Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter knew he wasn’t on Titan, and he definitely wasn’t back in New York. Maybe a nearby city? Somewhere remote? He didn’t know. His new legs weren’t helping either—short, awkward, unfamiliar. Somehow, after he got dusted, Peter had ended up back on Earth… but now in his eight-year-old body. That much was clear when he saw his reflection in a broken window. His cheeks were once again round with baby fat, and he even had his gap tooth back. 

As far as Peter walked, he couldn’t find anything familiar. The only comfort he had left was the faint buzz of his spider-sense—still there, still tingling. At least he had some way to protect himself. Maybe Tony would find him, or another Avenger. At least… Peter hoped so. Some thing told him he was very far from home. 

The one thing Peter can say about this city is that it’s weird. He’s already had a few people stare at him from afar, and whisper between themselves. The spider tingle also never went away, as if it was always sensing danger. His anxiety crept up as he wandered through the maze of alleyways. The walls were too close. The dumpsters all looked the same. Hadn’t he passed that graffiti tag before?

Peter grunted as he slumped down, back against the icy brick wall. His clothes, the ones under his suit when he got dusted, offered little warmth. His oversized shirt drooped off one shoulder, and he’d pulled the drawstring on his sweatpants as tight as it would go just to keep them up. He’d ditched his shoes an hour ago, they were too big to run in. Risky, yeah. But nothing his healing factor couldn’t handle. 

Though, it was a little slower than usual. Peter could still feel the pain of when he stepped on that broken glass a few locks ago. 

Peter grunted as he sat down, the wall cold against his back. His clothes, the ones that were under his suit when he got dusted, offered little heat. His shirt hung off one shoulder, and he had to pull the drawstrings all the way for them not to fall down. Peter ditched the shoes a while ago, too big in case he needed to run. A little unsafe, but nothing his healing factor couldn’t fix. 

He was about to dose off when the tingle sent a little jolt through his spine. Peter looked to where he sensed the danger on his right, and saw a man with a brown overcoat covering his body. He also had a red bandana over his face, but Peter knew the man was giving him a yellow smile. The man walked over a few steps, but stopped when Petter tensed up. 

“Hey Puppy..” The man squatted down, but still towered over him,”Come here, I won’t hurt you.” Creepy guy drawled  out, and Peter could smell his stench from where he sat a few feet away. It smelled like alcohol, and heavy smoke. Peter coughed as the man pulled his collar down, which seemed to make the smell stronger. 

Maybe this man had a smell power? Not one Peter has ever seen, but not the weirdest. He remembers the crazy stories the other Avengers told him when they took down Hydra bases’. He loved it when Steve Sam told them, they were the best story tellers. 

“Come on pup, submit to the Alpha.” Creepy Guy started to slowly crawl forward, the smell becoming more overwhelming as he moved towards Peter. 

Ok, now this guy is starting to really creep him out. Not only was his stench giving Peter a headache, but now the man is referring to himself as “alpha” like a middle school teen. Peter doesn’t hesitate to bolt down the alley, Creepy Guy close behind. He could hear him shouting other words that concerned Peter. Like Pup, Puppy, submit, Alpha, brat. The list goes on. 

It wasn’t until Peter ran into a dead end when he really knew he was screwed. He tried sticking  to the walls so he could climb away, but his spider powers weren’t working. It’s as if everything went silent. 

“Oh, The Boss will have fun breaking you! You’re faster than the others.” Creepy Guy’s bandana was gone, showing a set of fangs as he growled at Peter. Yellow teeth shined white in the moon light, and Peter was stuck in place, as if something in him told him not to move. Was this what fight or flight was? Peter has seen a lot of danger, why now is he freezing! He’d faced Thanos, aliens, giant robots… so why now? Why couldn’t he move! MOVE!!!

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” A man dropped from the rooftop, red helmet, brown leather jacket. He landed in a smooth roll, came up with two pistols drawn and pointed directly at Creepy Guy.

Peter was still frozen, his breathing quick and raspy. He stood there as the two adults faced off, neither of them moving a muscle. Both growled, the new guy with a more robotic tone, as if he was using a modulator to mask his real voice. Peter would have been geeking out if he wasn’t still frozen in place. 

“Back off Hood, my pup was just getting rowdy. We were just about to head back inside.” Creepy Guy smirked, and looked over Hood’s shoulder at Peter, “ Come on sport, let’s go home! You know pups are not allowed out past curfew!” Creepy shouted like he knew Peter, even crossing his arms like a disappointed parent. Though, he never stopped smiling, even baring his teeth at Hood. 

Peter still couldn’t move, besides the shaking of his shorter legs. He never looked away from the yellow eyes of Creepy Guy, too afraid to blink and let the man get closer. Even as the other man, Hood, stood between them with guns pointed at Creepy, Peter kept eye contact. 

“You know him kid?” Hood gave the slightest head tilt towards Peter. His voice was more gentle when he asked, but still held firm. Peter knew this tone with Aunt May when she was frustrated. It seemed to slap some sense into him as well as he shook his head to answer. 

Hood hummed, clicking the safety off of both guns,”Didn’t think so.” He growled low, freaking both Creepy Guy and Peter out,“I thought Black Mask was done hunting down new recruits. I guess I have to send a clearer message.” This made Creepy Guy finally lose his smile. Peter almost let out a breath of relief as he stumbled back a few steps. 

Hood sighed as he suddenly shot Creepy Guy in the knee, turning towards Peter as the man fell with a loud scream. 

Hood blocked all of Peter’s view, putting his guns back into the holsters so he could pull off his jacket. The helmeted man wrapped Peter Up in the leather material, almost bundling him. It smelled like a campfire, and flour. Peter breathed in the comforting scent. Anything to get the rotten stench of Creepy Guy out of his nose. Hood seemed to encourage it, pushing the collar of the jacket against Peter’s face. 

“Sit, and stay here.” Hood gently pushed Peter down by his shoulders, and then took off his red helmet to set it in Peter’s lap. He looked up at the man to see a domino mask over his eyes, and a white streak in his black hair. There was also a small smile, which Peter gave back slightly. 

“Hold on to this for me, Ok.” Hood patted the helmet in Peter’s lap,”I’ll come back for it, so don’t worry.” Hood rubbed a thumb across Peter’s cheek. He must have started crying at some point. Peter nodded, and hugged the helmet against his stomach. 

Hood gave Peter one last reassuring pat on the head, a silent gesture of comfort, before turning his attention to the sobbing man nearby. Creepy had managed to inch forward with a pathetic attempt at an army crawl during their brief pause, leaving a smear of grime in his wake. But Hood wasn’t interested in his desperation. He seemed to ignore the pitiful, stammered pleas that spilled from the man’s trembling lips, his expression hard and unreadable as he grabbed Creepy Guy by the collar and began dragging him out of the alley without another word.

Peter stayed where he was, frozen. His knees tucked to his chest, hands gripping tightly at the helmet as it grounded him in reality. All he could do was stare, wide-eyed and silent, watching as the scene played out like something out of a nightmare. His thoughts raced, but none of them made sense. What just happened? What almost happened? And why did it feel like the world had suddenly shifted beneath his feet?

…

Jason could barely hold the green haze at bay, fury clawing at the edges of his vision as he dragged the Black Mask goon down the alley, far enough from the small pup’s sensitive ears. Every step felt like a battle against his instincts, which were roaring louder than ever. 

This wasn’t just going to be another message. It had to be louder, bloodier, unforgettable. Black Mask crossed the line too far with his recruitment. No one laid a hand on a pup in his territory and walked away unscathed. Especially not a pup this young, this vulnerable. Jason could still remember the wide eyes full of fear. The boy he’d just saved from becoming the next failed heir to Black Mask’s criminal empire couldn’t have been more than six. 

Jason’s omega instincts surged through him like wildfire, a primal force screaming at him to make this bastard pay—to make it hurt . His fists clenched, knuckles cracking with anticipation. He needed to end this quickly, violently, and get back to the boy, to wrap him in his jacket and carry him to Bruce. Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. Somewhere that wasn’t this .

Yes, Bruce is good Alpha. Protect young pup in nest…..

Dick could come too, give Pup warmth…

Jason shook his head sharply, trying to snap himself back into focus. He couldn't afford to lose control, not yet. The pup was safe, he reminded himself firmly. He’d left the kid huddled in his jacket, tucked away with Jason’s own helmet in his arms like a shield. Anyone with half a brain would recognize his helmet and think twice before getting anywhere near the boy. No one in their right mind would challenge the Red Hood. Not now. At least… no one with bad intentions.

…

Peter felt bad from moving where Hood told him to stay, but these people won’t go away! Only a few minutes had passed since Hood had dragged the Creepy Man away, yet two more strangers had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. They’d dropped from the rooftops like shadows, just like Hood had, landing with soft thuds that made Peter flinch. One of them was dressed in solid black, with a cape and a pointed cowl shaped like a bat. Something about him radiated authority, and Peter felt a shiver of unease crawl up his spine. He tightened his grip on the red helmet, holding it close to his chest like it could somehow protect him, like a shield between him and the unknown.

Then the second man had moved too fast. He wore a full-body suit in black and electric blue, and before Peter could even think, the man lunged toward him. Instinct took over. Peter yelped and darted away, slipping behind a busted, rust-covered dumpster. His heart pounded in his ears, loud and frantic, and the helmet in his arms felt heavier now, like it was anchoring him to the only thing that made sense. Since then, the two men had been talking softly, crouching low and holding their hands out like they were trying to lure a scared animal from a hiding spot. 

His small chest heaved as fear and frustration swelled up all at once, too big to hold back. A strangled cry broke from his throat. Thin, high-pitched, and heart-wrenching. It wasn’t the kind of sound Peter had ever made before, but it tore through the air like instinct. Like a wounded fawn calling desperately for its mother. The two figures' words cut off mid-sentence. Uneasy silence settled around them.

Peter whimpered again, a second cry that trembled on the edge of panic.

Then, just when the air felt too still, too tight, he heard it. A familiar voice, low and firm, edged with something protective and furious all at once.

“Move. Away. From. My. Pup”

Chapter Text

Bruce had only seen a feral Omega once in his life. It was through the grainy lens of a television screen as the news showed what had happened. Bruce was ten years old, curled up on the couch between his parents. The anchor’s tone was unusually grave, the footage shaky and dim, recorded on someone's phone in the dead of night. According to the report, a group of intoxicated men had cornered an Omega mother and her toddler outside a convenience store. What started as harassment quickly turned darker. One of the men had grabbed the child, trying to yank the toddler away from her.

The camera only caught fragments, flashes of movement, guttural sounds that didn’t seem human. The broadcast blurred out most of the footage, but even so, the violence was palpable. Martha had covered Bruce’s eyes, quickly changing the channel. His father bundled them up in a blanket, refreshing Bruce’s pack scent. 

It wasn’t rare that people went feral, it was just unfortunate. Nothing could get a person out of such a state unless the reason for the person who went feral was solved. In the aftermath of the Omega mother, the legal system had been swift and decisive. Laws existed for a reason, to protect those most vulnerable. The Omega mother was not charged. No court would punish someone defending their child from attempted abduction. Had the drunks survived, they would have faced life sentences. Kidnapping an Omega’s pup was one of the few crimes still met with near-universal outrage.

Even now, years later, Bruce could still remember that footage. Not the gore, not the chaos, but the raw, feral intensity of a parent protecting their child. It was terrifying. It was awe-inspiring. And it was something he never forgot. 

Which is why when Red Hood showed up in the alleyway, fangs barred and body tense, Bruce didn’t hesitate. The Pup’s wail must have sent the Omega running back. Batman reached out instinctively, placing a firm hand on Nightwing’s chest and pulling them both back a few steps. It hurt the Alpha inside him to leave a frightened pup. Especially one that was claimed by one of his sons. Red Hood wouldn’t intentionally harm them (at least not without any reason), but he was still feral. Only the pup behind the dumpster could help Hood out of this state. 

“We were just watching over the puppy, Red Hood,” Bruce said, his voice low and steady, rumbling with deliberate calm. The sound was an Alpha’s call, a vibration that rolled from deep in his chest like distant thunder. It wasn’t a challenge or a command. It was a promise: peace, safety, no threat here. He kept his posture relaxed, hands slightly raised to show he wasn’t going to interfere. 

He motioned silently for Dick to follow his lead. Nightwing, ever quick on the uptake, dipped his head and softened his stance, letting out a low mimic of the Alpha rumble. As a Beta, he didn’t carry the same weight of dominance or protection, but Betas were unique in their adaptability. They could echo the vocal cues of other dynamics well enough to lend support in situations like this—offering calm in the same frequency, a supportive harmony instead of a rival chord. Together, their rumbles filled the alleyway like warm air before a storm breaks.

Bruce’s words were chosen carefully, purposefully. “We could smell them a few blocks down,” he added, keeping his tone even, his scent neutral, unthreatening. Just facts. Just the truth. A reassurance that they hadn’t followed to corner or confront, only to guard.

Hood seemed to relax a bit as he walked towards the dumpster to where the pup was hiding. Quiet wails could be heard, silent little calls for help. If it wasn’t for the curfew Red Hood set in place in crime alley, more people would have been approaching the young boy. The anti-hero sends out calming pheromones, and purrs to try and lure the pup out. Bruce could faintly hear words being spoken between them. 

Nightwing stood beside him, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, his body taut with barely restrained energy. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and his jaw worked as he struggled to keep himself still. Every instinct in the Beta screamed to step forward, to do something, to comfort the situation. 

But Batman caught the movement and immediately released a low, warning huff—quiet but firm, the kind of sound that cut through noise and carried weight. It wasn’t aggressive, just enough to signal stand down .

Dick stiffened slightly at the sound, but didn’t argue. He knew what Bruce was saying without a word. They couldn’t afford to push too hard, not now. The boy was already terrified, wide eyes locked on the older men, body half-tucked in Jason’s arms. The jacket was still bundled around him, the helmet placed aside. Hood was nuzzling any part he could get too, which made Bruce’s heart swell. It wasn’t normal for his second eldest to show fondness, barely joining them in the pack nest anymore. Hopefully this pup will help Jason heal. 

The pup in question was staring at them over Jason’s shoulder, eyes wide. One wrong move, one raised voice or sudden motion, and the pup would bolt again.

And he already had once.

Dick’s shoulders hunched a little with the memory. He hadn’t meant to scare the kid. He’d just been trying to help, trying to check him for injuries, but the moment he reached out, the boy had flinched and darted behind the dumpster for shelter. Bruce wasn’t willing to repeat that mistake. Not tonight.

So they stayed still—tall, unmoving, projecting calm into the air. No cape rustling, no raised voice, no sudden movement. Just presence. The kind of steady, grounding presence that said: You’re safe. We’re not here to hurt you.

Because right now, the only thing more fragile than the small boy was the thread of trust they were trying not to break.

…

 Peter tried not to struggle in Hood’s, Red Hood?, lap. The man was making a weird, low purring sound, which Peter found oddly calming. They were both sitting on the cold concrete now, helmet placed to the side. His legs were curled into himself, tucked between Red Hood’s knees, and the man’s gloved hand was gently stroking through his tangled hair. Hood dipped his head and nuzzled the crown of Peter’s, breathing in deeply, and then again, slower this time, like he was trying to figure something out. The purring turned into a soft growl the longer Hood inspected Peter’s head and neck. 

Peter didn’t understand, but the way the man’s muscles tensed around him afterward made it clear he hadn’t liked what he’d smelled. Or maybe the lack thereof? There was no anger in the reaction, just a protective sort of grief, like he’d just confirmed something he’d hoped wasn’t true. Without a word, Hood shifted him carefully, guiding Peter’s face into the crook of his neck, tucking him close. The scent there was warm, campfire, flour, and something smoky. Just like the jacket that was still tucked around him. It made Peter’s chest unclench a little as he let out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding. 

“Pup safe now… bad guy gone.” The adult whispered, placing a kiss on top of Peter’s head. Hood turned, standing with Peter in his arms. One hand was placed on his head, cradling his skull, the other supporting his bottom. 

“Needs pack scent,” Red Hood said simply, his voice rough but certain as he glanced up at the other two men standing nearby. It wasn’t a request to Peter. It was instinct, delivered with quiet authority. Peter blinked up at him, still tucked safely in his lap, the words making no sense to his tired, frightened brain. Pack? What did that even mean? First Pup, now this! 

He glanced toward the others, both of whom were dressed in full hero suits—one in a sleek, dark ensemble with a glowing blue symbol on his chest, the other in solid black with a stern jaw and the kind of silence that made Peter nervous. They looked like heroes. They had to be heroes. So why didn’t Peter recognize them? 

The one in black stepped forward first. His cape fluttered slightly with the motion, but his movements were slow, deliberate, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. He gave a short nod to Red Hood—a silent exchange that seemed to carry a full conversation—and then slowly peeled off one of his gloves.

Peter tensed as the man crouched beside them. His hand came up, and Peter flinched before it could reach him, instinctively shrinking deeper into Hood’s arms. The reaction was immediate. Red Hood tightened his hold, one arm wrapping more securely around Peter’s back as he let out a low, rumbling purr, deeper than before. 

“Shhh, Pup. safe.” Hood whispered into his ear,”Let me show you.” He pressed his cheek against Peter’s before leaning into the bare hand. The other hummed with a smile as he rubbed his wrist against Hood’s forehead, cheeks, and neck. 

Peter watched, still confused. Though the tension in Peter’s shoulders started to ease, his head going slightly fuzzy. 

Hood adjusted him with practiced ease, bouncing him gently like he was a fussy toddler instead of a scared, skinny boy with scraped knees and wide eyes. Peter didn’t understand why it helped, but it did. The rhythm, the warmth, the steady heartbeat under his cheek. It was like some long-lost part of him was finally being soothed.

The ungloved hand finally reached his head, moving with such careful tenderness that Peter hardly registered the touch at first. Just fingers brushing his hair, slow and noninvasive. The man's scent, smoke and rain and something faintly earthy mingled with Red Hood’s, and Peter felt the strangest sense of being surrounded. It was better than any blanket he’s ever been swaddled in, warm and fluffy. He couldn’t help but to finally rest, hearing faint shushing as he fell asleep against the armored chest.

Chapter Text

Jason was so happy. Not only has his pack Alpha accepted the puppy he found, but they were on the way to the pack nest! Jason’s puppy was going to meet the whole pack! The lonely, packless stench would once and for all be gone. 

Now if only Dick-head would stop trying to steal said puppy from his arms. 

“For the last time,” Jason growled through clenched teeth, shifting the pup protectively in his arms as he nipped at the hand reaching from the passenger seat, “ stop trying to steal him. ” His head is still slightly fuzzy from the feral moment he just had. Hopefully his message went through. The omega inside him grinned at the remembrance of beating the man to death. Whatever Bruce didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. 

“I’m not stealing him,” Dick said, all innocence and raised eyebrows, even as he reached out again. “I just want to hold him. For, you know, bonding purposes.” Dick gave Jason a pout, releasing sad pheromones into the moving vehicle. Bruce gave his eldest a light growl, a warning to quit antagonizing his brother. 

“You can wait til’ I get him adjusted into the nest bird brain,” Jason snapped, twisting away so the kid stayed firmly pressed to his chest. “You’ve already had your shot at scenting the pup. Back off.”

Dick gave him an exaggerated pout. “He likes me.” 

Jason just rolled his eyes, and put his attention on the child in his arms. Only his head peeked out, resting against Jason’s chest, rising and falling with each careful breath. Constant puppy purrs coming in quiet huffs. His features were delicate and pinched from exhaustion, but even with the dirt and dried tears smudging his cheeks, Jason couldn’t help but think: cutest damn pup I’ve ever seen. 

The kid had a mop of brown hair, messy and slightly curly at the ends, greasy from neglect, sure, but Jason could already picture it clean and soft after a proper bath, probably fluffing up in all directions. A tiny curl kept falling over the boy’s forehead, and Jason gently brushed it aside with a gloved finger, careful not to wake him.

There was a faint flush on the boy’s cheeks, a soft pink that might’ve been from the cold, or maybe something else. Jason frowned slightly. It wasn’t warm enough for him to be overheating, but the kid had been through a lot. Fear, adrenaline, trauma—it could all take a toll on a young body. Jason wasn’t taking any chances.

Alfred’ll know what to do. There was no doubt that the Beta was getting the manor set up for the new pack member, for it wasn't the first time a hurt puppy was being brought into the manor unexpectedly. 

The pup in Jason’s arms started to shift, A soft, incoherent mumble escaped the kid’s lips, and Jason instinctively adjusted his grip, making sure the pup didn’t tumble out of the blanket Bruce had insisted he use instead of Jason’s own jacket. The blanket, warm but stiff and impersonal, had already begun to slip from the boy’s shoulders as he shifted onto Jason’s opposite side, burrowing his face sleepily against the crook of Jason’s neck. The little nose, instinctively sniffing Jason’s scent gland. 

The Omega in his head purred, and Jason sent out a happy chuff to encourage the behavior. A little leg kicked out in protest as the blanket tangled around it, and Jason huffed a breath, catching the corner before it fell completely. He rewrapped it around the boy as best he could without waking him fully.

Then came the words. Mumbled, barely audible, but enough to send a ripple through Jason’s chest and his to curl slightly. 

“Mmm… Mr. Stark… I don’t wanna…” The boy’s voice was soft, thick with sleep and slurred with emotion, but the name cut through the air like a knife. Jason stilled, curling his body more around the young pup. Dick and Bruce looked back at him through the rear view mirror, listening in on the quiet whimpers.

The kid’s brow furrowed, his body giving a slight shiver, as if chased by something invisible. His fingers curled tighter into Jason’s armor, clutching like he was afraid it might vanish. His breathing hitched. 

“I don’t want to go… Mr. Stark…”

The name was spoken again, this time tinged with something raw, fear maybe. Grief. Jason felt it like a punch to the gut. Whoever Mr. Stark was, he clearly meant something to the kid—someone important, someone safe. Someone who wasn’t there. Maybe it was the kid’s pack? That thought made his heart hurt more, and knew by the grunt from the driver seat that Bruce was going to research this “Stark” whenever he got the chance. 

Jason exhaled slowly, instinct taking over. He rocked the pup gently, letting his body move in a slow, steady rhythm. One hand cradled the back of the kid’s head, fingers threading carefully through his messy hair, while the other arm wrapped tighter around his middle. The Omega’s arms cocooning him in warmth and safety as he shushed the whimpers with purrs. 

“You’re not going anywhere, kid,” Jason murmured under his breath, voice low and firm. “You’re safe now. I got you.” He released the scent of calming, while Dick sent out the chirps of safe omega. Beta was turned in his seat, staring at the two. 

The pup didn’t respond, not really, but the tension in his body eased just a little. He wasn’t fully awake—but he wasn’t trapped in the nightmare anymore either. Jason held him closer, jaw tightening with quiet resolve.

Whoever this Mr. Stark was, he hadn’t been there when the kid needed him most.

But Jason was here now.

And he wasn’t letting go.

…

Peter woke slowly, blinking against the gentle pull of sleep that still clung to his limbs. For the first time in what felt like forever, there were no nightmares waiting to drag him under, no sharp jolt of panic snapping him awake. No Ned frantically calling him, warning him of some sort of robbery. Just… peace. A soft, warm haze that wrapped around him like a blanket.

He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, the kind of big, bone-deep yawn that made his jaw click. His body felt oddly heavy, but not in a bad way, more like the naps he was forced to take as a kid. His eyelids fluttered open and then drifted shut again, his brain lagging behind the rest of him.

Weird, he thought vaguely. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.

Usually, Aunt May had to resort to threats to get him to bed—cutting the Wi-Fi, hiding his charger, even physically dragging him away from his computer. Even then, sleep was never easy. He’d lie awake for hours, thoughts running in a hundred directions, shoulders curled with tension, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.

The pillow beneath his cheek was warm and solid, not like his lumpy old one at home. It rose and fell slightly beneath him in a slow, steady rhythm, like—

Peter blinked……Wait.

Pillows don’t breathe.

His brow furrowed as realization started to trickle in. Slowly, cautiously, he lifted his head, trying not to disturb whatever—or whoever —was beneath him. His heart thudded in his chest, the fog of sleep evaporating in an instant.

He glanced around, and froze. Memories of last night came rushing back. He wasn’t on Titan anymore, he was eight years old again, Creepy Guy, and …… Red Hood. 

Peter sat up slowly, as he moved, something warm and heavy slipped from his back. An arm he hadn’t even realized had been wrapped around him. He winced as the man below him turned over. With a low grunt, he rolled to the side, one arm blindly reaching out. Before Peter could react, he was pulled right back down. The world tilted, and then Peter found himself snugly pressed against a firm chest again, his face tucked just beneath a chin, arms wrapped securely around him, and a deep breath ruffled his hair.

“Five more minutes, baby,” came the voice, low and gravelly, slurred slightly with sleep. “Dick - head isn’t even up yet…”

Peter’s eyes went wide, heart stuttering in his chest.

Baby?! He knew he was eight, but baby was pushing it!!!

He opened his mouth to protest, but the words died in his throat as the sound started again. That strange, low purring he remembered from the night before. It wasn’t exactly a noise, more like a hum buried in the man’s chest, vibrating softly against Peter’s cheek. It reverberated through him like some subconscious lullaby. It made his head feel fuzzy and his shoulders loosen just a little, despite the confusion twisting in his stomach.

Peter blinked again, unsure of what was more disorienting. Waking up in a stranger’s arms, the unexpected comfort, or being called baby by someone who just yesterday he wasn’t even sure he knew. 

“Mmm, maybe he’s just a morning person. Unlike you, Todd,” a voice drawled lazily from somewhere beside Peter, followed by a soft grunt of amusement.

Peter turned his head toward the voice, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Nestled back-to-back with another adult figure How many people were in this bed? How big was this bed! was a kid with sharp black hair that curled slightly at the ends and piercing green eyes that practically glowed against his tanned skin. The kid looked like he’d been carved from stone. Rigid posture, arms crossed, and a permanent scowl fixed on his face.

The kid's scowl deepened, eyes narrowing on him with clear disapproval. Peter flinched slightly, suddenly unsure. Had he done something wrong? “Tt,” the kid muttered, clicking his tongue in irritation. “Even with a full night, you still don’t smell like pack.”

Peter stiffened. What?

Before he could respond, the kid moved, scooting closer with the smooth, practiced confidence of someone who didn’t ask permission before invading personal space. Panic began to bubble in Peter’s chest. He leaned back instinctively, only to bump into the stranger’s chest again, the man behind him still rumbling a soft, steady purr. 

“W-Wait — what are you —?”

Peter barely had time to react before a warm hand was gently pressed against his cheek, fingers cool against his skin. The kid didn’t say anything at first, simply inspecting him with narrowed eyes, as if Peter were something fragile—or defective.

“The blanket we all scented must not have been saturated enough,” the boy huffed, as if that were an obvious and terrible oversight. His tone was clipped, vaguely offended on behalf of some unspoken rule. Without waiting for input, he lifted his wrist and began rubbing it deliberately along Peter’s cheek, then his jawline, even against the side of his neck.

Peter sat frozen, wide-eyed. The sensation wasn’t painful. It was soft, even strangely comforting, but also incredibly weird. The boy's wrist was warm and smelled faintly of pine, leather. 

“Uhm… what are you doing ?”

The kid raised an eyebrow like the question was ridiculous. “Scenting you. You’ll cause anxiety in the den if you keep smelling like an outsider.” As if that explained everything.

Peter opened his mouth, then closed it again. This was the weirdest morning he’s ever had, and he once caught Steve and Bucky making out in the gym at the Avenger Tower. 

“Be nice, Damian,” came a calm, commanding voice from across the room. It was deep and smooth, with the quiet weight of authority behind it. Peter’s gaze snapped toward the source and landed on a man sitting in a large leather armchair by the door. With neatly combed black hair and piercing blue eyes that flicked up briefly from the newspaper he held. 

“The pup just woke up in a new nest,” the man continued, folding the paper with quiet precision and setting it on the small table beside him. “He’s probably just adjusting. No need to smother him all at once.”

Peter blinked. Nest? Pup? Scenting? What even—?

“I’m not wrong, Father,” Damian said stiffly, sitting up with the air of someone who believed he never was. “His skin must be like Drake’s, less absorbent than normal.” The boy’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if Peter were a particularly stubborn chemistry project. He folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “We should bring out the necklace. That way our scent can linger longer, even if his skin is slow to hold it.”

Peter didn’t have a clue what that meant, but the way everyone seemed to be talking about him like he wasn’t there made him shift uncomfortably in the stranger’s hold (He has yet to learn his name).Though, he just kept purring and gently rubbing Peter’s back like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Before Peter could even think of asking what this “necklace” was, a scoff came from somewhere near the headboard. “That thing is embarrassing to wear,” another voice muttered, thick with teenage disdain. “He doesn’t need some stupid trinket. We just need to scent him more often.”

Another figure stirred in the bed, sitting up and pushing tousled black hair out of his eyes. He looked older than Damian but younger than Jason—maybe sixteen or seventeen—with the same striking blue eyes and sharp features. He glared at Damian like they were on the brink of a years-long sibling rivalry that was seconds from reigniting.

Peter felt his stomach twist. Another one? How many black-haired, blue-eyed vigilantes were there in this house?

Peter yelped softly as his balance shifted, instinctively grabbing onto the arm wrapped around his middle. The sudden movement nearly knocked the teen beside them (Drake, maybe?) off the edge of the massive bed.

“No peace, I swear,” the man muttered with a dramatic huff, dragging a hand down his face like he was already done with the day. Then, with absolutely no warning , he passed Peter over to the teen behind him like he was a sleepy kitten being handed to a babysitter.

“Wait—wait what—?!”

Peter’s eyes widened, but the teen still hugged him to his chest all the same. “I need to shit, I'll be back pup.” The stranger looked him in the eye, and patted his hair. 

…Hood? 

Peter stared after him, jaw slightly slack. What just happened? He didn’t get long to ponder it. Before he could even form another thought, something soft pressed against the side of his neck—again. This time it was Drake’s wrist, rubbing firmly along the line of his throat and jaw.

Peter exhaled sharply through his nose in frustration. “ Seriously? Again?”

He reached up with both hands and pushed the wrist away, not harshly, but with a clear enough already kind of energy. His patience, frayed thin from confusion and exhaustion, was now dangling by a thread. Drake blinked down at him, raising an eyebrow in mild surprise. Peter didn’t see the slight empathy however as the teen stopped at Peter’s flinch. 

“Stop doing that! Why is everyone rubbing up on me?! And stop calling me names!” Peter’s patience ran thin. His voice gave out a slight growl, and his lips instinctively curled as he stared at everyone sitting up on the bed. 

“You got claimed by one of our pack Omegas,” the man in the chair said evenly as he stood and stepped closer, “And since we couldn’t smell another claim, we brought you back to our pack nest for safety.”

Omega? Pack nest? He didn't understand. He didn't want to understand. None of this made sense. He was a person, not some stray puppy someone found in an alley. His heart pounded as the man approached and sat on the edge of the bed, lowering himself to Peter’s level. But the pressure of everything, the unfamiliar words, the strange house, the strange people, and the feeling that his life had somehow changed without his permission.

“I don’t know what any of that means!” Peter shouted, his voice shaking as the confusion and fear inside finally spilled over. His brain must also have the mental capacity of an eight year old as a few tears escape. Peter didn’t mean to but the hot sting of tears welled up behind his eyes anyway, escaping despite his efforts to hold them back.

Without thinking, he pressed closer into Drake’s chest, instinctively seeking comfort. He wasn’t even sure why, but his body was acting on something older than logic. Drake, to his credit, didn’t hesitate. He pulled Peter close, one arm wrapping protectively around the boy’s shoulders while the other gently cradled the back of his head, murmuring something low and soothing into his hair. 

Peter just pretended it was Tony. He wanted Aunt May……

Chapter Text

Alfred was used to the initiation of introducing a new pack member. All of the young masters under Bruce’s hair have all been cuddled in the Pack room to be scented. Damian’s was far over due in Alfred’s opinion, but was proud nonetheless of his grandson. 

Though, Alfred was never one to participate in the pack scenting. He would rather be useful in a resourceful way by packing the small refrigerator, cleaning the room of any trash, and making sure everyone is fed in the morning. 

Which is what he was set to do now. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting soft golden light into the hallway as Alfred moved quietly through the manor. The pack room door was closed, sealed off from the rest of the house like a bubble of warmth and scent. Everyone, except for Duke and Cassandra, who were currently on patrol, was still inside. The two had lost the game of rock paper scissors on who would do dawn patrol. 

The soft glow of the Pack room's overhead lighting poured out through the narrow crack of the door, a thin sliver of artificial brightness against the dim, natural morning light filtering through the hallway. Alfred’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. That light shouldn’t have been on—at this hour, the room was typically quiet, still blanketed in the warmth of tangled limbs, shared breath, and the low, soothing hum of sleep. It was only 8 a.m., after all. 

Carefully, Alfred reached for the doorknob, years of experience guiding his hand to twist it silently. The door creaked open just an inch at first, and as he pushed it wider, the shift in the air was immediate. The moment the door cracked open, Alfred could feel the emotional pressure inside the room. 

Bruce was perched on the edge of the massive bed, just outside the main tangle of limbs and blankets that made up the heart of the pack nest. His posture was deceptively relaxed. Broad shoulders slightly hunched, hands resting loosely on his knees. A low, steady rumble vibrated in his chest. A call meant to sooth pack members. 

Tim and Damian were at the center of the bed, crouched low near the newest arrival. The pup was curled in on himself, little shoulders trembling with restrained sobs. Silent tears streaked down his cheeks. Tim offered quiet reassurances, murmuring in a low tone while his hand gently carded through the boy’s mussed brown curls. Damian, despite his usually sharp demeanor, had settled into a posture that was surprisingly patient. He wasn’t growling or correcting or asserting. Instead, he rubbed a familiar piece of cloth, probably one of his own shirts, against the pup’s shoulder and cheek, trying to reintroduce the pack’s scent without overwhelming him again.

At the far side of the bed, Dick remained blissfully unaware of the emotional turmoil around him, snoring softly with his back to the rest of the group. One leg was dangling off the edge of the mattress, his blanket only half covering him. It was impressive, really, how deeply that man could sleep in the middle of an emotional hurricane.

Then, a quiet sound broke through the space.

“Ahem.”

A polite, but purposeful cough echoed from the doorway. Alfred stood just inside the room, one gloved hand raised to his mouth. The soft lighting framed him like some dignified guardian angel of order, and the moment his presence registered, a subtle shift rippled through the nest.

Bruce’s rumble tapered off. Tim straightened slightly. Damian sat back on his heels with a scowl, as if annoyed at being caught in a mid-sentimental act. Even the pup looked toward the butler, red-rimmed eyes blinking uncertainly, his tiny body tensed as they made contact. 

“Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Are there any last-minute requests?” Alfred announced gently from his place near the doorway, his voice soft enough not to startle but firm enough to break through the tension that still lingered in the nest. He surveyed the room with a practiced eye, noting the tangled mess of limbs, tousled hair, and sleepy expressions. His gaze softened just a fraction when it landed on the boy. Small, tense, and wide-eyed in the center of it all.

He offered a brief smile, directed solely at the pup who had yet to share his name. The smile wasn’t overly warm—Alfred wasn’t the coddling type—but it held the promise of patience and safety. It was a look that had calmed many troubled souls before, and it had lost none of its power.

“No, Alfred. Thank you,” Bruce replied with a nod, his tone calm but laced with quiet gratitude. He glanced over at the pup, who was currently curled into Tim’s side, shoulders drawn up like a scared animal. “We’ll be down shortly, once we’ve gotten the pup situated.”

Alfred hummed in acknowledgment, taking a few steps further into the room. His keen eyes didn’t miss the way the child winced away from contact, even the light brushing of a wrist or hand near his skin. Every attempt to scent him, however gentle, had been met with subtle shivers or flinches. The boy’s body language spoke volumes: overstimulated, overwhelmed, and likely running on fumes.

“It would seem,” Alfred began, voice low as he crouched slightly at the edge of the bed, “that the new young master has had quite enough scenting for one morning. I believe a change of environment, along with some fluids and nourishment, may serve him better.”

Though the statement was phrased with his usual polite formality, there was no room for debate. The butler’s instincts, carefully honed and rarely wrong, had spoken.

No one protested. Even Damian, who had looked ready to launch into another lecture about scent bonding, paused. After a beat, he rose to his knees and tugged one of the soft, fleece-lined blankets from the center of the nest. With more care than he’d ever admit aloud, Damian draped it over the boy’s shoulders, gently adjusting it so that it bundled around his frame without smothering him.

With a gentle but practiced motion, Alfred leaned forward and slid his arms beneath the boy. Startled, his muscles tensing in resistance, but Alfred simply held still, waiting until the child realized he wasn’t being yanked or manhandled. After a beat, He gave in with a quiet, shuddering breath, allowing himself to be lifted.

The pup was far too light. Alfred frowned faintly but said nothing, adjusting the blanket again to ensure it didn’t slip from the boy’s shoulders.

“I’ll see to it that he gets some tea. Perhaps something warm with honey,” the butler murmured more to himself than anyone else, already turning toward the door with his precious bundle in hand. He could hear the others starting to talk as Alfred took the pup to the kitchen. 

“What should I call you, putting a name to a face is always nice.” Alfred watched the pup wipe his nose with the blanket, eyes dilating at the scent a bit. Good, the pup was already feeling better. 

The boy sniffled quietly, tucking his face further into the soft blanket still wrapped around him. He rubbed at his nose with one corner, and Alfred’s sharp senses caught the slight dilation in the child’s pupils, an instinctual response to a comforting scent. That was a good sign.

“Peter.” A tiny voice chirped, and Alfred smiled down at him. 

The kitchen doors swung open with a soft push, and warm light spilled across the polished tile floor. The comforting aroma of maple syrup, browned butter, and fresh bread filled the space, designed intentionally by Alfred to make the house feel like a home, no matter how chaotic the family could be. He walked across the floor with careful steps and set Peter down gently on one of the stools by the island counter.

Peter blinked at his surroundings. Shiny appliances, a big fridge, a bowl of fruit on the table, and shifted slightly, the blanket still cocooning him like a protective shell. Alfred didn’t crowd him, allowing the boy space as he turned toward the counter to fetch a nearby teapot that had been steeping quietly.

“And what would Master Peter like for breakfast?” Alfred asked, glancing back at him over one shoulder, his tone light and comforting. “I have a fresh batch of pancakes already made, but I can just as easily whip up some waffles if that’s more to your liking. Eggs and toast are also available, should you prefer something savory.”

Peter hesitated for a second, eyes darting toward the stack of golden pancakes keeping warm beneath a silver lid. The hunger in his eyes was barely concealed, but he still looked unsure, like he was waiting for permission, or perhaps fearing the offer might be snatched away.

Alfred caught it immediately.

“There’s no rush,” he assured gently, pouring the tea into a small cup and setting it down in front of the boy. “Chamomile. It helps with nerves. A touch of honey and milk, if you’d like.”

Peter nodded silently, wrapping his hands around the warm mug, and Alfred gave him a nod of approval before moving to plate the food.

Alfred had never been one to actively participate in Pack initiation rituals. He was a Beta, yes, but his role within the family had always leaned more toward quiet structure and unwavering support rather than instinctual displays of affection. He never scented without explicit permission. 

While others curled close at night, pressing their noses into blankets to leave comforting traces of pack scent, Alfred remained a constant in the background, present, but never imposing. It was not out of coldness, but out of respect.

He was not there when Peter had first been brought into the nest. He hadn't been the one to curl around him or hum soothing purrs into his hair. He hadn't marked blankets or whispered reassurances. That wasn’t his way. Alfred showed love in other forms. In warm meals, in clean sheets, in soft teas designed to calm frayed nerves. In structure. In stability.

Still, as he stood quietly by the counter now, watching Peter clutch the steaming mug with both hands, Alfred saw something remarkable in the boy’s expression.

Peter’s small shoulders, which had been curled tightly when they entered the kitchen, had begun to drop. There was a faint flush in his cheeks now, not from embarrassment or fever, but from the warmth spreading through him. His lips curled slightly into the first true smile Alfred had seen from him since his arrival. It was faint, barely there, but unmistakably real. And when Peter took another sip, letting out a soft breath of contentment, Alfred knew.

He might not have been the one to scent the boy or share body heat in the nest, but in that moment, through a simple cup of carefully brewed tea, he had earned something far rarer than a scent marking.

He had earned a little piece of the pup’s trust.

Alfred thought with quiet satisfaction, it was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Peter liked Alfred. He wasn’t loud, or overbearing, or confusing in the way most of the other people Peter has met. Alfred was calm. Solid. The kind of person who didn’t demand trust but earned it quietly, with warm tea and gentle questions. He was the first adult to actually ask Peter his name instead of calling him things like “kid” or “pup”. 

The tea helped too—God, the tea. It was somehow both grounding and soft, warm in a way that reminded Peter of Aunt May’s hugs on cold mornings. Better than Pepper’s tea even, but Peter would never say that out loud. Pepper might never forgive him.

Still, Alfred was… different. In a good way, and with that difference came a terrifying clarity.

Peter had a theory now. The moment Alfred had sat across from him with a cup of his own, answering Peter’s questions without hesitation, things had started falling into place.The strange words.

Pup, Omega, Alpha, Scenting, Pack……

“So, you’re a Beta?” The word sounded weird on Peter’s tongue. Alfred had since sat next to Peter, explaining all that Peter asked with clarity. Peter could also see some pity in the old man’s eyes, like what Peter was asking weren’t normal questions. 

They probably weren’t but Peter needed to know what was going on. 

“Yes, Master Peter, my secondary gender is ‘Beta.’” Alfred’s voice was calm and dignified as ever, his posture perfect even while seated. He took a measured sip of his tea before continuing, “Though, I don’t let it define me like most of the population. Roles can be useful, yes, but identity should not be reduced to instinct alone.”

Peter blinked down at the steam curling from his cup, the soft scent of honey and herbs drifting upward. The tea was warm in his hands—warm enough to stop the slight tremor that hadn’t left his fingers since waking up in the massive bed earlier that morning. But it wasn’t just the tea calming him. It was Alfred’s tone, the unspoken reassurance in his words. Steady. Centered.

Peter swallowed thickly. The theory spinning around in his head was no longer just a guess, it was starting to solidify into a certainty.

He wasn’t in his own universe anymore.

Everything he’d observed since waking up pointed to that. The odd way everyone referred to each other. The strange terms he didn’t fully understand but kept hearing repeated with gravity: Pack Room , presenting , Alpha , Omega , Beta . The way they scented him. The instinctual purring. The protective, almost territorial behavior. None of this existed in his New York.

So far, here’s what he had managed to piece together:

The room he’d woken up in was called the Pack Room , a communal nest where the members of the household (no, the Pack ) slept together, especially when caring for someone vulnerable. The pack itself was known as the Wayne Pack. 

Bruce Wayne, the man who had sat at the edge of the bed radiating quiet authority, was one of the Alphas. So was Duke, someone Peter hadn’t met yet. The Omegas were Jason, Tim, and Cassandra (Someone else who Peter hasn’t met yet). Then there were the Betas: Alfred and Dick. Peter wasn’t sure how the dynamics worked exactly, but Alfred had said Betas weren’t ruled by instinct as strongly as the others. Maybe that’s why he felt safer around him. Like the world wasn’t spinning so fast.

Then there was Damian. The pup of the group. He was younger, around Peter’s age probably. According to Alfred, Damian hadn’t “presented” yet, but would soon. Peter still wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded important. Peter exhaled, slowly, his brain buzzing with information. He’d been here less than a day and already it felt like he was drowning in new rules. New roles. A new reality .

The stress must have shown on his face because Alfred patted Peter’s back, the first contact the man had made since setting him down on the barstool,“I wouldn’t worry, Master Peter.”

Alfred’s voice was as gentle as a soft blanket, but Peter still stiffened slightly when he felt the hand patting his back. It was the first time Alfred had initiated contact since settling him on the tall barstool at the kitchen island. The butler’s touch was light, unobtrusive, offering comfort, not demanding connection. And somehow, that made all the difference.

“You’ve been through quite a lot,” Alfred continued, his tone as steady as the clock ticking gently in the background. “Master Jason was very concerned about you and, rest assured, he will not allow any harm to come your way.”

Peter’s fingers curled around his teacup. Jason. Right. Red Hood. That had been his name before, hadn’t it? The scary, armored guy with the gun, and the strangely comforting purr. Peter had fallen asleep in his arms. That wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.

Alfred must’ve seen the swirl of thoughts dancing across Peter’s expression, because his next words came with a slight chuckle and a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Still, I’ll make a note to inform everyone to give you some space. You seem overwhelmed.”

Understatement of the year. Peter nodded a little, biting his bottom lip to stop it from trembling again. The space sounded good, he didn’t want anyone else rubbing their wrists on him or whispering about scent saturation. That was still too weird to process. 

Alfred’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Master Bruce pouted the entire time,” he added. “But he honored the request. He even stood outside Master Tim’s door for most of Saturday—quietly, of course.”

Peter blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”

“Like a very large and brooding watchdog,” Alfred said dryly, plating a small stack of pancakes with practiced ease. “There are many ways to show care in this household. Some prefer touch, others presence. And some,” he paused to set the plate in front of Peter, “simply make very good tea and breakfast.”

Peter looked down at the pancakes—fluffy, golden, perfect—and then back at Alfred.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

Alfred only nodded, returning to the stove. But Peter noticed how his shoulders relaxed just a bit, and how the air around them felt a little lighter. Safer.

Though the tea and pancakes had soothed his nerves, Peter couldn’t stop the cold coil of anxiety tightening in his stomach as the men from the “Pack Room” filed into the kitchen one by one.

Bruce entered first, tall and composed, with an expression that could almost be called gentle—if it wasn’t for the quiet intensity always lingering behind his eyes. He gave Peter a small, polite smile that didn’t quite reach his face before placing a firm hand on Damian’s shoulder and steering the boy toward a seat. Peter noticed the subtle motion for what it was: a barrier. A boundary, softly enforced. Part of him wanted to be annoyed at needing the help, but the larger part—the trembling, overwhelmed part—was quietly grateful.

Next came Dick, who looked like he had fought off a dozen ninjas and lost. His hair was a mess, his eyes bleary with sleep, and his clothes rumpled as if he’d rolled straight out of bed and into the kitchen. He collapsed into the stool where Alfred had been moments ago and gave Peter a bleary half-smile. Peter blinked. Not a morning person. Noted.

Tim arrived soon after, still quiet and watchful. He sat directly across from Peter, the solemn look on his face softening only slightly as he offered a faint, apologetic smile. Peter nodded back awkwardly, not sure how to respond to someone looking at him like they knew exactly how it felt to be utterly and completely out of place.

He was about to say something, anything, to break the weird tension, when a warm weight pressed down on the other side of his head.

Jason.

Peter froze as a hand landed on his curls, giving his head a rough but oddly fond pat. Jason slid into the seat beside him like he’d always been there. “Hmm,” Jason hummed with a low rumble, leaning closer, “you still smell packless.” 

Peter’s mouth opened, panic already rising in his chest. Not again—

Jason was already rolling up a sleeve, clearly preparing to scent him again. Before Peter could protest, a plate clinked against the center of the table with a firmness that drew everyone’s attention.

“I believe Master Peter has had enough scenting for one morning,” Alfred said, his voice pleasant but laced with the kind of authority that not even Bruce dared interrupt. “The boy needs nutrients far more than bonding time. There is, after all, an entire day ahead of us.”

Jason paused mid-motion, blinked, then slowly lowered his arm. Peter exhaled in visible relief.

“Perhaps,” Alfred continued, returning to the stove as if he hadn’t just single-handedly defused a brewing mess, “a game of ice breakers after breakfast would help clear some of the tension?”

He looked at Peter with a small, knowing smile before adding, “Master Peter could also meet Master Duke and Miss Cassandra when they return from their morning errands.” 

Peter looked down at his pancakes, then around the table. The room was warm, filled with soft murmurs, the clink of silverware, the occasional yawn. He still felt like an alien in a strange new world. 

Chapter Text

Peter owed Alfred everything .

Not just for the tea, or the food, or even the space to breathe without someone trying to rub their wrist against his neck, or for him to be hugged to a purring chest. No, Peter owed him for the calm, steady way he had taken charge at breakfast, subtly knocking some sense into the whirlwind that was the Wayne family. Somehow, without ever raising his voice, Alfred had brought peace to the chaos. And for the first time since waking up in whatever-this-universe-was, Peter finally had a moment to think .

Now he was nestled comfortably in one of the mansion’s many lounge rooms, in a big leather armchair that had just the right amount of give to let him sit cross-legged without his knees being squished. It creaked softly beneath him when he shifted, the smooth material cold at first but quickly warming beneath his skin. 

He still wasn’t used to his new form. The muscles that took months with Natalia and Bucky’s training were gone. His spider powers were also not responding. It was as if his body, mentally and physically were eight years old. Oh, No!! What if his asthma came back!

His fingers tugged idly at the hem of his too-long sleeves as he sat curled up in the chair, stealing glances at the others across the coffee table.

The rest of the so-called "Wayne Pack" was settled on a massive L-shaped couch opposite him, relaxed but watching him with varying degrees of subtlety. The contrast between them and Peter was stark, they filled the room effortlessly, like they belonged in the dark wood and polished stone of the mansion’s walls. Even the way they lounged on the furniture spoke to a long-established rhythm. Peter… didn’t have that. He felt like a visitor in someone else’s dream.

On the coffee table between them were small plates of snacks Alfred had arranged with a precision Peter found both comforting and mildly intimidating. Sliced apples, crackers, tiny sandwiches that looked like something out of a fancy brunch, and a glass of juice sat in front of him.

“So Peter,” Bruce said gently, his deep voice cutting through the soft quiet of the lounge, “is there a phone number I can call? Your pack must be worried about you.”

He was seated comfortably in the center of the couch

Dick and Damian flanked him on his left—Dick relaxed and easy-going now that he'd fully woken up, and Damian sitting up stiffly, always sharp-eyed. Tim and Jason were on the right. Tim fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve, while Jason gave Peter a look that teetered somewhere between boredom and concern.

Bruce’s blue eyes were steady on him, warm but unreadable. The kind of look that said he’d wait forever if needed, and also somehow already knew what Peter was going to say. It was both comforting and terrifying.

The word Alpha echoed in Peter’s head like a warning bell. That’s what Bruce was. If Peter remembered Alfred’s word’s right, he was the head of the pack. The leader. The one everyone instinctively looked to. Peter shook his head, these feelings were really starting to get annoying. Maybe this universe was starting to…. Peter didn’t want to think about that. He needed to get back to his universe, and somehow get his powers back. 

Peter curled in tighter on the oversized armchair, hugging one knee to his chest. His brain kicked into overdrive, thoughts racing as he tried to come up with a lie—something believable, something safe . But his mind was a mess.

Tony Stark. Aunt May. Ned. MJ. Did they even exist in this version of the world?

Peter swallowed thickly, trying not to let the panic show. If he gave them Tony’s name and number, and Tony didn’t exist here, or worse, was someone else entirely, what would happen? Would they think he was lying? Would they start asking more questions? He couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk dragging anyone into this mess, even if they were just versions of the people he knew. 

Peter’s fingers twisted into the hem of the sleeves Alfred had rolled up for him earlier. “I… I don’t think anyone’s looking for me,” he said quietly, eyes locked on a crumb on the coffee table.

The weight of that silence hit him hard. Everyone in the room stilled. Bruce’s expression didn’t falter, but his brows dipped slightly—just enough for Peter to notice. There wasn’t disbelief there. Just… sadness. Maybe recognition.

“No one at all?” Bruce asked, still gentle, still patient. 

Peter licked his lips and shook his head, forcing a small, shaky shrug. “I was... on my own, I guess. For a while. Before I ended up here.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Just… not the truth.

Jason let out a low huff, the sound almost more like a growl than a breath, and leaned further back into the cushions of the couch. His arms crossed tightly over his chest, muscles tense beneath the sleeves of his hoodie. “Knew it,” he muttered under his breath, though loud enough for everyone to hear.

The dismissiveness in his tone made Peter flinch, guilt and embarrassment rising like bile in his throat.

Bruce’s head turned toward Jason sharply, his expression calm but firm. That look , a pointed narrowing of the eyes, a flicker of authority made the older boy bristle. Jason’s lip curled slightly, the beginnings of a snarl on his face, but he bit it back and looked away, jaw tight. Still, the room's energy dipped into something cooler. Uneasy.

“Jason,” Bruce said in warning, his voice low.

Jason let out another short breath, but didn’t speak again.

“Okay, let’s calm down,” Dick said quickly, always the mediator. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, palms hanging loose. His voice was soft but firm, meant to defuse the tension crackling like static in the room.

His blue eyes met Peter’s with warmth, offering something gentle that Peter didn’t realize he was craving until it was there.

“Where have you been staying, kiddo?” Dick asked. “Before you got here, I mean. Somewhere in Gotham?”

Peter hesitated, his fingers fidgeting in his lap as he tried to find a version of the truth that didn’t sound too suspicious. The sound of the lounge door opening made everyone turn their heads, the conversation immediately pausing.

A tall, dark-skinned teen with warm brown eyes stepped in first, his expression bright with a friendly, open smile. He was followed closely by a young woman with chin-length black hair and a quiet presence that somehow filled the room. Her gaze swept over the group with sharp attentiveness before it softened at the sight of Bruce.

“Sorry we’re late,” the boy said with a sheepish chuckle. “Alfred wouldn’t let us change until he checked us over. The patrol ran long.”

Bruce stood smoothly from the couch, his movements calm but deliberate. Authority without arrogance. As he approached the newcomers, Peter peeked around the side of the big leather chair, curious.

He watched in stunned silence as Bruce stepped forward and scented them.

Not just a light pat or a nod—but a full embrace, one arm around each teen as he leaned in and sniffed their hair, rubbing the backs of their necks gently with his wrists. It was bizarre and oddly intimate, but neither of them flinched or resisted. They leaned into it, like it was second nature, like it meant something.

Like home.

Peter blinked. It was so different from anything he'd experienced back in his own world, and yet… it didn’t look uncomfortable. It looked safe.

“Duke. Cass,” Bruce said once he’d pulled back slightly, his arms still draped around their shoulders. “This is Peter.”

Both teens turned to look at the small boy curled up in the big chair. Duke’s smile never wavered as he offered a little wave.

“Hey there, Peter,” he said warmly. “Good to meet you.”

Cassandra, silent at first, tilted her head in that assessing way Peter was starting to associate with her type. Sharp, observant. Then she gave a single, slow nod and a soft, almost imperceptible smile. Cass then simply took a seat cross-legged on the rug, her eyes still quietly watching Peter, but not in a threatening way.

Peter swallowed, cheeks warm. This pack was big. And weird. But… It didn't feel bad. In fact, it was starting to feel just a little bit like something familiar. 

“So this was the pup that was running around unsupervised,” Duke said, his voice light and teasing but not unkind. He crouched down next to the oversized leather chair Peter was curled into, keeping his body language open and non-threatening.

He extended a hand, palm-up, a gesture of peace. “Hey, I’m Duke. Nice to meet you, man.”

But the moment Peter saw the motion, his entire body stiffened. He flinched backward, shoulders tensing like he was expecting a hit. It wasn’t big. It was subtle, almost involuntary, but Duke saw it. He immediately pulled his hand back, raising both palms in surrender. “Hey, it’s okay… I’m not going—”

A gentle hand landed on Duke’s shoulder before he could finish.

Cassandra.

She stepped in silently, giving him a soft push aside. There was no annoyance in the motion, just a quiet insistence. Duke respected it instantly, rising without question and giving her space. Cass knelt beside the chair, tucking her legs under her with practiced grace. She didn’t speak. Didn’t reach. She just sat there, close but not too close, her hands resting calmly in her lap.

She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. But her expression was soft . Steady. The kind of calm that made you feel like the world had stopped spinning for a second. Her dark eyes blinked slowly, then flicked toward the others on the couch. Peter followed her gaze.

Bruce was relaxed again, arms crossed but not tense. Jason was slouched back, picking at a snack on the table. Tim was sipping his coffee like this was all just routine. Even Damian was watching quietly, not judging or glaring for once.

No one looked tense. No one looked angry.

Peter bit the inside of his cheek and looked back at Cass. She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t blinked. Just waited. He really missed his spider-sense. He didn’t know what she was doing. He didn’t know what she wanted.

Cass then slowly lifted her hand up to Peter, but she didn’t reach out all the way. Instead, she stopped about halfway, her palm held up between them, open, relaxed, and facing him.

Peter stared at her hand. It hung in the air like a question. He looked up, meeting her eyes again. No impatience. No expectation. Just that same calm, grounding presence she’d had since the moment she knelt beside him. Her gaze was steady, like a still pond, deep brown and unreadable, yet strangely warm.

Nothing sharp. Nothing angry. Nothing threatening.

He glanced at the others again. No one said a word. Jason was pretending not to watch, but Peter saw his head tilted toward them. Damian had stopped fidgeting. Even Bruce had softened around the eyes. They were all waiting. Not pressuring. Just... waiting.

Cass didn’t pull her hand away, and she didn’t move closer, either. Peter, with a trembling breath, raised his hand. His fingers twitched slightly as he extended them, nerves zinging beneath his skin. The back of his throat tightened. He glanced up at her face one more time, just to be sure.

Still calm. Still unmoving, so he pressed his smaller hand against hers.

It was like a switch flipped in the air. Her hand was warm. Steady. She didn’t curl her fingers around his or try to pull him in. She simply let their palms meet, skin to skin. It was… weirdly grounding. Like plugging into something solid after floating too long.

Peter exhaled slowly, barely aware that he’d been holding his breath. His hand fit into hers so easily. She was still watching him, not like he was broken, or a project to fix, but like he mattered. Like he was real.

No words were spoken.

But Peter felt the shift. A soft scent perfumed the air, but for once, Peter didn’t cringe. Something quiet settled in his chest. A little less panic. A little more weight in the right places. And though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, his lips trembled with the beginning of a smile.

“Why not stay with us temporarily, just enough to figure things out.” Bruce’s voice was calm, almost casual, but the words struck Peter like a punch to the chest.

Stay?

He didn’t want to be a burden. He hated being a burden. But…This place was safe. And warm. And weirdly full of people who didn’t just tolerate his presence—they seemed to want him there. Even with all their strange talk of packs and scenting and dynamics, it was still the safest Peter would probably find in this universe. 

What if Thanos had won? What if Tony was looking for him, or Ned was panicking, or—Peter clenched his jaw. He’d just vanished from his world. From his responsibilities. From the fight.He couldn’t help but imagine the dust again.

That horrible moment.

The spinning.

The fear.

Cass moved just slightly, her fingers nudging him as her hand pressed more fully into his. Peter startled out of his spiral, eyes snapping back to her. She tilted her head, smiled softly, grounding. She hadn’t pulled away once since offering her hand.

He looked at her. Then to Bruce, who sat steady, arms crossed, but not in a closed-off way. He looked like he was waiting for Peter to make the choice himself, not forcing it.

Peter’s mouth was dry, but he forced himself to swallow. He’d figure out a way home eventually. He had to. But for now… 

He gave the smallest of nods, unsure if it even counted—until the room seemed to shift . The tension drained out of the air like someone had opened a window. Shoulders loosened. Smiles bloomed. The collective exhale was almost palpable.

His hand was still against Cassandra’s. She hadn’t moved it. Instead, she gently curled her fingers until their palms aligned and touched more fully. Her thumb brushed against his, like a silent promise that he wasn’t alone.

Peter let himself relax for the first time in what felt like days.