I amwas a Teenage Superhero (0/?)
A few days late and not yet finished, but I thought I'd at least post the first chapter here to let the receiver know it hasn't been forgotten and that we are working on it.
DC/Marvel ficathon
October 30
Universes: DCU/616
Prompt:
Title: I am was a Teenage Superhero
Author: lore and axolotl_lan
Prompt: Smart boys in spandex
Universes: DCU/616
Characters: Robin (Tim Drake)/Spider-man (Peter Parker)
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG15
Word Count: (not yet known)
Pairing: Tim Drake/Peter Parker
Summary: When Bruce Wayne gets a new housekeeper, she brings along her teenage nephew
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue
Warnings: teenage mischief
Peter sat at the counter, his fork pushing his wheat cakes from one side of his plate to the other, while his aunt was checking his bags. He bit his lip, refusing to even look at his aunt, while keeping a tight hold on to his fork, desperately forcing himself not to bend the iron, or crush it between his fingers.
Every time she took an item out of the bag, she took care to fold it properly and placed it on the stack next to the bag. Only after she checked every compartment of the bag, she slowly and carefully picked up the clothes and placed them back in the bag.
When she got to his camera supplies, she seemed to hesitate for a moment before returning them. Peter's lip nearly started bleeding when she did so. He prayed that she wouldn't make him leave any of it behind.
It took her fifteen minutes before she finished her check and placed the bags back on the ground. Peter rushed over to help. Aunt May sat on the chair and didn't even face him.
"I'm sorry Peter. I just…"
She couldn't trust him anymore. Peter closed his eyes and looked away. Why didn't she believe him? Then again, why should she?
He'd never forget the look on her face, that day, a week ago. He'd been sitting in a police interrogation room, hurting. They'd bandaged his ribs, but the bullet wounds were still fresh, still hurt. One of the detectives had given him a bottle of juice earlier, but he hadn't been able to keep anything down. The idea of the cops seeing him, knowing who he was, tore through his guts even if Captain Stacy had promised him they keep his identity safe.
She'd been brought into the room and he'd looked up at her. He'd sat there in a jumper and a pair of stretch pants that the police had given him. It didn't help. She didn't speak to him, just held him. And he followed after her.
They weren't putting any charges against him, but he'd sat there in the hall while Captain Stacy talked to aunt May in his office, and he'd noticed the both of them looking his way every once and a while during their conversation. It made him cringe. They'd called him misguided. That's all he'd heard of it.
When he got home, aunt May had asked him to stop being Spider-Man. She'd told him she couldn't handle losing him, like she had lost Ben. She'd cried as she sat there, her hands on her lap. And he'd promised, he'd given his word that he'd stop. He'd do anything not to hurt her.
She'd made him throw his costume in the garbage, closing the bag and placing it outside. He stood there, unable to even try and save it. He could make a new one, but what was the use? The cops had refused to give his webshooters back to him.
He was sixteen years old, Captain Stacy had said, and if he still wanted to fight crime after he graduated college the captain himself would write him a letter of recommendation for police academy. But they couldn't let an untrained teenager get in the way of police work. It was simply too dangerous. Peter wanted to ask him what he was supposed to do when he saw people attacked or killed. But he couldn't, not with aunt May sitting right next to him.
"Peter, I'm not doing this to hurt you," she finally said, pulling him back to the present situation; moving from New York, taking him out of his school and away from his friends (Peter half snorted to himself - What friends?). She had taken a job in Gotham. He had responsibilities here, to the people of New York, and she wanted him to abandon it for Gotham?
"I was on the computer at the library yesterday-you know Gotham has a higher murder rate per capita than New York, right?" Peter said offhandedly hoping that he could somehow get her to stop packing the boxes and listen to reason.
Aunt May gave him a look. "Mr. Wayne lives in a good neighborhood. I just want to keep you safe, Peter. I want to make sure that you don't ruin your life. You're a bright boy. You could be doing so much more with your time than beating people up in the middle of the street."
"I mostly fought on the rooftops." Peter quickly shut up as aunt May glared at him.
"You've got a great future ahead of you, Peter. You could make something of yourself. But that won't happen if you just…"
Peter stopped listening and stood up.
"Peter!"
He knew he should stay and listen to her but God, if she used the word responsibility once more he was going to go insane. He wasn't a child, he was sixteen, and he knew what he was doing. If only she could understand that. Instead she was moving them to Gotham City, away from his home, the people he'd sworn to protect; away from his promise to Uncle Ben.
tbc
DC/Marvel ficathon
October 30
Universes: DCU/616
Prompt:
Title: I am was a Teenage Superhero
Author: lore and axolotl_lan
Prompt: Smart boys in spandex
Universes: DCU/616
Characters: Robin (Tim Drake)/Spider-man (Peter Parker)
Genre: Slash
Rating: PG15
Word Count: (not yet known)
Pairing: Tim Drake/Peter Parker
Summary: When Bruce Wayne gets a new housekeeper, she brings along her teenage nephew
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue
Warnings: teenage mischief
Peter sat at the counter, his fork pushing his wheat cakes from one side of his plate to the other, while his aunt was checking his bags. He bit his lip, refusing to even look at his aunt, while keeping a tight hold on to his fork, desperately forcing himself not to bend the iron, or crush it between his fingers.
Every time she took an item out of the bag, she took care to fold it properly and placed it on the stack next to the bag. Only after she checked every compartment of the bag, she slowly and carefully picked up the clothes and placed them back in the bag.
When she got to his camera supplies, she seemed to hesitate for a moment before returning them. Peter's lip nearly started bleeding when she did so. He prayed that she wouldn't make him leave any of it behind.
It took her fifteen minutes before she finished her check and placed the bags back on the ground. Peter rushed over to help. Aunt May sat on the chair and didn't even face him.
"I'm sorry Peter. I just…"
She couldn't trust him anymore. Peter closed his eyes and looked away. Why didn't she believe him? Then again, why should she?
He'd never forget the look on her face, that day, a week ago. He'd been sitting in a police interrogation room, hurting. They'd bandaged his ribs, but the bullet wounds were still fresh, still hurt. One of the detectives had given him a bottle of juice earlier, but he hadn't been able to keep anything down. The idea of the cops seeing him, knowing who he was, tore through his guts even if Captain Stacy had promised him they keep his identity safe.
She'd been brought into the room and he'd looked up at her. He'd sat there in a jumper and a pair of stretch pants that the police had given him. It didn't help. She didn't speak to him, just held him. And he followed after her.
They weren't putting any charges against him, but he'd sat there in the hall while Captain Stacy talked to aunt May in his office, and he'd noticed the both of them looking his way every once and a while during their conversation. It made him cringe. They'd called him misguided. That's all he'd heard of it.
When he got home, aunt May had asked him to stop being Spider-Man. She'd told him she couldn't handle losing him, like she had lost Ben. She'd cried as she sat there, her hands on her lap. And he'd promised, he'd given his word that he'd stop. He'd do anything not to hurt her.
She'd made him throw his costume in the garbage, closing the bag and placing it outside. He stood there, unable to even try and save it. He could make a new one, but what was the use? The cops had refused to give his webshooters back to him.
He was sixteen years old, Captain Stacy had said, and if he still wanted to fight crime after he graduated college the captain himself would write him a letter of recommendation for police academy. But they couldn't let an untrained teenager get in the way of police work. It was simply too dangerous. Peter wanted to ask him what he was supposed to do when he saw people attacked or killed. But he couldn't, not with aunt May sitting right next to him.
"Peter, I'm not doing this to hurt you," she finally said, pulling him back to the present situation; moving from New York, taking him out of his school and away from his friends (Peter half snorted to himself - What friends?). She had taken a job in Gotham. He had responsibilities here, to the people of New York, and she wanted him to abandon it for Gotham?
"I was on the computer at the library yesterday-you know Gotham has a higher murder rate per capita than New York, right?" Peter said offhandedly hoping that he could somehow get her to stop packing the boxes and listen to reason.
Aunt May gave him a look. "Mr. Wayne lives in a good neighborhood. I just want to keep you safe, Peter. I want to make sure that you don't ruin your life. You're a bright boy. You could be doing so much more with your time than beating people up in the middle of the street."
"I mostly fought on the rooftops." Peter quickly shut up as aunt May glared at him.
"You've got a great future ahead of you, Peter. You could make something of yourself. But that won't happen if you just…"
Peter stopped listening and stood up.
"Peter!"
He knew he should stay and listen to her but God, if she used the word responsibility once more he was going to go insane. He wasn't a child, he was sixteen, and he knew what he was doing. If only she could understand that. Instead she was moving them to Gotham City, away from his home, the people he'd sworn to protect; away from his promise to Uncle Ben.
tbc