Chapter Text
The first time Peter sees him is at school.
It’s fourth period chemistry, and Peter’s pretending to pay attention while actually making a list of patrol routes in the margin of his notebook. Midtown isn’t that big, not really, and he knows most of the faces that pass through its hallways. New kids stand out.
And the kid in the back row — hood up, slouched low, not even pretending to take notes— definitely stands out.
Peter glances over once. Twice. Okay, fine, maybe four times. Enough to notice that the guy doesn’t move. Or blink. Or even tap his pencil like literally everyone else in the room. Just… still.
Weird. But fine. Not his problem.
———
The second time is two nights later.
Peter’s perched on the side of a water tower, mask pulled halfway up so he can shove half a protein bar into his mouth, when the hairs on his neck prickle. Spider-sense humming, low and sharp.
He scans the rooftops. Empty.
No — wait. Not empty.
Across the street, leaning against a fire escape, is the same hooded figure from chemistry. Same slouch. Same unnerving stillness.
Peter freezes mid-chew, wrapper crackling in his hand. The guy doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t even pretend not to be staring.
By the time Peter blinks, the fire escape is empty.
He swears under his breath, tugging his mask down again. New York is full of weirdos. Totally normal. Absolutely fine.
———
The third time is at the grocery store.
Peter’s juggling milk, eggs, and bread, because May said she didn’t need much and Peter figured he didn’t need a basket. He’s muttering the list under his breath — “bananas, definitely bananas, or was it apples?” — when he catches sight of a familiar hoodie by the freezer aisle.
It’s the same guy. Standing there. No cart. No food. Just staring at the frost gathering on the glass.
Peter’s arms flail. The eggs tumble.
They explode all over the floor in a spectacular yellow mess.
He groans, crouches to clean it up with too-thin napkins from the dispenser, and when he looks up again, hoodie-guy is gone.
The only thing staring back at him is his own reflection in the freezer door.
Peter mutters to himself all the way home, half to keep himself from thinking about it and half to drown out the chill running up his spine.
———
By the sixth sighting, Peter’s not even pretending it’s coincidence anymore.
He spots the guy on rooftops during patrol. On the subway platform when he’s running late for class. In the corner of his eye outside Delmar’s. Always there, never close, never speaking.
Just watching.
The worst part? No one else notices.
When Peter tries to point him out — “Hey, did you see that guy?” — people look around blankly, like he’s imagining it.
Which. No. Not possible. He’s Spider-Man. He doesn’t just imagine things.
Right?
———
By the twelfth day, Peter’s had enough. He throws his window open and glares at hoodie-guy, now on his fire escape.
“Okay, new rule: stop stalking me. Like, I’ve dealt with actual supervillains and you’re somehow creepier than all of them combined. Who are you?”
The guy blinks. Then — softly, like he’s testing it — he says, “Tim.”
Peter freezes. “Tim?”
“That’s my name.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Okay.” He doesn’t know if it’s better to believe the stalker or not. “And what’s your deal, Tim? Why are you squatting on my fire escape like a raccoon?”
“I don’t know.”
Peter waits. “...You don’t know.”
“Not really. I just — ended up here.” Tim’s brow furrows. “You’re the only one who can see me, aren’t you?”
Peter stares at him. “What does that even—”
He glances back at his room, at the reflection in the glass. His own face. His posters. His string lights. No Tim.
He whips back around. Tim is still there.
“Oh no,” Peter whispers. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not happening. I do not have time for Sixth Sense nonsense. I have math homework and decathlon practice and an actual internship that might be secretly evil. So whatever this is—” he gestures wildly— “take it somewhere else.”
Tim looks vaguely offended. “I’m dead.”
“Yeah, I got that!” Peter snaps. “But like — I’m busy. Find another haunted teenager to bother!”
The ghost just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You’re remarkably rude for someone who just found out they’re being haunted.”
Peter groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. Why me?”
Tim shrugs. “Guess you were the lucky winner.”
“Not lucky,” Peter mutters darkly.
———
The new worst part? Tim doesn’t leave.
He’s there when Peter wakes up, when he walks to school, even perched casually on a streetlight during patrol. No one else notices. No one else reacts. Just Peter.
“I’m not helping you with your unfinished business,” Peter warns one night while webbing up a carjacker. “That’s like — rule one of ghost movies. I’m not digging up your grave or fighting a demon for you. I barely passed history, okay?”
Tim floats— literally floats, which Peter refuses to acknowledge out loud — closer. “I don’t remember my business. Just my name.”
“Great,” Peter says flatly. “You’re a ghost with amnesia. Perfect. Love that for me.”
Tim smirks. “You’re very dramatic.”
“Says the guy haunting me!”
The carjacker writhes against the webbing, still struggling, and Peter crouches to double-knot it.
He doesn’t expect Tim to move, but suddenly the ghost is beside him, crouched low like muscle memory kicked in. Tim’s hand flicks forward, wrist twisting sharp — like it’s instinct, like his body remembers a fight he doesn’t. Except his hand passes through everything he touches.
Peter stares. “Uh. Okay. That was — disturbingly ninja of you.”
Tim looks at his hand like it might answer something. His mouth opens, then shuts. A flicker of something raw flashes in his eyes.
“Cool trick.” Peter swallows, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. He forces levity into his voice. “Ten out of ten. Definitely not creepy at all.”
Tim doesn’t respond. He just keeps staring at his empty hands like they betrayed him.
———
Days blur. Classes, patrol, homework. Ghost.
Sometimes, Peter pretends it’s normal — like Tim isn’t hovering by the lockers when no one else is looking, or standing too close on rooftops.
Other times, it grates.
Like when Tim stands in his bedroom while Peter’s trying to finish a calculus worksheet, gaze distant, silent except for the occasional murmur.
“Kon.”
Peter’s pencil stills. “...What?”
Tim blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. His jaw tightens. “Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Just… a name.”
Peter studies him, the curve of his mouth, the way his gaze darts to the floor. “A friend?”
“I don’t know.” Tim’s voice is flat, but his eyes — God, his eyes give him away. There’s something there. Ache, maybe. Or loss.
Peter doesn’t push. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t.
———
Later, during patrol, Tim perches on the ledge of a ten-story drop, watching traffic with a focus that makes Peter uneasy. He tilts his head, like he hears something Peter doesn’t.
“Bruce.”
It’s not loud. Just enough for Peter to hear over the rush of the street.
Peter lands beside him, mask tugged up so he can breathe easier. “Another name?”
Tim doesn’t look at him. “Feels like– like someone important.” A pause. “Responsibility.”
The word tastes bitter in his mouth.
Peter doesn’t say anything. He knows that flavor.
The city hums around them, horns and sirens and laughter. Neither of them moves.
———
Another night.
Another fight.
Two muggers this time, and Peter's already irritated because he had actual homework to do. He webs one guy to the lamppost, but the other lunges fast. Too fast.
Peter flinches — only to see Tim move. No hesitation. Clean, sharp. He steps through the motion like his body has trained itself to do this a thousand times: sidestep, twist, hook of an arm that sends the mugger sprawling.
Peter stares, half breathless, half awed.
“You fight like…” His voice cracks.
He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. Like an Avenger? Like a soldier? Like someone who shouldn’t be seventeen?
Tim straightens, chest rising too quick for someone who shouldn’t technically need air. His gaze is distant again, pupils blown wide like he’s chasing a memory.
“Rob,” he whispers.
Peter blinks. “Excuse me?”
Tim swallows hard. “I don’t— forget it.” He turns, shoulders rigid.
But Peter can’t forget. The words dig in, sharp and heavy, even when he tries his best to focus on anything else.
———
Sometimes, Tim looks at him like he’s almost there. Like Peter is a puzzle piece he nearly remembers, like if he squints hard enough, the edges will line up.
Sometimes, Peter catches him mouthing the same names over and over again, lips shaping words without sound.
Sometimes, Peter forgets to be annoyed.
Which is bad. Really bad. Because he doesn’t have time for a ghost.
Especially not one who might’ve been a hero, once.
———
Peter Parker hates asking for help. Hates it.
Like, really hates it.
Which is why he’s currently crouched on one of the metal tables in the Stark lab, swinging his legs like he’s on a tree branch instead of 20 feet above a floor full of prototype suits, and pretending this is completely normal.
“Uh, Mr. Stark?” Peter mumbles, trying not to sound… suspiciously serious. “Hypothetically…”
Tony looks up, eyebrows raised. “Hypothetically? Oh, god, please don’t tell me you got a girl pregnant.”
“What!” Peter’s face is flushed bright red in an instant. “No, no. I just— hypothetically, completely hypothetically, what if you… saw someone who needed help, but you didn’t want to help them? Because of school, or life, or laundry, or Spider-Man stuff. What do, um — hypothetically, what would you do?”
Tony freezes mid-tap on his tablet. He blinks once. Twice. Then he smirks. “Woah. You built an entire hypothetical around dodging responsibility. Impressive. Very on-brand.”
“It’s not about dodging.” Peter flushes. “Totally not.”
Tony leans back in his chair, long enough for the metal to creak under him. “Okay, I’m listening. So, hypothetically, someone needs help. But you don’t want to deal with it.”
The silence stretches for a moment. Not uncomfortable, not entirely. Just — long enough that Peter starts overthinking every twitch of his fingers.
“And you… what, exactly?” Tony asks finally. His voice has that casual-but-not-really tone. Like he’s not judging, but he is judging. “Not helping is… tempting?”
Peter shrugs. “Yeah. I mean… I could help, but — school. Patrol. You know, life. Big piles of life. Hypothetically.”
Tony hums. “Right. Hypothetically.”
Peter kicks at the stool leg. “It’s not fair. I… I don’t know the rules. There’s no rulebook for someone needing your help but being like — invisible.”
“Invisible?”
Peter’s face goes red. “...Hypothetically invisible.”
Tony leans forward, elbows on the workbench. “Kid, talk to me straight. Not in riddles. Not in hypotheticals. Someone needs you and you— don’t want to deal with it. Because of homework.”
“Because—” Peter chews on his lip. “Because I don’t have time. Because I don’t know them. Because — ugh, it’s complicated.”
Tony nods slowly, like he’s listening not just to the words but to the panic and hesitation underneath.
“Okay. Don’t have time, don’t know them, complicated. Got it.”
Another silence. Longer, this time. Peter is scanning the floor, counting tiles, tapping his fingers, wondering if Tony can read his thoughts. He’s not sure he wants him to.
“You don't owe anyone anything,” Tony says finally, low and calm. “Nobody. Not your family. Not me. Not New York. Not some rando who wants your help.”
Peter blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Tony shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Really. You’re busy. You’re twelve — well, thirteen. Fourteen? How old are you, kid? Never mind that, you’re Spider-Man. You got homework. A city to look after. A life that is sometimes falling apart. It’s a lot. So, no, you don’t owe anyone.”
Peter swallows. “Okay. That's — comforting, I guess.”
Tony leans back. There’s another long pause. He’s not smiling, not frowning. Just… watching Peter. Waiting.
And the silence — typical Tony, sharp and soft at the same time — is deafening. Peter feels like every thought he’s having is hanging there, on display.
“But,” Tony continues finally, “you also shouldn’t stop yourself from helping someone just because it’s inconvenient, or messy, or it makes life harder.”
Peter fidgets. “...That makes sense. I guess.”
Tony doesn’t push. He waits. That’s somehow worse.
The silence grows again — thick and steady. Comfortable in a weird way. Pressing. Like Tony’s words are still there, filling the gaps.
Peter exhales slowly. “So… it’s my choice, huh?”
“Yeah.” Tony shrugs. “Your choice. But just… don’t let excuses make the choice for you. Don’t be busy just because it’s easier.”
“I guess — I guess I’ll figure it out, then.”
Tony just watches. The silence comes back. It’s quiet. Comfortable. Heavy. It makes Peter want to fidget and also just… be still.
“Thanks,” Peter murmurs finally. Not loud. Not proud. Just — a soft, honest thank-you.
Tony nods once. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. The silence says it all.
Peter stands and moves toward the door. When he glances back, Tony’s watching, waiting, not judging. Just… Tony.
He steps out, chest tight, stomach knotted. His mind is already racing. Tim on the fire escape. Tim’s fragments. Bruce. Kon. Rob. Everything.
And maybe — maybe there are worse things than someone needing his help.
———
Peter’s leaving the lab, still half-buzzing from his conversation with Tony, trying to think about literally anything else.
His backpack feels too heavy. His web-shooters feel heavy. His head feels heavy. The streets of Queens are busy in that low-midweek way where everyone is slightly in a rush but also annoyed that everyone else is in a rush.
He’s thinking about homework. Patrol. Tony’s words. Maybe he’s overthinking everything. Maybe he’s too tired.
And then he hears it.
“Peter!”
Sharp. Urgent. Not casual like usual. Not low and steady. This one’s raw, ripped out of Tim’s throat like it hurts.
Peter spins. Tim is running toward him, fast, weaving through pedestrians like he’s done it a thousand times. His hood is down, his face pale and wide-eyed, and—
“Peter, you need to go, right now!”
“What— what are you—”
And then Tim grabs his hand.
Peter chokes on the sensation. Wrong. So wrong. Cold, like plunging into an icy lake, burning hot like grabbing a stovetop with bare skin. His nerves scream in confusion.
His spider-sense spikes — jagged, deafening. Danger. Everywhere. Now.
Peter doesn’t think. He just runs.
People yell as he shoves through the crowd: “Hey, watch it, kid!” “Jesus, what’s the rush?” “Some of us are walking here!”
Classic New York.
But Peter barely hears them. His chest is tight, spider-sense buzzing so violently he can’t sort the signals. Just: danger. Big. Near.
He looks at Tim — who’s keeping pace effortlessly, even though he doesn’t breathe — and his stomach lurches. “What is this? What’s happening?”
Tim shakes his head, grim. “Not now. Just — keep moving!”
They sprint. Pedestrians curse. Horns blare. Someone yells about calling the cops.
And then — another spike. So sharp it almost takes Peter’s legs out.
Without thinking, he yanks Tim sideways and dives into the nearest alley. They hit the pavement hard, Peter twisting mid-roll so he lands on top, shielding Tim’s body with his own.
His breath saws out of him. His hands are planted on either side of Tim’s head. His whole body is coiled, protective.
And that’s when the air shifts.
The alley ripples. The light bends. A golden ring sparks into existence above the asphalt, expanding outward with a hiss like burning paper.
A portal.
And from it steps a man in deep blue robes, crimson cloak curling behind him like it has a mind of its own. Goatee sharp. Eyes sharper.
Peter has never seen him before in his life. But every nerve in his body screams danger.
The man doesn’t look at Peter. His gaze goes straight to Tim.
And whatever Peter sees — the wizard sees something else entirely.
Not a boy in a hoodie, not a pale face and tired eyes. A figure of light, unstable, edges fraying into shadow. A weight of death clinging to the air like smoke. An anomaly. Something that should not be here.
The wizard’s jaw tightens. “That doesn’t belong in this plane.”
Peter snarls before he even thinks about it. He doesn’t mean to, but it rips out anyway, low and feral, words tumbling after: “Don’t— don’t you touch him!”
The wizard blinks, mildly startled by the sheer force in Peter’s voice. Then his expression settles into cool authority.
“You don’t understand what you’re protecting, kid. That thing—”
“He’s not a thing,” Peter snaps, fists clenched, chest heaving. “He’s a person.”
“He’s dead.” The wizard’s eyes narrow. “Whatever you’re seeing — whatever has attached itself to you — isn’t him. It’s a fragment. A leftover. Dangerous.”
Tim stirs under Peter, struggling to sit up, but Peter presses him down instinctively, shielding him tighter. “Don’t move.”
Tim swallows, eyes locked on the wizard. His voice is hoarse. “He can’t— Peter he can’t see—”
The wizard raises a hand. Runes spark at his fingertips. The air thickens, heavy with magic. The cloak curls forward, eager.
And Peter’s spider-sense shrieks.
He doesn’t hesitate. Web-shooters snap, fluid arcs across the alley, pulling trash cans and fire escapes down into the wizard’s path. Chaos erupts — metal clangs, sparks fly.
The wizard slices through the mess with a flick, unimpressed. “Kid. Move.”
“No!” Peter plants himself over Tim, shoulders squared, shaking but unyielding. “You’re not— he’s not—” his words trip over each other, frantic. “I don’t care what he is, he’s mine to protect, okay?”
The wizard’s eyes flick to Tim again. The ghost’s figure flickers, unstable, seething. Death clings. Wrong, wrong, wrong. But Peter — he’s clinging tighter.
The man exhales slowly. “You don’t know what you’re risking.”
“I don’t care!”
For a moment, the alley holds its breath. The wizard’s magic sparks. Peter’s webbing drips. Tim shakes under Peter’s grip, like the effort of just being here is pulling him apart.
And then Peter acts.
He scoops Tim into his arms, bracing against the searing cold-burn of contact, and launches a web-line high. They swing out of the alley just as the wizard’s spell snaps into the brick where they were.
The cloak whips forward, but Peter is already gone, weaving above the skyline with raw desperation.
———
By the time they crash through his bedroom window, they’re both breathless.
Peter tumbles onto the carpet, Tim still clutched against his chest, both of them panting — even though Tim doesn’t need to. The blinds rattle. The bed squeaks. Papers scatter.
For a long beat, there’s silence, just the echo of adrenaline.
Then Peter starts laughing.
It bursts out of him, ragged and wild, half-hysterical. Tim blinks at him, dazed, then snorts once, quietly. And suddenly they’re both laughing, pressed together on the floor of Peter’s too-small bedroom, like the only sane response to what just happened is to lose it completely.
“That was—” Peter gasps between laughs— “insane.”
Tim nods, shoulders shaking. “Yeah.”
And for the first time since Tim appeared, the wrongness doesn’t feel unbearable.
It feels like maybe — just maybe — they’re in this together.
The laughter fades slow. Peter wheezes into the carpet, face pressed against his sleeve, shoulders still twitching with leftover chuckles. Tim is sprawled next to him, half-rolled onto his side, one arm thrown over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the ceiling.
For a while, neither of them move. The room smells faintly of sweat and printer ink and May’s leftover meatloaf wafting up from the kitchen. A bus honks two streets over. Somewhere, a siren wails.
Peter should get up. Close the blinds. Pick up the papers scattered across the floor. Do his homework or study for his chem test.
Instead, he stays there. The room hums with quiet. Distant cars honk outside. He can hear the clatter of someone’s TV through the wall.
And their breathing. Or — just Peter’s. Tim’s chest rises and falls, but there’s no sound.
It’s Tim who inevitably breaks it, voice soft. “I guess this makes me your problem officially.”
“You’ve been my problem,” Peter says. “I just finally allowed you to be.”
Tim huffs something close to a laugh, but it feels incomplete. He looks down at his knees. “I — um, I wasn’t — when you were with Stark earlier, I wasn’t around.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” Peter shrugs, trying for some lightness that doesn’t land. “Figured you were off haunting someone else for a change.”
But Tim shakes his head. “I wasn’t… gone. I was—” he swallows. “I was at the Sanctum. The wizard’s place.”
Peter stiffens. “You what?”
“I didn’t know what it was,” Tim says defensively, glancing at him and then away again in an instant. “I just… wandered. And suddenly I was there. And it—” he presses a hand against his chest. “I could breathe.”
Peter’s stomach flips. “Wait. You mean — you can’t normally?”
Tim doesn’t answer right away. His fingers tighten on his sleeves. “Not really. Not unless I’m near you.”
That lands heavy between them. Peter doesn’t know why.
He blinks, scrambling. “So — what, I’m like your oxygen tank?”
Tim’s mouth quirks, but it’s sad. It’s always sad. “Guess so.”
“Great.” Peter sits up, rubbing his face. “Cool. Love that. No pressure at all.”
Silence stretches.
Tim keeps staring at his knees, voice low. “It’s not supposed to work like this. I shouldn’t… need someone else to exist. I shouldn’t be here at all.”
Peter opens his mouth, then closes it. His throat feels tight.
He thinks about the wizard’s words — that doesn’t belong in this plane. He thinks about Tony telling him he doesn’t owe anyone anything. He thinks about how it felt when Tim grabbed his hand: cold and burning, wrong and right all at once.
Finally, Peter murmurs. “Well, you’re here. And you’re stuck with me. Or vice versa. So.”
Tim looks at him then, startled.
Peter shrugs, trying for casual even as his chest is hammering. “Guess we’ll just… figure it out.”
Another long silence.
Then Tim nods, slowly. “Okay.”
It isn’t much. But in the dim light of Peter’s room, it feels like a promise.
———
The air in Peter’s room finally settles, thick with the smell of dust and the faint metallic tang of webs. The adrenaline ebbs, leaving behind silence and the occasional creak of the building as it shifts with the night.
Peter sits cross-legged on the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. His brain is still catching up — Wizard, portals, ghosts — but Tim just sits there, quiet, folded in on himself.
“So,” Peter blurts, because silence always eats at him. “Clothes. You’ve been wearing that hoodie since I met you, and I’m starting to think you’re, like, a cartoon character. One outfit forever.”
Tim looks at him. His mouth twitches. “Does that make you Scooby-Doo?”
Peter flushes. “Okay, rude. I was gonna offer you something, but — forget it.”
He gets up anyway, digging through his dresser. A pile of soft, worn clothes lands on the bed. Sweatpants, an old Midtown decathlon shirt, a hoodie that’s shrunk a little in the wash.
Tim eyes them warily, then looks back at Peter. “You’re serious.”
Peter shrugs. “Hey, I don’t want you haunting my room smelling like a stale ghost hoodie. So pick your poison.”
Tim stares at the clothes like they’re foreign objects. After a beat, he says, “Anything’s fine.”
“Cool. Yeah. No problem.”
Peter hands them over, then realizes — too late — what comes next.
Because Tim doesn’t ask to leave. He doesn’t gesture for privacy. He just pulls the hoodie over his head in one smooth motion.
And Peter freezes.
For a second, all he registers is: skin. Pale, sharp lines of shadow under ribs, defined muscle like something out of a superhero training montage. His brain trips over itself, stammering incoherently.
Abs. He has abs. Like, really defined abs. Why does he have abs? He’s a ghost. Ghosts aren’t supposed to have—
And then he sees the scars.
They’re everywhere. Thin, silvery ones like knife slices. Jagged ones like burns. A long, angry line cutting across his side. Faint latticework on his back, glimpsed as he moves.
Peter’s breath catches. The humor dies in his throat. “Jesus.”
Tim freezes, t-shirt halfway over his head. His jaw tightens.
“I– I didn’t mean— uh—” Peter’s words tangle as he gestures vaguely, heat crawling up his neck. “You’ve — been through some stuff, huh?”
Tim yanks the shirt down, face shadowed. His voice is flat. “Guess so.”
But Peter can hear the edges — too sharp, too controlled. Not nothing. Not casual.
Tim pulls the sweatpants on like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t just strip down in the middle of a teenager’s bedroom. He doesn’t look at Peter, just keeps his gaze trained on the floor.
Peter swallows, hands twitching uselessly. His brain wants to chase both directions at once — wants to scream about the scars, to demand answers, to ask who hurt him. And at the same time he wants to bury his face in a pillow and never admit he noticed the abs.
Instead, what comes out is awkward, fumbling: “They look… old. The scars. Like — you survived a lot.”
Tim huffs, short, humorless. “If you say so.”
“Hey—” Peter leans forward, blurting before he can stop himself. “I’m not— judging, okay? I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, flustered. “You didn’t deserve that. Whoever did that to you. You didn’t.”
Silence.
Tim stares at the floor. His hands curl in the fabric of the sweatpants. For a second, he looks like a kid again — not the half-stranger with fragments of another life, not the ghost running from wizards.
Just a boy in borrowed clothes, trying not to fold in on himself.
Finally, he says, softly, “I didn’t even remember them. I didn’t know they were there until just now.”
That punches the air out of Peter’s lungs.
“Oh,” he says, like an idiot. Then, helpless: “That sucks.”
It’s stupid. Too small for the weight of it all. But it makes Tim’s mouth twitch, just a little, and Peter can’t help but want to see a smile on the ghost’s face that isn’t laced with sadness.
Peter exhales slowly, and sits down beside Tim. He doesn’t touch, just lets the silence stretch.
They sit like that for a long time.
Finally, Peter clears his throat. “So, uh—” his voice cracks and he grimaces. “Are you, um, hungry?”
Tim blinks at him. “Hungry?”
“Yeah. Like — food.” Peter waves vaguely toward the kitchen. “Pizza rolls. Doritos. May went crazy on a coupon and now we have like, an entire cabinet of Goldfish. Gourmet stuff.”
Tim hesitates. His mouth tugs sideways. “I… don’t really get hungry.”
“Oh. Right.” Peter scratches the back of his neck. “Ghost metabolism. Makes sense.”
Another silence. Peter’s skin crawls with it.
He blurts out again: “But like — you can still eat, right? Or is that—” he mimes something ridiculous, hand passing through his other hand— “you know. Transparent comedy routine.”
Tim’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “I can eat, I think. Just—” he looks away. “Doesn’t taste like much.”
Peter chews on that, then nods fiercely. “Okay. So, experiment.”
He jumps up before Tim can argue, rifling through the kitchen until he emerges triumphant with a half-empty bag of Doritos and a pack of gummy worms.
He plops back down cross-legged, tossing the chips onto the bed. “Control group: nacho cheese Doritos. Universally recognized as the best chip in existence.”
Tim raises a brow but takes one. He bites it, chewing slowly, then swallows.
“...Texture,” he says finally.
“Texture?”
“Crunchy. That’s it.”
Peter clutches his chest dramatically. “No nacho? No cheese? Nothing?”
Tim shakes his head.
“That’s tragic,” Peter says, gasping. “Actual tragedy. Forget Shakespeare. This is the real deal.”
Tim huffs — barely audible, but a laugh. Progress.
It’s enough to push Peter on. “Okay, okay. Maybe candy works better. Gummies are, like, top-tier.”
He rips the package open, and offers one. Tim bites a worm in half, chews, and waits.
Then, reluctantly, he says: “Sweet.”
Peter lights up. “Sweet! That’s something! You can taste sweet!”
Tim smirks faintly. “You’re way too excited about this.”
“Dude, you’re a ghost who can still enjoy Haribo. That’s historic.”
The smirk fades, though, as fast as it came. Tim sets the candy aside, shoulders curling in. “It’s not the same.”
Peter goes quiet. He watches Tim’s face in the dim light, how carefully he tries to hide the disappointment and sadness.
“Yeah,” Peter says softly. “But it’s something.”
———
They migrate after that, the food abandoned. Peter digs out a blanket, tossing it onto the bed. “You can crash here. Floor’s mine. May already thinks I’m weird, so she won’t think too much of me on the floor.”
Tim gives him a look. “You think I need sleep?”
“Everybody needs sleep.” Peter shrugs, flopping down. “Even Batman.”
Tim freezes, head snapping toward him. “...Batman?”
Peter winces. “Uh. Hypothetical. Pop culture reference. Ignore me.”
But Tim doesn’t ignore it. His eyes go distant again, shadows creeping under them.
“I know that word,” he whispers.
Peter swallows. “Okay. Yeah, cool. We’ll add it to the list.”
They don’t talk after that. Not much. Peter lets the silence stretch, heavy but not unbearable. He listens to the radiator ticking and the distant sirens outside.
Tim sits on the edge of the bed, still in borrowed sweatpants and the Midtown High shirt that hangs too loose on his frame.
He looks smaller like this. Fragile.
Peter watches him for a while, noticing the way Tim folds in on himself, shoulders hunched. Noticing how, even with the scars, even with the quiet sadness, there’s something sharp in the set of his jaw.
Like he’s not just surviving — he’s fighting.
The room dims as the city outside finally quiets, traffic thinning, horns dulling to the occasional echo. Peter’s always liked this part of the night — the lull between late and too-late — where everything feels muffled, private.
Except now there’s someone else in the room.
He keeps stealing glances, even though he tells himself not to. Tim’s on the bed, back against the wall, blanket pulled halfheartedly across his lap. He’s too still. Not stiff, exactly, just… like he’s conserving energy.
Peter tries not to think about the scars. About the way Tim’s eyes went flat when he saw them. He tries not to think about the wizard’s voice, clipped and certain: That doesn’t belong in this plane.
He rolls onto his side on the floor, blanket tucked under his chin, staring at the outline of Tim in the dark. “You don’t have to sit like that, you know. You can actually — like — lie down. Beds are for lying down. Revolutionary concept, I know.”
For a beat, no answer.
Then, dryly: “You sure about that?”
“Pretty sure,” Peter mutters, fighting a smile.
There’s the sound of fabric shifting. The bed creaks. When Peter risks another glance, Tim has stretched out at last, blanket tugged to his shoulders. He looks younger like this, more human, even if Peter knows better.
The radiator hisses. The clock ticks.
Peter’s eyes slip shut, then flick open again. He doesn’t want to mess with it — the strangeness of this, the fact that he’s not alone. It feels important, even if he can’t name why.
“Hey, Tim?” His voice is soft, slurred with exhaustion.
“Yeah?”
Peter swallows. He doesn’t know what he meant to say. Just that the words are clawing at his throat, desperate to make all of this real.
“Nothing,” he says. “Just — night.”
There’s a pause. Then Tim’s voice, quieter still: “Good night, Peter.”
And for reasons he can’t pin down, that settles into his chest like an anchor. Heavy. Sure.
He drifts under with the city humming around him, a ghost in his bed, and the faint, impossible sense that something has just started. Something neither of them understands.
But something all the same.