âIâm glad youâre feeling better,â Shane kissed his temple, then resumed cleaning the dishes.Â
âFelt fine the entire time,â Ilya grabbed a rag and started drying the dishes Shane washed, placing them in their correct spots.
Once that task was complete, Ilya pulled Shane back into his orbit. He kissed along Shaneâs neck, a hand running up from his neck to the back of his head. The grip there latched onto the small patches of hair it could, giving it a nice tug before moving on to other spots. Shane melted into the touch, tilting his head to give Ilya more access.
In his neck, Ilya asked, âHow did you know? About shchi?âÂ
Shane pulled away so he could look at Ilya and gave him an empathetic smile. âYou thought your mom was cooking it. Earlier, I was humming in the kitchen and you thoughtâŠâÂ
Ilya kept his gaze locked on Shane. When the older man was unable to finish his sentence, Ilya did for him. âI thought Mamochka was here?â His voice cracked at the title, having been so long since he used it.
Shane nodded while he bit his lip. He wanted to kiss Ilya, comfort his husband in the best way he knew how. He was also smart not to share direct contact with him and cross-contaminate. He wouldnât be getting sick again, thank you. Instead, Shane pulled Ilya into a crushing hug.
Ilyaâs arms rested over Shaneâs shoulders, caging Shane in between his clavicle and arm.Â
âI remember talking about⊠what you need to cook with.â Ilya was breathing deeply into Shaneâs hair.
âIngredients?â
âYes. Stupid word, by the way.â
That cracked a giggle from Shane. âYeah, kinda is.âÂ
His reminder for Ilyaâs medicine went off like a beacon, causing Shane and Ilya to jump out of their skin.
âAlarm is stupid, too.âÂ
Ilya took the medicine anyway, folding himself onto Shaneâs back as a reward. Shane didnât mind it. He loved how clingy Ilya could be. Now that they were out and didnât have to publicly hide their relationship anymore, Ilya always made sure their hands were intertwined. If they were sitting side by side, Ilya had his arm over Shane. If they were cuddling in bed, Ilya was practically fused to his husband's skin. Â
After sex, especially, Ilya was near (or on) Shane like a hawk.
With that being said, Ilya was also the most forthcoming while he is cuddly.
âIlya? Baby?â
Ilya groaned. âOh no. What do you want?â
Shane huffed, âYou make me sound horrible.â He lightly scolded, no real heat behind the words.
Ilya nuzzled his nose on the top of Shaneâs head. âYou are the worst.â
The older man (by a month) swatted at Ilyaâs arms. âThe worst? I took care of you all week!â
âNow we are even.âÂ
Shane couldnât say anything against that. Ilya had taken care of him the week prior, insisting to his parents that they didnât have to come over in aid. They did take Anya for a day, so Shane would stop feeling so guilty about cooping her up by association. Ilya would have missed her too much if they had done that this time, especially with how hard the flu hit him.
âShe would cook shchi whenever I was sick.â Ilya finally released. He knew what Shane was trying to get at and saw no point in keeping it from his husband.
âEvery time,â He said the last bit dejectedly, like there was more to the story than he was letting on.
Shane changed their position so Ilya was leaning against the counter, brown eyes locked onto Ilyaâs hazel ones. He used his best puppy eyes. They were still working their way around communication, too many years spent chaining emotions and thoughts to the depths of their brains. With time, Ilya and Shane were getting better at telling each other things, even if it was uncomfortable to talk about.
The words from Ilyaâs mouth spilled out like a poorly put-together dam affected by a feather.Â
âWas the only one who cared for me,â Ilya said.
There was more to the way he said it, brutalized with the acceptance that she would be the only person who ever cared.
âYou mean more than when you were just sick.â Shane didnât phrase it as a question. He knew the answer.
Ilyaâs dad was a dick. His older brother a miniature version that Irina could not save. It didnât take a genius to put two and two together.Â
âAfter,â they didnât have to clarify what after. After Irina died. âWhen I got sick. Was horrible. No one made me soup or combed my hair. No one told me I was alright, or that they loved me.â
Shane felt his heart break for Ilya. He was so fortunate to grow up with two parents who cherished their only child, pouring every ounce of energy and money into him. When he was sick there was always at least one parent by his side, putting up with his whines and ridiculous needs. Ilya didnât have that. For twelve years, he had one parent subjected under his father, and depression, and once she died, he had no one. His father remarried a younger woman. His brother bullied him and took to drugs.Â
No wonder why Ilya fought to prove he wasnât sick. Sick didnât mean having a comforting hand by his side at all times. It meant loneliness. Isolation. Memories of what was no longer there.
âThatâs horrible,â Shane clarified, running comforting hands along Ilyaâs arms.
âYes,â Ilya agreed.Â
He then looked around the kitchen and inhaled through his nose. Something cleared behind his hazel eyes. He cupped Shaneâs jaw, gently kissing his forehead.Â
âBut you are making shchi. Yes?âÂ
âYeah,â Shane said weakly. âIâm not sure how good itâll beââ
âSh. Will be good since you cooked it.â Ilya interrupted him, but Shane wasnât upset with what he interrupted him with.
A compliment always easily shut him up.Â
âYou think?â Shane asked hopefully.
Ilya looked like he wanted to kiss him. âMhm,âÂ
Shane glanced at Ilyaâs lips, then at his eyes. Then to his lips again.
His lips were slowly forming into a smirk. Shane kind of hated how Ilya knew he was going to do it, since he had just given shit to the younger man about it being the reason why he was currently sick.
But Shane couldnât stop himself from kissing Ilya. Not when he was looking at Shane so hopefully. It felt amazing, the exact kind of touch he needed after kissing cheeks, and necks, and foreheads all week. He missed Ilyaâs cupidâs bow and the way it formed against him.Â
âDonât even say it,â Shane commanded when he pulled back, but it didnât stop the laugh that bubbled up from Ilya.
âSame time next week?âÂ
âFuck off. Iâm not gonna get fucking sick.âÂ
Another alarm resounded from his phone, pulling them out of the moment faster than a pin dropping.Â
âThe food is ready. Take Anya out while I get this ready?â Shane turned off the heat, getting bowls out of the cabinet.
Ilya planted a soft peck on his lips, winking when he saw Shaneâs warning look. âAlready kissed, moy lyubimyy. Another will change nothing,â
Shane couldnât reply because Anya came running into the kitchen, energy bouncing off her in waves.
âThis will be good, I know it.â Ilya said while gesturing to the soup. âThank you,"
Shane blew him a kiss and watched him walk into the backyard with Anya, bracing against the counter and sighing deeply once the door shut. It just took everything he had not to cry.
His husband, his perfect, considerate, Ilya Rozanov, deserved more out of life. He deserved a father who was proud of his achievements, a brother who supported his dreams, and a mother who didn't feel the need to end her life. Yet his dad couldn't even make him fucking soup when he was sick.Â
He mixed the broth and vegetables, stirring it with a wooden spoon that his mom had gifted them in a set for Christmas. After the food sat for a few minutes, Shane began to spoon the soup into separate bowls. There was still a lot left because, incidentally, Shane did not know how to portion ingredients, so he filled a container for his parents while he was at it.
He paused as the final corner of the lid clicked into place, realizing how deeply his family was integrated into his life. Ilya had no one.
Or, at least that used to be the case. Shane corrected himself. Ilya had them now, all three of Shane's small family. Not to forget the team that felt more like brothers rather than co-players.Â
As Ilya stepped back inside with Anya, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, Shane made an internal promise to never let Ilya feel like he's alone again.
A/N: now with a prequel of sick! shane. read âinto the sunâ here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81541911
peter parker in gotham au - congratulations, you adopted a spider!
rating: teen
tags: found family, hurt/comfort, peter parker needs a hug, everyone loves peter parker, peter parker is 8yo, bruce wayne is a good dad
ch5 word count: 5.8k+
read here on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74900086/chapters/197567806
bat burger
Peter should have known it was only a matter of time before he crossed paths with Gotham's vigilantesânine days, apparently. Nine nights of streets slick with rain, alleys that smelled like wet brick and motor oil, and an entire city that moved like it was holding its breath. Gotham wasn't just home to Batman and his flockâthis place practically worshipped them.
Once Peter noticed that, he started noticing everything. Window displays full of Robin-themed sneakers. A street vendor selling knockoff Joker cards and batarang keychains. A grungy tattoo shop offering official vigilante-inspired ink, which he was pretty sure wasn't official at all. Entire stretches of block looked like they were curated by someone who had an unhealthy level of merch enthusiasm.
This city wasn't just protected by vigilantes.
It was obsessed with them.
And apparently, they were obsessed with themselves as well. Or at least with being the best vigilantes they could be.
Peter was sitting on a rooftop, his legs dangling over the edge as he swished them side to side. The motion was rhythmic, something to occupy the anxious flutter in his chest. His sneakers tapped against the crumbling stone façade every few swings. The rooftop gravel shifted under him, cold even through the denim of his jeans, but it was a kind of cold he didn't mind. A clean cold. A predictable one.
The wind was sharper up here, sweeping through the gaps between Gotham's towers like it was trying to cut the city into pieces. It tugged at his jacket, stung his cheeks, tangled through his hair. He inhaled deeply, letting the cold settle in his lungs until it burned a little. That sting made him feel awake, presentâlike he had a body, like he hadn't been drifting through the last nine days as a ghost.
It was comforting being so high up, even though the skyline wasn't his and neither were the rooftops. These buildings were squat, gothic, armored in gargoyles and wonky structural choices that looked like they'd been made by someone sculpting paranoia into stone. No Avengers Tower piercing the clouds. No polished Stark glass. Just brick, soot, and shadows stacked on top of each other.
Stillâheight was height.
Up here, everything else faded. The honking horns, the sirens, the shouts, the occasional gunshot that ricocheted through the alleys like a warning shot from the Gods of Terrible Timing. All of it blurred into something distant and harmless. Up here, Peter could pretend the world wasn't pressing its thumb into his ribs and waiting for him to crack under it.
The altitude gave him a kind of comfort nothing at street level ever could. The city had to look up to see him, not the other way around. He didn't feel small.
It had been a long time since he'd felt anything like tranquility. Maybe not since before the Snap. BeforeâŠÂ everything. His life had been loud for so longâtoo many people depending on him, too many near-disasters, too much grief for one person. Gotham was loud too, but it was a different kind of noise. A grimy, exhausted noise. A noise that didn't expect things from him.
He could breathe here. Albeit horribly.
The abandoned bookstore had been his first shelter. A whim, really, based on Dick's guidance and the way it protected him from the two-day storm the day he stumbled inside. He'd liked the smell at firstâold paper and forgotten stories. He used a stack of hardcover biographies as a pillow on the first night.
But the charm didn't last.
The mold had been there since the beginning, but since his arrival, it only grew. He tried to ignore it until the air felt thick enough to chew. It got inside his throat, clinging there, making him cough until he saw stars. It woke him more nights than he cared to admit, choking him awake, sending him staggering to the nearest trash bin to puke bile until his stomach clenched dry.
The taste of mold sat at the back of his tongue for hours afterward. He hated it. Hated how weak it made him feel. Hated that it drove him out like a kicked dog instead of letting him choose to leave.
There came a point where he couldn't stand it anymore.
He didn't have any belongings tethering him to the building anyway. He hadn't seen Dick since that strange, gently exasperated first encounter, and BarbaraâŠÂ well, she was too smart. Too observant. Too likely to ask questions he couldn't afford to answer. He avoided her like she carried a sensor that beeped every time he lied.
Jay was different. Rougher around the edges, sure, but his edges didn't cut. Dick had been right about the soup kitchenâCrime Alley's was the best in Gotham. Not because of the food (though it was good), but because Jay made sure he got in early before the crowd, before the staring. Jay handed him a tray with a look that said, "Eat, kid," without actually saying it out loud.
Jay also learned fast. He clocked that Peter didn't enjoy personal inquiries surrounding his life or unfortunate circumstances. No prying. No fishing. No pity. And the older man, as crazy as it sounds even to Peter, still, requested him to at least stay at Jayâs apartment. That was only when they had met for the second time. Peter hadnât returned the next day. The day later, Jay never mentioned it again.
And he pointed things outâcasually. "Showers are two blocks down. Tell em Jay sent you." "Laundry place on 10th'll let you use a machine if you look like ya won't set the place on fire." "Avoid Robinson Park after dark unless ya want to get mugged by someone with a clown fixation."
On the night of his 6th day in Gotham, Peter had drifted until he found the seven-story condemned building. The city had slapped a neon-orange warning sign on the front door, but the sign itself was half-eaten by rust and probably older than he was.Â
He climbed up the backside of it, not bothering with the likely horrid stairs.Â
The top level had a locked door to the roof. The lock was rusted out, the metal crumbly beneath the cheap weatherproofing. Peter tugged gentlyâcareful, carefulâand the latch gave with barely a sound. The top floors were abandoned. Nobody came up there with a purpose. Nobody came up there at all.Â
Peter had settled his belongings (a backpack with some clothes and snacks courtesy of Jay) in the middle of the floor. Though he couldn't smell an overabundance of mold inside the building, he was terrified to be too close to walls that could be harboring the fungus.
The wind was clean up on the roof, cleaner than anything he'd breathed since he moved dimensions (which shouldn't be true given the smog). But it was also freezing. So fucking freezing that Peter sometimes found himself unable to move until a mysterious ray of light would beam on him and warm him from his shell. Peter was finding it hard to care what happened to him anymore.
The height made his chest feel light. The open space around him made him feelâŠÂ not safe, exactly, but untouchable. No one was going to yank him off this rooftop. No one was going to sneak up on him without his senses catching it.
Being high up meant he was the one who saw danger first. Not the other way around.
It felt safer than any alley or doorway or abandoned shop. Up here, Gotham couldn't sneak up on him.
From this height, the city's violence became almost abstract. Gunshots were just pops echoing between stone walls.Shouts were just echoes, bouncing around in ways that made them impossible to place. It all blurred into something vague and unreachable.
He felt guilty for not helping. He always felt guilty. That was part of being Spider-Manâknowing you could help, knowing you should, and still sometimes failing to. But most mornings he woke so dizzy from hunger that the edges of his sight blurred. His limbs felt too heavy. His reflexes lagged half a second behind his instincts.
Swinging into danger like that wasn't saving anyone. Minus the swinging since he didn't have his web-shooters.
It was just getting himself killed.
So he stayed on the rooftop, letting his legs swing over the edge as the city breathed below himâdark and busy and alive in a way he wasn't sure he knew how to be anymore.
Wind shifted across the rooftop like a change in moodâsubtle at first, then deliberate. Metal meeting cement rang out in the night. Then again. Peter felt it in his bones before he understood why. Something in the pattern of air had movedwrong. The city breathed differently when it wasn't only him at this height.
He grew very still.
Another second passed, then the softest tremor of gravel behind him. A weight landing, light but controlled. Then another, heavier but even quieterâsomeone with far more practice absorbing the jolt before it ever traveled into the ground.
His spider-sense sluggishly came to life. Two people. Close.
He focused his hearing on them, eyebrows furrowing as he heard one of their heartbeats. It fluttered like a circus.Â
Dick?
When he finally looked over his shoulder, it wasn't Dick who stood there.Â
But a man in blue and black standing by the rusted door frame had a posture that was easier, shoulders relaxed despite the wind, his escrima sticks strapped neatly behind him. And the younger one beside himâshorter, rigid as tempered steelâwatched Peter with a focus similar to Natasha's.Â
Nightwing. And⊠one of the Robins. There were a few of them, and Peter was distracted during his research both times by the feeling of impending doom, which wasn't the ideal mental state for retaining information.
Peter's stomach dipped. Great. Perfect. Because this day apparently needed more chaos.
The older vigilante lifted one hand, palm outward in the universal signal for not here to fight. His voice, when he spoke, carried a disarming warmth beneath the professionalism.
"Hey there," Nightwing said. "Mind if we come a little closer?"
Peter swallowed, pulse tripping over itself. "Depends. You here to chase me off your roof or something?"
Nightwing's mouth twitched. Not quite a smileâmore an acknowledgement. "Not unless you're planning to swan-dive, which we'd kinda prefer you didn't."
A quiet exhale cut the air. The Robin stepped forward, cape brushing the rooftop gravel. His tone was clipped, efficient, uninterested in softening the edges.
"You are putting yourself in unnecessary danger. Move away from the ledge before you lose your balance." His eyes flicked over Peter again, clinical. "Tt. Children have poor center of gravity."
His mouth dropped in astonishment. "I'm notâ" Peter started, voice pitching higher in his small throat. God. Why did he sound like that. "I'm not a child. And I'm not trynna jump! The hell?!"
Nightwing glanced at him more carefully this time, head tilting. "If you're older than you look, then we've gotta to talk about your skincare routine. You're giving elementary schooler energy."
Peter turned away, heat crawling up his neck. "If IÂ was, why the fuck would I wait for you to show up?" Peter wasn't always so rude, but Gotham had started to change him.Â
"We know," Nightwing said gently. "We're just making sure."
Robin moved in a slow arc, boots almost silent as he circled for a better vantage pointâPeter realized belatedly he was analyzing escape vectors, fall trajectory, possible interventions. The kid was maybe twelve or thirteen, but every step radiated lethal training. It reminded him of Natasha even more. There was a certain way child assassins carried themselves, and even years away from that environment left a bone-settling knowledge.Â
Natasha had taken to Peter and his powers quickly, the woman settling into a protective, almost aunt-like role before he even realized it was happening. The Avengers were never as close-knit as the public imagined, but once Peter started spending more time in the Tower, the others drifted in more oftenâwandering through the common rooms, lingering in doorways just to say hi. Natasha was the one who taught him discipline, how to move with intention instead of instinct, how to breathe through fear. She called it training. Peter suspected, secretly, it was her way of keeping him safe.
That was all before the Snap, of course. By the time Peter returned, Tony and others were soon to die.Â
Peter tensed, instinctively drawing his legs up a little. Not defensive, exactly. JustâŠÂ ready.
Nightwing noticed. His voice softened even more. "Hey. No one's here to grab you, okay? We just want to talk. Mind if we sit?"
Peter hesitated. His breath puffed white in the cold night air. The wind rattled a loose vent somewhere behind them.
"Do what you want," he muttered finally. Peter didn't want to test his luck and tell them no.
Nightwing took that as permission. He moved with an easy grace, sitting down beside him without crowding. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough distance to show he had no intention of cornering him. He let his own legs dangle over the edge as if the drop meant nothing.
Robin didn't sit. He remained standing behind them both, arms crossed, assessing the situation with the intensity of a guard dog that expected trouble even from shadows.
The silence settled, taut but not suffocating.
"You got a name?" Nightwing asked after a moment.
Peter shrugged. "Maybe. Depends on who's asking."
Nightwing snorted softly. "Cool. Love the dramatic rooftop anonymity thing. Been there." He leaned back a little, hands braced against the gravel. "I'm Nightwing. The broody one behind us isâ"
"Tt." Robin's gaze sharpened behind the domino mask. "I can introduce myself."
Nightwing rolled his eyes. "He's Robin. Obviously."
Peter risked another glance at him. The green domino mask hid most of his expression, but his mouth was a flat line of irritation. The kid radiated sharp-edged discipline, the kind built layer by layer through years of unrelenting training. He looked more serious compared to the vigilante next to him.
"Right," Peter murmured. "Got it. A ten-year-old can go running rampant, but I'm getting in trouble for minding my business."
Nightwing didn't bristle. "Kid," he said, "you don't know the half of it."
Robin's eyes narrowed behind the mask. "And I'm not ten."
"You're literallyâ" Peter started.
Robin cut him off with a flat, deadly calm, "Say it, and I'll break your fingers."
Peter blinked. "That feels like an overreaction."
Robin didn't blink back.Â
"Wow," Peter muttered. "Okay. Cool. I love being bullied by a garden gnome."
Nightwing exhaled through his nose, something between a sigh and a laugh he was trying not to let out. "He's serious, you know. About the fingers."
"Why is that not reassuring?" Peter asked.
The vigilante shrugged. "Welcome to Gotham."
"He really isn't that much taller than me," Peter commented against his will.
Robin took a step forward but stopped his movement at Peter's stomach growling.
Peter wanted to melt into the building and be bulldozed with it.Â
"Peter," he mumbled his name. Just so their thoughts wouldn't wander about the poor, helpless boy.
Nightwing studied him. Not intrusively, not like he was dissecting him. Nightwing was simply trying to understand him.Measuring posture, tension, and breathing. All the things good vigilantes learned to track without needing to stare someone down. It was almost unsettling how good he was at it.Â
"Nice to meet you, Peter. You come up here a lot?" he asked.
Peter squinted toward the skyline instead of answering. The cold bit at his ears. His hands curled into the fabric of the ledge, tiny fingers digging into stone grooves. He hated how small they looked.
After a long silence, he exhaled. "It's nice up here."
Robin's cape rustled as he shifted. "Nothing in Gotham is nice,"
"Nicer than the ground," Peter countered.
Robin hesitatedâbarely, but enough. "âŠPerhaps."
Nightwing let that moment sit before speaking again. "Look, I'm not gonna pretend we don't see a kid sitting on a ledge and get concerned. But if you say you're not here to hurt yourself, I'll take you at your word." His voice dropped. "Just tell us if you're steady. We need to hear it from you."
Peter's throat tightened. Something in the wordingâsteadyâhit him harder than he expected. Steady was not a word he'd felt in months. Long before he appeared in Gotham.
"I'm fine,"
Nightwing gave him a look that suggested he didn't buy it but wasn't going to push. "Alright."
Robin did not have Nightwing's sense of finesse. "You do not appear fine."
Peter bristled. "You don't even know me."
"And yet the evidence is clear," Robin said. "You are undernourished, sleep-deprived, and evidently unsupervised. You exhibit signs of respiratory irritation." His eyes narrowed. "Possibly mold exposure."
Peter froze, eyes widening. "How did youâ"
"Your cough." Robin pointed it like the world's most obvious fact. "Your stance. The faint discoloration beneath your eyes. It is not difficult."
Nightwing muttered under his breath, "Man, you're a hit at parties."
Robin ignored him. "Why are you alone?"
Peter rolled his eyes. He wouldn't give into the scenario of being a helpless child. They could happily fuck off.Â
...
Jay was having an effect on him.
He didn't answer.
Nightwing didn't try to get more information. Instead, he let the noises below fill the silence, the hum of the city rising to fill the space between their breaths.
"You don't gotta tell us anything," Nightwing said. "You don't owe us your life story. But we do need to make sure you're safe. That's part of the deal when you run around our rooftops."
"I'm not running around," Peter mumbled.
"Perching, then. Perching counts."
A small, reluctant huff escaped Peter. Not quite a laugh. More like the phantom of one.
Robin took a step closer, boots barely making a sound. "Safety is relative," he said tightly. "And you are making poor choices."
Peter turned, frustration sparking. "I used to do this all the time."
"Used to?" Robin pounced on the wording. "Meaning you are displaced."
Peter's heartbeat lurched. "I didn't say that."
"You impliedâ"
"Alright," Nightwing cut in, tone firming. "Let's not interrogate the kid. We're here to make sure he's alright, not grill him."
"'Grill' implies heat," Robin replied flatly. "This is simple deduction."
Peter sank down, folding his arms over his drawn-up knees. He hated how undersized he definitely looked. Hated how easily they misread the situation. Hated how being up hereâthe one place he felt remotely like himselfâwas now being interpreted as a danger sign.
"I'm not gonna jump," he said again, fainter this time.
"We hear you," Nightwing agreed gently. "But believing it is part of the job."
Peter pressed his lips together. The city lights blurred again. Not from tearsâjust from long, tired hours awake.
"Why are you even here?" he asked after a moment. "Don't you belong to BlĂŒdhaven?"
"Sometimes," Nightwing said. "Sometimes not. But tonight? We were nearby. You showed up on a sensor Oracle keeps on condemned buildings that are structurally unstable." He paused. "Roof collapses are a thing."
Robin added, "Also, you spend too much time near the edge. Statistically, that increases the likelihood of accidentalâ"
"I'm not gonna fall," Peter snapped.
Robin's eyes narrowed, unimpressed. "Confidence does not equal capability."
Nightwing held out one hand, trying to defuse the rising tension. "Okay, okay. Let's all take a breath."
Peter stared down at the street below.Â
"I come up here because it's the only place where everything isn't⊠loud," he finally revealed, voice almost lost in the wind. "That's all. I'm not doing anything stupid. I justâŠÂ needed quiet."
His senses had been driving him wild lately.
Nightwing nodded once. Not condescending. Not patronizing. Just understanding.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I get that."
Robin's posture shifted almost imperceptiblyânot softening, exactly, but recalibrating. Reassessing. "If you require quiet," he said, "there are safer vantage points."
Peter looked up, weary. "Like where? A library? A church? A cave?"
Nightwing snorted. "Careful, he'll actually take you to a cave."
"Tt," Robin spoke. "The cave is not a refuge for unvetted civilians."
Nightwing leaned closer, lowering his voice. "He means he doesn't get to make that call."
Robin glared, but didn't disagree.
Peter rubbed his chilled hands together. His fingers ached from the cold. The gloves did little to protect his hands. Nightwing noticed and subtly shifted his body to block some of the wind without drawing attention to it.
"You got anywhere to stay tonight?" Nightwing asked, tone deliberately casual.
Peter stiffened. "I'm good."
Robin made a soft scoff of disbelief. "You are not."
Nightwing ignored him again. "Look, we're not trying to escort you anywhere. But if your 'somewhere quiet' is drafty and mold-infestedâyeah, we'd recommend a change."
Peter didn't answer.
He didn't have to. The silence was an answer in itself.
Nightwing sighed softly, breath clouding white. "Okay. Let's make this simple. You don't have to go with us, you don't have to tell us your name, and you don't have to explain your situation. But we'd like to check in on you. Make sure you're alive tomorrow."
Peter swallowed hard. Something in his chest twistedâhalf fear, half something dangerously close to longing. He shoved both down.
"I don't needâ"
"When you're sleeping," Robin cut in, "your breathing pattern deteriorates."
Peter blinked. "How do youâ."
"Our drone passed your location two nights ago." The exact amount of days since Peter had been staying there.
Peter nearly choked on air. "You were spying on me?"
"We surveil vulnerable areas," Robin corrected. "You appeared compromised."
Nightwing muttered, "He means yes."
Robin glared again. "Our methods are efficient."
Peter dragged his palms down his face. "God, I should've gone to Metropolis." He liked to imagine he had a choice. In reality, he didn't deserve the haven that the other city seemed to be.
"There's worse places than Gotham," Nightwing was quick to try and lighten the mood. "You could've landed in BlĂŒdhaven."
Robin cleared his throat, impatience bleeding through. "We are wasting time. If he insists on remaining here, at least remove him from the unstable section of the roof."
Nightwing glanced at Peter. "He's not wrong. The ledge might be fine, but the gravel under you isn't solid. Something snaps, we're all having a very bad night."
Peter hesitatedâthen scooted back two inches. Just enough to remove his feet from the edge. Not enough to look like he'd been persuaded.
Nightwing pretended not to notice the compromise.
He leaned back on his hands again, eyes fixed on the skyline. "You know," he said, "when I was younger, this was where I'd go too. Somewhere high, somewhere the city couldn't swallow me whole. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it didn't. But I thinkâŠÂ I think I stayed alive partly because someone always noticed. Someone always checked in."
Peter didn't look at him. "Lucky you."
Nightwing's voice dropped, steady and calm. "You're not unlucky. You're just early in the story."
Peter's throat tightened painfully. Words tangled in his chest but never made it up his throat. Peter didn't have anyone. Not anymore. He wouldn't drag unwilling victims into his chaotic life. Whatever Gotham chose to dish out to him, Peter could take it.
Robin, oddly enough, filled the silence.
"You should eat," he stated bluntly. "Your blood sugar is low."
Peter made a weak, incredulous noise. "Do you have a sixth sense for that too?"
"No," Robin said. "Your pupils dilated abnormally when you shifted positions. And your movements lack coordination."
Nightwing translated, "He means you're lookinâ dizzy."
"I'm fine," Peter muttered miserably.
"You are emphatically not," Robin voiced.
Nightwing pushed to his feet, brushing gravel from his gloves. "Alright. You're not staying up here all night. Come onâwe're moving you."
Peter froze. "Moving me⊠where?"
"Somewhere with food," Nightwing said, his tone calm but firm. "âŠBat Burger."
Peter blinked. "Wait. LikeâŠÂ a restaurant?"
"Exactly," Nightwing spoke, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "Bat-shaped fries. Nightwing nuggets. Red Hood Spicy Melt if you're feeling reckless."
Robin stayed silent, arms crossed, cape snapping behind him. "Resist, and you will be carried," he added flatly.
Peter's eyes widened. "âŠComforting."
"Come on," Nightwing said, holding out a hand. "No falling. No rooftop theatrics. Just food. You'll survive."
"I don't have any money for it."
"Obviously," Robin was getting impatient.
Nightwing ruffled Peter's hair. "Don't worry about it, Pete."
Peter hesitated for a heartbeat, jaw dropped. Then let himself be guided toward the stairwell. Robin followed; he didn't look surprised by Nightwing's comforting nature.
"Seriously," he muttered, glancing back, "Bat Burger?"
Nightwing smirked. "Only in Gotham."
Robin didn't say anything, but his sharp glance at Peter suggested he was noting something. Not approval exactly, just recognition that Peter wasn't completely hopeless.
Descending felt odd. He hadn't come up this way, so it was his first time entering all levels of the abandoned building.
Robin walked ahead of them, checking corners as they descended the stairwell.
Peter kept his hands jammed in his pockets, trying to ignore the faint tingling under his skin. His limbs felt wrong tonightâtoo light, too ready to spring. He kept himself tucked inward, fighting the instinct to climb, to cling, to skitter up the walls like he was born for it.
He really, really was not letting that show.
Nightwing glanced over his shoulder. âYou good?â
âTotally,â Peter said, even as his foot nearly missed a step. âI love poorly lit staircases. Big fan.â
"How did you get up here if you didn't use the staircase?" The older vigilante asked. There was genuine curiosity laced in his question.Â
A question Peter wouldn't answer. If it was one thing he learned in his stay in Gotham, meta's weren't welcomed.
Robin didnât slow. âYour balance is compromised. Focus.â
âThanks, Coach,â Peter muttered.
They hit the lobbyâa cracked-tile room that smelled faintly like mildew and rotting wood. Robin nudged open the exit; once more, his senses spiked painfully for a second. Every passing car sounded too close. Every shadow felt like it breathed.
The thin jacket and long-sleeve shirt Jay gave Peter did little to fend off the breeze that hit him, and with his feet on the ground, he suddenly felt bare to the world. He was thankful, though. Thankful for the clothes and the fact that Jay cared enough to give them to him, even though he didn't know Peter. Even though Peter was undeserving of kindness.
âBat Burgerâs a few blocks,â Nightwing casually said, whistling under his breath. âStay close.â
Robin added without looking back, âWander, and we will retrieve you.â
Peter blinked. âCan you not say it like Iâm a runaway gerbil?â
Robin paused only long enough to give him a flat, unimpressed look. âThen do not wander.â
Great.
The alley spat them out onto a narrow street lined with neon signs and flickering lamps. Gotham reflected off wet pavement in bruised colorsâpurples and greens bleeding together under streetlight glow. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed. Somewhere closer, someone shouted.
Peter flinched before he could stop himself, fingers curling in his pockets.
Nightwing didnât comment, but he shifted minutely so Peter walked between them.
Bat Burger came into viewâa garish splash of yellow lighting and bat-shaped decals. A cardboard Batman cutout guarded the entrance, looming over the night like a dad watching the grill at a cookout.
âWow,â Peter whispered.
Nightwing snorted a laugh and held the door open. âWelcome to one of Gothamâs finest establishments.â
âThat's concerning,â Peter murmured as he slipped inside.
This city definitely had an obsession problem.
The heat of working machines warmed the buildingâfry oil, toasted buns, the kind of artificial cheese smell that could raise cholesterol just from inhaling it. His stomach growled so loudly Robin snapped his head toward him like he wasidentifying a threat.
Peter forced a grin. âPipes. Buildingâs old. Probably haunted.â
Robin did not look convinced.
The cashier brightened. âNightwing! Robin! Havenât seen you both in a minute.â
Robin marched straight to the counter. âHe will have the Robin Meal.â
Peter nearly choked on air. âI will not.â
Nightwing placed a hand on Robinâs shoulder. âLet him pick. Thatâs a thing normal people do.âÂ
The touch was brotherly, the kind of reassuring touch Ned and Pete would give each other.Â
Robin studied him. âHe is small. The child meal is proportionate.â
âLove the concern,â Peter muttered, âbut I can choose. Promise.â
He stepped up to the menu, shoulders hunched slightly. He pretended to study it, when really he was fighting off another sensory surgeâheat pressing too close, smells too sharp, a sudden twitch crawling down his arms like his muscles wanted to jump.
âWhat is going on with you?" Nightwing didn't conceal his concern.
Peter shook his head fast. âNothing. Justâthinking about burgers real hard.â
It wasnât a lie. His hunger had become something gnawing, almost animal, sitting low in his ribs. The type of hunger that rested in his throat and tongue, eager for the next meal. No matter how much Jay and the other workers offered at the soup kitchen, Peter would only take one serving like everyone else. There was no reason for him to be treated any differently.Â
He picked the first thing his eyes fell on, just to get the moment over with.
They took a booth in the back. Nightwing slid across from him. Robin sat beside him, posture stiff and alert even here.
Peter took his gloves off and kept his hands under the table. His fingers flexed against the underside, the slight stickiness of the wood making something in him twitch.
Donât. Donât cling. Donât react.Â
Nightwing leaned his elbows on the table. âRough night?â
Peter shrugged. âRough week. RoughâŠÂ everything.â
âAnything specific?â Nightwing asked, tone gentle but not prying.
âNope.â Too fast.
He adjusted. âJust⊠life.â
Robin sipped his black coffee like an eighty-year-old judge. âYour evasion is obvious.â
âWow,â Peter muttered. âYou and my guidance counselor would get along great.â Except Peter didn't have a guidance counselor anymore. Peter didn't go to school anymore.
"Oh? Where do you go to school?" Nightwing smoothly quizzed.
Peter pretended he didn't hear him.
The cashier placed trays in front of themâburgers wrapped in branded paper, piles of hot fries, little bat-shaped ketchup cups that were honestly adorable.
Peterâs body reacted before he thought. One bite and zeal flooded him so intensely he had to shut his eyes for a second. His hunger wasnât just hunger. It was need, clawing up from somewhere deep and instinctive.
He ate fast. Too fast.
When he realized it, he froze mid-chew, embarrassed.
ââŠSorry.â
Nightwing shook his head. âEat. Seriously.â
Robin added, âYou are still slower than Hood.â
Peter blinked. He probably meant Red Hood. âThatâsâhonestly impressive. And alarming.â
The meal settled something in him, smoothing the shaky edges of his senses. For a moment, he felt almost normal.
Almost. Because one meal wasn't enough to soothe his rapt hunger since the bite.
Nightwing noticed his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip and ordered another meal. "Can he get a toy with it, too?"
"Sure thing, Nightwing!"
Then he settled his focus back on Peter. âSo. That building you were on.â
âTemporary,â Peter supplied quickly.
Robin didnât look away from him. âWhy temporary?â
Peterâs chest tightened. âBecause I donât stay in one place long. Thatâs just how it is.â
âIs someone after you?â Nightwing leaned forward with his elbows on the table.
âNo.â
Not someone.
Something.
Himself.
But he shrugged. âNot really.â
They didnât push.
That surprised him more than anything.
Nightwing wiped his hands on a napkin. âAlright. Then at least pick places that arenât collapsing. You donât have to tell us anythingâjust donât get killed by mold.â
Peter snorted. âIâll try.â
Robinâs gaze didnât soften, but it shifted. Just slightly. âIf you require a safer location, inform us.â
Peter blinked. âYou⊠want me to check in?â
âNo,â Robin said matter-of-factly. âI want you to survive.â
Nightwing sighed. âHe means it nicely.â
Robin gave a tiny nod. âTt.â
Another tray of food was given, this time a small package was placed next to it.
Peter blinked. âUh⊠whatâs this?â
âGo ahead,â Nightwing said, leaning forward with an excited grin. âOpen it. Theyâre cool figurines!â
Robin didnât say anything, but he did sit up straighter, watching Peter with sharp interest, like he expected this to somehow be a test.
Peter hesitated, fingers brushing the smooth paper. It felt sturdier than just a toy. Carefullyâbecause Peter didnât want to risk ripping whatever was insideâhe peeled the wrapping away.
The box underneath was glossy, bold, and unmistakable:
RED ROBIN: LIMITED EDITION COLLECTIBLE.
Peter froze. The figurine inside wore a red-and-black suit with a domed cowl, cape flaring dramatically behind him mid-leap. Sleek. Detailed. Definitely one of the âfancierâ figures, not the cheap ones that came in kidsâ meals.
âWoah,â Peter whispered, almost reverent.
Nightwing laughed. âTold you it was cool. Thatâs one of the harder ones to get.â
Robin's lips were pressed thin. âHmf. It is only Red Robin. A mediocre vigilante.â
Peter clutched the box like it might vanish. He didn't know why he cared about the toy so much, but Peter never wanted to let it go.
Nightwing clicked his tongue. "You would have said that as long as it wasn't you or Batman."
They finished eating. Nightwing paid. Robin returned his empty coffee cup like it was an offering. With the way the cashier took it with shaking hands, Peter was assured they also viewed it as a gift.
When they stepped back outside, Gothamâs night felt a little less intense. AÂ little less like it was pressing in on him.
Peter shoved his hands in his pockets again. His arms trembled with something he refused to acknowledge, a restless energy begging to climb, jump, crawl up the tallest building he could find.
Not in front of them. His thoughts sang.
Safe, his spider-sense counteracted. They were beginning to waken with the food running in his system.
Robin glanced at him. âYou are favoring your right leg.â
âIâm not limping,â Peter said.
âYou are,â Robin insisted.
Nightwing groaned. âRobin, manâlet it go.â
Peter actually laughed. AÂ real one.
Later that night, while Peter was curled up in the jacket Jay gave him, he nuzzled his face into the thick blanket Nightwing had bought on the way back. Peter was hesitant to accept it at first, but Robin's glare was enough to entice him.
As he fell asleep, stomach full and senses tingling, Peter's last thought was about the older vigilante.Â
"He is so Dick," Peter giggled to himself, thinking of the man who pointed him to the old bookstore and gave him a granola bar.Â
The heartbeat definitely gave it away. And the slick ass comments.Â
He cuddled the Red Robin figurine to his chest and fell asleep.
