Peter woke early. This wasn't unusual: he didn't need the standard eight. Could easily get by on five or six without consequence — provided he was eating enough. Milky sunlight seeped through the curtains above Peter's makeshift bed on the couch. The buzz of a city come to life on the Web had his pulse picking up in sympathetic response. That was a mistake. There was no hope of him getting back to sleep now, though he gave it a shot anyway, eyes shut to the world and his connection to the Web firmly severed.
It was an exercise in futility. Peter might be able to join and leave the Web at will, but he couldn't just close his ears. Though a little away from the city, the marina was already active. The sounds of morning life crept in. Boat motors scuttling by and the indistinct conversations of residents or workers or whoever else found themselves in the marina at — he flicked his eyes open to focus on the modish clock on the wall — God, 7:40 in the morning.
Resigned, Peter took the time to stretch, easing away the faint aches that came with sleeping on a mildly uncomfortable and too-small couch (calling it a 'couch' felt like a stretch. It was more bench and less couch, with six-inch foam separating Peter from the internal storage beneath). The rest of the houseboat was silent, except for the ever-present fizzle of electronics and the hollow plick of soft waves against the fibreglass hull. The boat rocked gently every time someone motored past, and Peter watched the pallid reflected light ripple across the ceiling.
He felt… calm. Empty, in the way he often did upon waking — provided there'd been no night visitations of horror or unease to his dreams. Even the hurt of last night felt distant, though he knew himself well enough to predict that the anger would return soon enough. Tempered by a good night's sleep, sure, but not soothed.
But as May used to say: things felt better in the light of day. A bit of sunlight could sooth a multitude of wounds. Mostly, Peter credited that to the 'cooling down' period implicit in the saying, but who knew? Maybe a few rays of sunshine really could have a restorative effect.
Curious, Peter yanked open the curtains — as best he could while still stubbornly lying down — only to be disappointed. Another overcast day, though the blanket of white clouds was thinner than some days. Sunlight stubbornly eked though, desaturated through the lens of water vapour but still strong enough that Peter's eyes watered. He laughed at his own idiocy. Staring up at the sun is the behaviour of mouth-breathers, MJ would have said to him (in fact, Peter thought there was a vague memory of her telling him exactly that…).
MJ… he missed her. Missed them. Burrowed safely beneath the mountains of blankets Tim had piled him with last night ('insulation up here is trash and there are several people who will kill me slowly and painfully if I let you freeze to death'), Peter felt comfortable, for once, to turn over the memories of them in his hands. Inspect the cracks, the flaws, the ribbons of gold that laced through it all… and accept the pain for what it was.
If Constantine was right… there was no going back. Those halcyon days were lost — lost long before Peter tripped into Gotham. No more denial. The loss of everything was on Peter. He could have told them. Could have slipped back into the slot he'd left between MJ and Ned. Cowardice was what stopped him. A paternalistic desire to keep them safe, free them from the dangers that a life with Peter posed. But all he'd done was strip them of their choice…
That was on Peter. That was Peter's cross to bear…
And he didn't know if there was any more weight he could carry… the shadows of May and Ben were heavy enough.
He breathed out raggedly. Imagined the grief seep out of him like tar, sinking down into the shitty foam beneath, to drift off on the Web. It wouldn't leave him — not for long — but in the serenity of morning, Peter thought the burden clinging to the ribbed vault in his chest had loosened its stranglehold on his heart.
With a heavy sigh, he hauled himself up. Peeked out the window. Just outside, a bright yellow hornet crawled sluggishly along the windowsill, its delicate wings vibrating lightly against the plexiglass. It was smart enough to avoid the spider web that may or may not have been abandoned on the far corner of the sill.
Beyond, daylight had dragged Gotham Marina out of its monochromatic gloom and into faded technicolour. Many boats needed a new lick of paint, their former bright blues, greens and yellows bleached by years beneath the sun, but the touches of care remained. Meticulously re-painted floral patterns weaving across hulls and decking. Well-kept pot plants — some even still in bloom despite the fast hurtle into December. Stark white lace curtains obscured the lives inside the boats, but washing lines, sagging under the weight of firmly pegged garments, gave some hint at the marina's residents. There weren't many people out and about, but Peter watched a woman lounge on the front of her boat (what was it called? He knew boats used funny names for things…), face turned towards the reedy sun, a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other, both smoking readily in the crisp air.
It didn't surprise him that Tim enjoyed living here. The eclectic — if tattered — beauty of the place could be a sirens song… Peter was starting to feel that way about Park Row. Knowing Tim, he was sure there had to be hundreds of photographs on that digital camera sitting on the shelf just across from him.
For a while, Peter killed time watching TV, sound dialled down to practically zero so he wouldn't disturb his sleeping hosts. There wasn't much on: the morning news was a state-wide broadcast, not relative to Gotham except for a throwaway piece about some charity event funded by Wayne Industries. Peter listened with half an ear as the two shiny hosts rattled on about the ongoing Black Friday sales and a feel-good piece about a charity that trained service dogs, which led into a cautionary segment about the dangers of buying pets for Christmas when households weren't equipped for additional mouths to feed.
That made Peter think of André, the guy who lived on the third floor. He'd stopped Peter and Jason about a week back, as they returned from Dog's afternoon walk to thank them for the recommendation and show them his girlfriend's new cat. It was very cute, mostly a puff of black and brown fur that regarded them and Dog suspiciously from André's hands.
"Picked him up from that shelter in the Narrows," André told them, scratching the cat's head idly as he spoke. "Depressing as hell though. Lotta sad animals."
Dog, fortunately, hadn't so much as reacted to the cat. Peter was relieved for all their sakes.
Eventually, Peter grew both bored and hungry — he hadn't dared look at his phone, not sure if it would be better or worse if he saw that Jason hadn't contacted him. He rolled off the couch and climbed down the ladder to the landing below, then again down the steep steps into the kitchen. Tim said he was welcome to help himself if he got hungry. Normally, Peter would have let politeness dictate his behaviour and stay away, but since the Waynes (and adjacent) apparently had no sense of privacy or propriety. Peter figured to hell with it.
Conscious of the sound it'd make (but not enough to stop him) Peter filled the kettle on the stove. There were herbal teas in the cupboard above the sink, which if Peter was being honest, he was surprised to even find, but maybe Bernard was a man of greater subtleties than his energy-drink addict of a partner. For a moment, Peter contemplated the coffee machines (two, a percolator and a very shiny espresso machine, perched on top of the other, because of course Tim had both) before deciding he didn't have to be a dick and set about making up a pot for his hosts. The percolator looked like it had a keep warm function, anyway.
Organised chaos very much was the name of the game in Tim's kitchen. The minimal space made it a necessity of course, and there wasn't a single cupboard or shelf that wasn't utilised. Stoneware mugs — nice and solid in the hands — hung from hooks above the sink and Peter lined up three, ready for whenever his hosts emerged. While the percolator gurgled and burped and the kettle fshhhhed over the gas, Peter began the hunt for bowls. He'd spied a box of Peanut Butter Crunch and internally cheered. No need to cook himself a breakfast.
The bedroom door clicked open just as he poured in the milk, and Peter glanced up to see a young man with thick blonde hair, tousled as one would expect from someone who'd just got out of bed, but cut in the length and style of a lot of young men from the twenty-teens. The Beiber cut, Ned called it, and Peter bit back a smile as the man suddenly realised there was someone in the kitchen.
"Uh, babe?" he called back over his shoulder, not tearing his eyes from Peter. "What did I say about bringing a third into our relationship?"
"You didn't?" Tim emerged from the bedroom, hair just as mussed and the rings beneath his eyes only marginally less pronounced than last night. To Peter's mild embarrassment, he caught sight of a half-faded, circular bruise on Tim's neck — low enough most collars would have concealed it.
The young man — who could only be Bernard, judging by the photos on the walls, many of which contained him with an arm slung over Tim's shoulder or waist — frowned deeply. "Really? I could have sworn — maybe it was a dream conversation?"
"You are a fan of those."
"Well, officially, in our real-life conversation, if we're going to have a third, it needs to be someone wildly unobtainable. For the challenge."
"Such as?" Tim's expression was warm and amused as he waved a lazy hand at Peter. He squeezed past Bernard to help himself to what little the percolator had already made. Peter watched enviously as he raised the mug reverently to his nose, rim resting against his lower lip, and breathed in the warm scent.
"I don't know. Someone like Hawkwoman? Or — oh!" Bernard snapped his fingers. "Superboy. The first one."
Tim abruptly choked on his singular mouthful coffee and Bernard made use of the distraction to wink cheekily at Peter.
Unable to hold back a grin, Peter set down the milk and offered his hand. "I'm Peter."
"Bernard," said the young man, crossing the space to shake it eagerly. He peered around Peter to eye the red-faced and spluttering Tim. "You alright, babe?"
"Just — just peachy," Tim wheezed, whacking his chest with a closed fist. There were now coffee stains on his yellow shirt. "That's Jason's Peter."
"Ahh." Bernard regarded Peter again with fresh understanding. "The cult one."
Tim closed his eyes. Had they lived a few more states southwards, Peter imagined he might have asked the Lord to give him strength.
"Gossip," Peter accused lightly
"I promise he's not normally this bad—"
"I'm worse—"
"But," Tim carried on doggedly, joining Peter, "Steph is actually the one to blame there, not me."
"Sure, sure, throw your ex under the bus," Bernard drawled.
"Why shouldn't I? She does it to me all the time!"
"She's prettier than you, for one. It's easier for her to get away with it."
"I don't think you should be telling your boyfriend his ex is prettier."
"There there, dear." Bernard patted Tim on the head with absent condescension. Tim slapped his hand away, glaring over the rim of his mug. He gestured between Peter and the table, then ushered Tim to sit opposite. "I love you for your better features."
Tim's cheeks pinked and Peter snorted.
Gross, he mouthed at Tim when he levelled his glare on Peter instead. But turnabout was fair play as far as Peter was concerned. Case in point: when Tim kicked at him under the seat, Peter kicked back.
Bernard eyed Peter's sad bowl of cereal with contempt and Peter absently remembered Tim saying that Bernard was training to be a chef. He unconsciously tugged the bowl closer. It didn't matter to Peter that they were too sweet and tasted mostly of nothing: it was flavoured richly by nostalgia.
"Think you'll have space for something more substantial? I'm thinking apple fritters."
Tim made a soft sound of pleasure at the announcement. "Yes, please!"
"Was talking to the guest, babe."
"Peter, if you say no, I will be revoking your invitation."
It was Peter's turn to choke on his mouthful of cereal as he laughed. He winced and swallowed the half-chewed Cap'n Crunch down before he spoke. "Yeah? Sounds great, thanks."
Bernard nodded and turned away, flicking off the kettle just before it began to whistle. "You take sugar in your tea? Honey?"
Peter murmured his dissent and Bernard passed over his mug and a little bowl to put the spent teabag in.
"Coffee?" Tim asked hopefully.
"When it's ready, you absolute heathen."
Peter laughed again at the abject heartbreak on Tim's face, and this time chose to dodge when Tim kicked at him. His foot thumped against the boards underneath the seat and Peter snickered at Tim's bitten-off yelp.
"You play footsies with your boyfriend," Bernard scolded without even turning around, "not the boyfriend of the scary brother."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Tim sniffed. "Do you know what he's talking about?"
Peter, wildly amused despite the angry twisting of his stomach to be called Jason's boyfriend, shrugged. "I thought that was a bird crashing into the window upstairs. Didn't you see the feathers?"
"Yes, poor thing," Tim sighed.
Finally, Bernard glanced over his shoulder. He glared at both of them with suspicious eyes. "Birds of a feather, I see."
Tim and Peter shared identical sharp-toothed grins that had Bernard quickly turning back around, muttering to himself about goddamn clones, Christ, as if that lot needed another one in the family.
The cabin fell into a companionable quiet as Peter munched his way through his cereal and Bernard chopped up the apples which had for some reason been hidden in the cupboard under Tim's seat.
"So, Pete, not that you're unwelcome," Bernard asked as he started peeling the apples, "but why areyou playing sleepover? Don't you and Jason live in Crime Alley?"
Tim hissed in warning at the question and Bernard's shoulder's tightened as he realised the faux pas.
"Sorry, you don't have to—"
"It's fine," Peter sighed. He slumped down in the seat, the glossy vinyl squeaking beneath him as he contemplated what to say. Tim had never told him if Bernard was in the know (though Peter could scarcely comprehend how someone like Tim would open up to someone who wasn't), so he kept his answers vague.
"Jason… kept something of mine. Something I'd never even realised he'd taken. And I don't give a shit if he thought he was doing the right thing, he never told me." Peter levelled his stare on Tim. Tim, who Peter was sure would have read Peter's file, just like fucking Batman. "It wasn't his to take."
There was realisation there, whipped away almost instantly, but Peter caught it all the same. Then Tim grimaced apologetically and mouthed a sorry at Peter that did nothing to ease the resurrected anger.
The tea was close to scalding as he drank deeply. It burned all the way down.
"Phew!" Bernard said abruptly, breaking the staring contest between Peter and Tim. He set the pitcher of finished coffee on the table and Tim immediately dragged it across the laminate. "Guess that's more than a flower and a 'sorry' card job, then."
"Hmm." Peter sipped his tea this time and it went down far easier. His mouth twitched with faint amusement at the thought of Jason arriving with a bouquet almost as big as his torso. Tim's eyes narrowed, as if he knew exactly what Peter was thinking. Peter narrowed his eyes right back.
"Say," Bernard piped up again, grinning. "Did Tim ever tell you about the time I nearly got sacrificed to a cult?"
"No," said Peter seriously, and set down his mug to give Bernard his full attention. "But I would love to hear all about it."
Head hung over the coffee pitcher, Tim groaned.
— + —
Dick didn't leave until past ten and Jason was relieved to see the back of him. He loved his stupid brother, he really did, and in hindsight, Jason appreciated Dick's presence last night, but there was a job itching beneath his skin that couldn't be done under Dick's eagle-eyed stare. Not without the risk of exposure.
"And you're sure you don't want me back? I can bring dinner?" Dick was saying and Jason practically shoved him out the door.
"I'm fine," Jason groaned. And he was. Mostly. Sure, there'd been no further response from Peter when Jason tried to message him, but also his messages didn't bounce, which meant Peter hadn't blocked him… that was… something. Fuck. Jason hoped it was something.
"But what if—"
"Dickie, you're being kinda needy right now. It's lame."
"Lame!" The outrage was enough for Jason to take advantage of and successfully push Dick completely out the door. "I'm not lame!"
"Sounds like something a lame person would say."
Dick twisted to scowl at Jason. "See if I come to your rescue next time, asshole."
"That's the spirit!" Jason cheered. "Tell Alfie I said hi!"
And then he shut the door firmly on his brother.
There was more grousing outside, but eventually Dick left. Jason turned to survey the apartment, hand on Dog's head as she leaned heavily against his leg. Besides Peter's comforter thrown over the back of the couch, it could have been like any other day: Jason and Dog coming back from their morning run and Peter having already left for work. Taking advantage of the quiet, Mrs Peng's morning soaps seeped through the floorboards. Overcast sunlight fell through the windows while the dishes sat in a neatish pile in the sink. Clutter radiated with decreasing intensity away from Peter's closed bedroom door. But even with all the signs of their shared apartment, it felt… empty. The sunlight dimmer. The mess less charming.
Jason chewed on the inside of his cheek and debated tidying. It was a more constructive way to spend his time than moping on the fire escape…
Dog whined and butted her head when he stopped the pets. He sighed heavily and rested his head against the door. "Yeah, I miss him too."
Idiot Jason. Should have told Peter sooner. Idiot Dick, for calling him out on the obvious self-sabotage. At least he'd put in the trackers out of concern for Peter's welfare! Soft, impulsive and a flight risk? No shit Jason would do what he could to keep Peter safe. But those too, he should have come clean on. To own up to it now guaranteed another well-deserved blow-up from Peter.
And yeah, okay, Peter might have been spectacular in his anger — taut control and carefully curated words, so unlike anything Jason had seen from him before — but that didn't mean Jason wanted to put his neck on the chopping block and wait for that final severance….
But he had to. It was the least Peter deserved. And if the trackers were the final nail in the coffin of their friendship… Well. There was nothing he could do about that…
He sighed again and pushed off the door. Picked up Peter's sneakers from the rack (tossed in, because Peter was a slob) and dumped them on the dining table.
Now. He knew he had a seam-ripper somewhere…