Chapter Text

Peter's eyes burned as he stared at the same paragraph of his biochemistry textbook for what had to be the fifteenth time in twenty minutes. The words kept rearranging themselves into meaningless patterns, his brain too fried from three weeks of academic hell to process basic protein synthesis. His graduate school applications sat in accusatory stacks around his laptop, deadlines looming like storm clouds, while his latest research project—due tomorrow—remained frustratingly incomplete.

He'd been pulling all-nighters regularly since midterms started, juggling coursework with increased Spider-Man activity. Apparently October was prime time for supervillains with vendettas against college students, because Peter had spent more time in the suit than in class lately. Last night's encounter with some wannabe tech villain targeting NYU's engineering building had kept him out until dawn, and he was pretty sure he'd left webbing residue on his bedroom window again.

The sound of knocking at their apartment door barely registered through his exhaustion-induced haze. Jason's voice drifted from the living room, thanking someone for a delivery, followed by the rustle of what sounded like enough packaging material to ship a small car.

"Peter?" Jason called. "You still among the living in there?"

"Define living," Peter called back hoarsely, not looking up from his textbook. "If you mean 'technically breathing while staring at academic materials,' then yes. If you mean 'functioning as a coherent human being,' the jury's out."

"Right. So that's a no on the eating actual food today?"

Peter considered this question seriously. He'd had coffee. Did coffee count as food? His stomach growled, providing a definitive answer. "Food is a social construct designed to distract from the pure intellectual pursuit of... what was I reading about? Something with proteins."

The sound of containers being opened drew his attention despite his determination to remain buried in biochemistry. Curiosity finally won over academic martyrdom, and Peter shuffled out to the living room to find Jason surrounded by what looked like the contents of an entire restaurant.

"Holy shit, Jason." Peter blinked at the spread covering their table. Chinese takeout containers, Italian food, homemade cookies, sandwiches wrapped in deli paper, and what looked like enough soup to feed a small army. "Did you accidentally order from every place in Manhattan, or are you expecting the entire NYU student body for dinner?"

Jason looked almost embarrassed as he gestured at the food mountain. "Care package from home. My family's... thorough when it comes to making sure I don't starve."

"Your family ships you enough food to cater a wedding?" Peter picked up one of the soup containers, reading the handwritten label. "And someone named Alfred makes homemade chicken noodle soup? What kind of family do you have, the kind that employs professional chefs?"

"Something like that," Jason said evasively, which wasn't really an answer. "Alfred helped raise me and my siblings. He has... opinions about proper nutrition and whether we're taking care of ourselves."

Peter's tired brain latched onto the important detail. "Siblings, plural?"

"Four of them," Jason confirmed, opening what looked like high-end Italian takeout. "They're... a lot."

Before Peter could ask follow-up questions, Jason's phone lit up with an incoming video call. Jason glanced at the screen and sighed in a way that suggested both affection and resignation.

"Speaking of being a lot," Jason muttered. He looked at Peter apologetically. "Do you mind? They worry if I don't answer, and then they start showing up places uninvited."

"Go ahead," Peter said, settling at the table with what appeared to be restaurant-quality lasagna. "I'll just be here having my first actual meal in thirty-six hours."

Jason accepted the call, and immediately multiple voices erupted from the phone speaker in an overlapping cacophony that made Peter's head throb.

"Little wing! Finally!" The voice was enthusiastic and bright, with the kind of energy that belonged in a party, not a phone call, but there was genuine relief underneath the cheer.

"Miss me already, Dickhead?" Jason's posture relaxed as he talked, his usual careful control softening into something more genuine. "I literally talked to you guys last week."

"A week is forever in big brother time," another voice chimed in, this one way younger than Peter's age but with the kind of sleep-deprived intensity that made Peter feel validated about his close relationship with caffeine. "Plus you missed our scheduled check-in Tuesday. I had to run probability calculations on fourteen different scenarios."

"Tim's been cyber-stalking you," the first voice said cheerfully. "He accessed the campus dining hall system to track your meal card usage."

"That's not stalking, that's data collection," Tim protested, sounding genuinely offended by the terminology. "And I didn't access anything improperly. I simply... cross-referenced publicly available transactional data."

"Tim, Alfie said you made a spreadsheet," Jason said, and Peter could hear the grin in his voice. "With color coding."

"Visual data representation is a perfectly normal analytical method—"

"You labeled it 'Operation: Feed the Zombie,'" Dick interrupted gleefully.

"That was... a working title for research purposes."

"Todd," came a new voice, younger and carrying the crisp authority of someone who expected answers. " Drake's excessive monitoring aside, have you been maintaining adequate nutrition and rest cycles? Your previous... difficulties with academic institutions were concerning."

Peter nearly choked on his lasagna. These people talked like they'd stepped out of a very expensive private school, but with the kind of comfortable antagonism that only came from going through things. Even if those things were just being siblings.

"Damian, I'm eating fine," Jason said patiently. "Alfred's care packages could feed half of Brooklyn, as you can probably tell from the current chaos in my room."

"And you look less like a walking corpse," Dick added, the teasing not quite hiding his concern. "Tim was ready to drive down and conduct a personal welfare check."

"I don't drive," Tim said stiffly. "That's what rideshare services are for. More efficient use of time given my current course load and research commitments."

"What research?" Jason asked. "You're nineteen, Tim. Your biggest concern should be whether you remembered to attend your actual classes this week."

"I have a bunch of academic obligations that require—"

"Name one that isn't a self-assigned extra credit project," Dick challenged.

The conversation devolved into what sounded like typical sibling bickering, but Peter found himself listening despite trying to focus on his food. The dynamic was familiar yet foreign—the easy antagonism, the obvious affection underneath the teasing, the way they all seemed genuinely invested in Jason's wellbeing. But there was something careful in how they talked to him, like they were all still learning how to be brothers again.

"Jason." A softer voice interrupted the chaos, quiet but somehow commanding more attention than all the others combined. Peter looked up to see Jason's entire expression change, becoming gentler.

"Hey, Cass," Jason said, his voice dropping to match hers. "How are you doing?"

Peter couldn't make out her response clearly, but whatever she said made Jason focus completely on the conversation, his brothers falling silent in the background. 

"No, I'm... I'm really okay here," Jason was saying, and something in his tone caught Peter's attention. "Better than I've been in a long time. My roommate's good people, school's actually working out. I'm getting back to being myself again."

Getting back to being myself again. Peter filed that phrase away with all the other slightly off things Jason said about his situation. Who talked about starting college like it was recovery from something?

After a few more minutes of controlled chaos—someone was apparently planning an unauthorized campus visit, Tim was outlining a "comprehensive wellness monitoring protocol," and Damian was making increasingly imperious demands about Jason's academic performance—Jason finally managed to end the call.

"Sorry about that," Jason said, looking sheepish as he set his phone aside. "They're... intense."

"Intense is one word for it," Peter said, stabbing at his lasagna. "Do they always sound like they're planning a military operation when they check up on you?"

Jason snorted. "You should hear them when they're actually planning something. This was just Tuesday-level concern." He paused, seeming to consider his words. "They worry. More than they probably should."

"Yeah, I got that impression." Peter took another bite, then couldn't help himself. "Your brother Tim sounds like he could hack the Pentagon for fun."

"Tim could probably hack the Pentagon, but he'd do it for research purposes and then write a forty-page report on their security vulnerabilities." Jason's tone was fond despite the exasperation. "He's... thorough about everything. Especially when it comes to family."

Peter nodded, filing away the casual way Jason said that. Like hacking government systems was just a quirky hobby instead of, you know, a federal crime. "And the youngest one talks like he's forty."

"Damian's... complicated," Jason said carefully. "Smart as hell, but he grew up different from the rest of us. Has some strong opinions about how things should be done."

There was something in Jason's voice when he talked about his youngest brother—protective, maybe a little sad. Like there were things about Damian's childhood that hadn't been great, which was weird considering they clearly had money and resources.

"Different how?" Peter asked, then immediately backtracked. "Sorry, not my business."

"Nah, it's—" Jason stopped, clearly editing whatever he'd been about to say. "He just had a weird childhood. Spent it with his mom mostly, came to live with us when he was ten. Still adjusting to how we do things."

Peter frowned. "That must've been hard. For all of you."

"Yeah." Jason was quiet for a moment, poking at his food. "Family stuff gets complicated when people come and go. When you're trying to figure out where everyone fits."

The way he said it made Peter look up from his plate. There was something careful in Jason's expression, like he was talking about more than just Damian joining the family late.

"Sounds like you speak from experience," Peter said carefully.

Jason shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "I mentioned I took some time away, right? It wasn't exactly... planned. Sometimes things happen and you end up not being around for a while. Coming back means everyone's different, including you."

"What kind of things?" The question slipped out before Peter could stop it, and Jason's shoulders tensed slightly.

"Just... stuff." Jason's voice went flat in a way that made it clear the subject was closed. "Point is, they worry now. More than they used to. Sometimes it feels like they're waiting for me to disappear again."

Peter recognized that tone—the same one he used when people asked too many questions about why he'd missed classes or where he'd been during one of his Spider-Man incidents. The sound of someone who'd been through something they couldn't or wouldn't explain.

"That sucks," Peter said simply, because sometimes the best response was the honest one. "Feeling like people are just waiting for you to screw up again."

Jason glanced at him sharply. "Yeah. Exactly." He paused. "You sound like you know something about that."

Peter hesitated, then figured he could give a little without giving everything. "I've got a history of letting people down at important moments. Missing things, not being where I'm supposed to be. People I care about have learned not to count on me being around when it matters."

"That why things are weird with your friend? The one whose dad died?"

"Part of it." Peter pushed food around his plate, not sure how to explain that Harry blamed Spider-Man for Norman's death, and Peter had to pretend to agree while knowing he was actually the one Harry was angry at. "I wasn't there when he needed me. When his family was falling apart, I was... dealing with other stuff. He's got good reasons not to trust me."

"What kind of other stuff?"

Peter looked up to find Jason watching him with that assessing expression again, like he was trying to figure out what Peter wasn't saying. For a moment, Peter considered it—just telling someone, finally, about the weight of trying to balance being Spider-Man with having a normal life. About how being a hero meant constantly failing the people who mattered most to you as a person.

But then reality crashed back. Jason might be turning out to be a decent guy, but Peter had learned the hard way that sharing his secret didn't make things better. It just put people in danger and gave them more reasons to worry.

"Just personal stuff," Peter said, echoing Jason's earlier deflection. "Family problems. Had to handle some things that kept me busy when I should've been a better friend."

Jason nodded slowly, and Peter could see him recognizing the deflection for what it was. "Yeah. I get that. Sometimes the things you have to deal with don't leave room for being the person other people need you to be."

They sat in silence for a moment, both of them clearly thinking about whatever they weren't saying. It should've been awkward, but instead it felt oddly comfortable. Like they understood something about each other without having to explain it.

"Your aunt," Jason said eventually. "You said she worries a lot?"

Peter sighed. "May's... she's great. Really. She took me in when my parents died, raised me after my uncle was killed. But she's been through enough, you know? She doesn't need to spend her time worrying about me getting into trouble or getting hurt."

"So you keep her at a distance to protect her from worrying?"

"Sometimes." Peter looked at Jason, noting the careful way he'd phrased that. "You do the same thing with your family?"

"Not exactly." Jason was quiet for a moment. "More like... I'm trying to figure out how to be around them without everyone walking on eggshells. They want to help, but they don't really understand what I need help with. And I can't explain it without making everything worse."

Peter nodded. That he definitely understood. "It's weird how you can love people and still feel completely alone around them."

"Yeah." Jason's voice was soft. "And then you feel guilty about feeling alone, because they're trying and it's not their fault you can't just... be normal about things."

"Exactly." Peter felt something ease in his chest at the understanding in Jason's voice. "Like, I know May loves me and wants to help, but if she knew half the stuff I deal with on a regular basis, she'd never sleep again. So I pretend everything's fine, and then I feel like shit for lying to her."

"And she probably knows you're lying but doesn't know how to call you on it without making it worse," Jason added.

"Probably." Peter rubbed his face. "God, this is depressing. Are we officially the worst at maintaining relationships?"

Jason laughed, but it wasn't entirely happy. "I think we're just really good at dealing with complicated situations that don't have good solutions. Which is probably why we get along as roommates."

"Because we both understand that sometimes you can't explain why you are the way you are?"

"Something like that." Jason looked at him for a moment. "It's nice, actually. Not having to justify why I can't talk about certain things. Most people push, or they assume the worst."

Peter knew exactly what he meant. "Yeah. People either want all the details, or they decide you're being dramatic about normal problems."

"Right. Like, just because I can't explain doesn't mean it's not real."

They fell into another comfortable silence, and Peter realized that this was the first real conversation he'd had with someone in months that didn't involve carefully constructed half-truths designed to deflect suspicion. Jason wasn't pushing for details, wasn't making assumptions, wasn't trying to fix anything. He was just... listening and understanding.

"Can I ask you something?" Peter said eventually.

"Shoot."

"When you talked to your sister—Cass—you sounded different. Like..." Peter struggled to find the right words. "Like you were talking to someone who really gets it. Whatever 'it' is."

Jason's expression shifted, becoming softer and more vulnerable. "Cass doesn't talk as much, but when she does, it matters. And she doesn't need explanations for things. She just... knows. It's hard to describe."

"She's been through stuff too?"

"Yeah. Different stuff than me, but..." Jason shrugged. "She understands what it's like to feel disconnected from people. To have parts of yourself you can't share. We don't have to pretend with each other."

Peter felt a stab of envy at that. He couldn't remember the last time he'd talked to someone who understood without needing explanations. "That sounds nice."

"It is. But it's also kind of isolating, you know? Being close to someone because you both can't be close to anyone else."

"Yeah." Peter did know. "Like you're bonding over loneliness instead of connection."

"Exactly." Jason looked at him thoughtfully. "Though I guess... this isn't that, is it? Talking like this."

Peter considered it. They were both still holding back, still keeping their biggest secrets. But they were also actually talking, actually sharing something real, even if it was just the shape of the things they couldn't share.

"No," Peter said slowly. "I think this is actually... friendship? Maybe?"

"Weird friendship," Jason said, but he was smiling slightly. "Based on mutually respecting each other's right to have mysterious personal problems."

"Hey, it works for us." Peter grinned back. "Besides, normal friendship is overrated. Normal friends expect you to show up to things and answer your phone and not disappear for days without explanation."

"God, yes. The expectations." Jason rolled his eyes. "Normal friends want to know where you've been and why you look like you haven't slept in a week and why you won't talk about your family."

"And they take it personally when you can't be available every time they need something," Peter added. "Like having other priorities means you don't care about them."

"Or when you're dealing with something but you can't explain what, so they assume you're just being moody or attention-seeking."

They looked at each other and started laughing, the kind of laughter that was equal parts humor and relief.

"We're really screwed up, aren't we?" Peter said when he caught his breath.

"Absolutely," Jason agreed cheerfully. "But at least we're screwed up in compatible ways."

"Compatible dysfunction. I think that's the foundation of all great friendships."

"Definitely." Jason raised his water glass in a mock toast. "To being mysteriously damaged in ways that make us excellent roommates."

Peter clinked his glass against Jason's. "And to not asking follow-up questions when someone says they're fine."

"The most important roommate skill," Jason agreed solemnly.

They went back to eating, but the atmosphere had shifted completely. The careful distance they'd been maintaining was still there, but now it felt like a choice they were both making rather than a wall between them. Like they'd figured out how to be friends around their respective complications instead of in spite of them.

"Hey," Jason said eventually, sounding almost hesitant. "If you want help with those grad school essays, the offer stands. I'm good at making complicated personal stuff sound academically acceptable."

"Thanks," Peter said, and meant it. "I might take you up on that. Fair warning though—my research interests are probably going to sound completely insane."

"I've got experience with insane-sounding research interests," Jason said with a grin. "Literature majors spend a lot of time making weird theoretical concepts sound legitimate."

"What kind of weird theoretical concepts?"

Jason's grin became slightly wicked. "Let's just say I've written papers on some very unconventional interpretations of classical texts. Turns out professors love it when you can support your bizarre theories with enough academic sources."

Peter laughed. "I'll keep that in mind. Maybe you can help me figure out how to make 'genetically enhanced healing factors' sound like a reasonable research focus."

"Easy. Frame it as 'accelerated cellular regeneration in response to genetic modification for therapeutic applications.' Throw in some stuff about potential cancer treatments and tissue engineering, and you'll sound like the next Nobel Prize winner."

"See, this is why I needed a literature major roommate," Peter said. "You guys are good at making things sound important and legitimate."

"It's a gift," Jason said modestly. "We're professionally trained in creative interpretation and persuasive bullshit."

"Perfect skill set for helping science nerds navigate academia."

"And for understanding when someone's avoiding talking about something without making it weird."

They smiled at each other, and Peter felt that warm feeling of recognition again. Something deeper. The relief of finding someone who understood the rules of whatever game they were both playing.

"Anyway," Jason said, breaking the moment but not the comfortable mood, "fair warning—they'll probably want to video call again soon, and they'll definitely want to interrogate you about my general wellbeing and whether I'm maintaining appropriate social functionality."

"I can handle sibling interrogation," Peter said, turning back to his laptop. "As long as they don't expect me to have opinions about your mysterious gap year activities."

Jason's hands stilled on his keyboard for just a moment. "No opinions required. Just confirmation that I'm not completely antisocial and I eat vegetables occasionally."

"I can vouch for the vegetable consumption," Peter said. "The social skills are still under evaluation."

Jason threw a wadded-up napkin at him, and Peter ducked, grinning despite himself.

Maybe this roommate situation was going to work out after all.