Chapter Text
They leave the school together, strolling into the misty Gotham night side by side, just close enough that it doesn’t look supremely awkward. Peter lets out a quiet breath of relief when they finally leave the school. The conference is done. And no one died, miraculously. Somehow, Loki managed to charm all of his teachers with only a few careful words and managed the whole situation beautifully. Peter didn’t even have to fling himself out of the nearest window and flee into the night, never to be seen again. Minus that one hiccup with Tim and Duke’s brother, the evening passed without incident. Mission success.
“You should worry about what you promised him,” Fury says.
Okay, yeah, fine, but one crisis at a time, okay?
Loki pauses on the sidewalk outside of the school and turns to face Peter, reaching out to grip his shoulder. Peter, pale and shaky from a wicked combination of exhaustion, his growing migraine, and hunger pangs, frowns up at him. This isn’t anywhere close to where they agreed to pull their disappearing act.
“Listen, kid,” he sas, pitching his voice just a bit too loud. Peter catches sight of Tim and Dick from the corner of his eye and realizes that Loki wants them to overhear this. Something icy grips his stomach and he’s suddenly worried about whatever Loki’s going to pull. “This isn’t working out.”
Peter stares at him. “What?”
“This whole ‘us’ thing. You and me, you know,” Loki says, pointing to himself and then Peter. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s been great--you’re a brilliant kid, all your teachers love you--but, uh, I’m not really built for this.”
Peter’s headache is getting worse. His temples throb, and his vision begins to go blurry at the edges. He sighs, exhausted. “What are you--”
“So I’m cutting you off. You’ve been handling things on your own long enough that you’ve got this all figured out anyway, so it won’t be that much of a change.”
“Cutting me off,” Peter repeats slowly. His blood is pounding in his ears; a sign of his worsening migraine. He raises his own voice, just to hear himself over it. “Cutting me off from what? This is the first time you’ve done anything for me since we came to Gotham--”
“You were supposed to be getting an allowance. You didn’t get any of that? Huh. There must have been a problem at the bank,” Loki says. He gives Peter an easy grin and gently punches his shoulder. It’s unbelievably awkward, and Peter steps away from him on instinct. “Even better! You’re already fully independent. See, I knew you had this.”
Peter stares at him for a long, silent moment that seems to drag on forever before saying, simply, “What.”
“Guess you’re not getting it,” Loki says. His tone grows firmer, and just a bit sharper; not quite a yell, but he is projecting his voice. “We’re through. I’m going to go my way, and you go your way.”
And then it clicks for Peter. Loki used him. The runes he traced out earlier severed him from whatever prison he was in. He’s free of the Soul Stone, free of being trapped with the others. Peter just set the God of Mischief loose in this universe, free to do whatever he pleases. The gravity of the situation hits him fully then, and Peter pales. “No, no, you can’t--”
“I just did,” Loki says from behind Tony’s face, adjusting his cufflinks. “But hey, once you graduate, look me up in New York.” He winks, and his grin grows sharper. “I was serious about that job offer, and I’d love to catch up with you in a few years.”
“Son of a bitch,” Sam says quietly. “He played us.”
“You can’t just--” Peter steps towards him, and then comes to an abrupt stop. Every nerve in his head flares up as if struck by lightning, and he’s momentarily dazzled by a white hot pain stabbing the back of his eyes like railroad spikes.
“Another migraine? Really? You should get that looked at. Maybe eat a little more,” Loki says casually. He checks his watch. “Anyway, I have a flight to catch. Good luck, Peter. It’s been an experience.”
Peter realizes that there’s a subtle green to his migraine aura this time. Loki is causing the migraine; he probably started it back at the fire station. Loki turns to leave and Peter growls, marching after him. Another bright flash across his eyes causes him to stumble.
Warm arms catch him, steadying him. A quiet voice murmurs near him. Tim's brother, Dick. “It’s okay. We’ve got you.”
“I have to talk to--” Peter starts. He can’t finish the sentence. Another of those horrible flashes hit him. This time, it’s sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes. He can feel the arm around his shoulders tighten protectively.
“He’s already gone,” Dick says gently. “Come on. You can stay with us.”
“No, I--I need to--” Another flash. And Peter realizes that this was Loki’s plan. To get him here and then abandon him, making a scene of it, so Peter would be delayed by Tim, Duke, and their brother. He tries to struggle free of Dick’s grip, hastily wiping his eyes. He can’t manage it; the migraine is getting worse, and his balance hasn’t quite recovered. “I need to go after him--”
“Later,” Tim says, his tone soft and protective. He settles a pair of sunglasses over Peter’s eyes. “We’ll deal with him later.”
“Where’s Duke?” Dick asks Tim quietly.
“I sent him a text a minute ago. He’s getting the car,” Tim answers, just as quietly. It’s not quiet enough, not with Peter’s sensitive hearing. “Alfred’s getting the spare bedroom ready, too.”
“Good,” Dick says, relieved.
A car rolls up to the curb and god, he can hear every part of it. The engine, well maintained as it is, still has a near overpowering growl. The hazard lights click on, and there’s a weighted heat to the flashes when the light hits his skin. He can even hear the fuel rushing through the vehicle. Loki didn’t turn his senses up to eleven. He shot them up to an even one thousand. Peter sways on his feet, nearly pitching forward. Dick adjusts his hold across his shoulders and braces him before he can fall.
The door opens, and he’s carefully nudged inside. Someone buckles him in, like a child, and he’d be mortified and embarrassed if his head wasn’t threatening to explode from pain. Other doors open, shut, there’s murmured conversation he can’t hear because of that ever present screeching whine in his ears, and then the car is in motion. The ride passes mostly in silence.
Peter has half a mind to unbuckle himself, pop open the door, and then flee--
“No, stay here. If you jump out, you’ll just tear yourself up,” Bucky says flatly. “And if you try, we’ll get Duke to haul your dumb ass back in the car.”
Peter feels someone startle in the seat beside him. Whoever it is--Duke, he realizes, he recognizes him through the gloom and sunglasses now--reaches out to take his shoulder.
“Take it easy, man. Go back to sleep. We’re almost home,” he says, pitching his voice low.
He’d been asleep? When? Maybe after he was put into the car. It’s a smooth ride, and the window glass is cold and soothing. Peter slumps back against the door with a quiet grunt, drifting back off. He is sleeping. Or dozing, at least, like he did when he was working with Batman a couple of days ago. This time instead of the cold, it’s a vise grip burn of a migraine burrowing into his brain.
“What was that about?” Tim asks.
“I think he woke up and panicked,” Duke says after a moment. “Seems like he was about to jump out of the car and run?”
“Migraines can make you disoriented,” Dick says. “He probably didn’t recognize where he was.”
“Probably,” Duke says after a moment. “How much further?”
“Two minutes. Alfred is waiting for us,” Dick says.
Peter sleeps. This time, he doesn’t stir when the car stops. He’s vaguely aware of Duke gently pulling him away from the door and supporting him until Dick unbuckles him and lifts him up out of the car. He can feel the man grumble, shifting his hold as he carries Peter up a set of stairs. Peter tries to get up, to shift and move, but Dick keeps him braced against his chest with Peter’s head resting against his shoulder.
This is mortifying.
"No shame in letting people carry you when you need it," Sam says.
“He’s too light,” Dick says quietly.
“Yeah,” Tim says with a sigh. “He is.”
A prim, polite, and decidedly British voice speaks next. Peter doesn’t recognize it. “I’ve prepared the room across from yours, Master Richard.” A pause. “I’ll see to finding him more clothing, and food.”
“Thanks, Alfred,” Dick says. “That’ll put him between Tim and Duke’s room, too.”
“Have you informed Master Bruce yet?”
A very long pause follows that question. Finally, Tim clears his throat. “I’ll go make a phone call.”
“That would be wise, Master Tim,” Alfred says politely.
Peter drifts for a moment; it’s hard to focus on his surroundings when his head is throbbing. When he stirs again, he’s laying in a bed far too large and comfortable to belong to him. His headache has lessened, but hasn’t fully disappeared. His shoes are off, and he’s been tucked beneath blankets that are warm and soft. The curtains are drawn tight across the windows, and he can hear the gentle drumming of rain against the window. He can also hear three other heartbeats nearby, hidden in the dark.
That pushes him awake. He stirs, struggling to sit up. The pain in his head, which had settled to a dull roar, swells to an overpowering wave that paralyzes him before he can sit up. Loki’s spell, whatever it was, is still powerful enough to knock him flat on his back. He hisses in pain.
“Easy,” Wanda says gently. “It’s your friends. They’re staying close to you. You’re safe.”
Now that she mentions it, he can make out the vague outlines of Duke, Tim, and Dick in the room, asleep in chairs or, in Tim’s case, facedown on the floor. He stares at them for a moment, surprised, and then rubs his eyes, trying to sort out a rush of emotions that threaten to overwhelm him.
One floats through the mess, rising to the top. He’s going to kill Loki.
“That’s a thought for another day,” Wanda says before gently reaching out and tapping his forehead. The pain abates, and he starts to slip back into true sleep. “Rest.”
He sleeps for a long time.
* * *
BATCHAT
Tim (10:30am): hey, good news
Tim (10:31am): Bruce had adoption papers half written out for Peter already
Jason (10:32am): Of course he fucking does.
Tim (10:33am): yeah, not surprised
Steph (10:34am): can we even make fun of him for it at this point?
Tim (10:35am): probably not
Duke (10:36am): hell yeah for not being the new kid anymore
* * *
He sleeps well into the next day. He only knows this based on half heard conversations from outside his door.
“It isn’t getting better,” Tim says, worried. “If anything it’s worse. How long do migraines last? Are they supposed to last this long?”
“I don’t know. I don’t get migraines, just headaches,” Duke says. He pauses. “I have an idea, hang on.”
The door to Peter’s room inches open, casting in gentle light from the hallway. Peter can hear Duke step inside; his heartbeat, steady and healthy, sounds like thundering drums in the dark. Peter risks peeking out from under the blanket.
“Sam, how do we help?” Duke whispers.
Something gold forms near Duke. Sam Wilson briefly becomes visible. “Bucky gets like this sometimes, too. He needs food. Soup, soft bread, electrolytes. And water. A ton of it.”
“Who’s Bucky?”
“Ask Peter about Germany sometime to find out,” Sam says. He starts to fade and hurries to add. “Peter's starving. He can’t heal without food. Make twice as much soup as you’d make for an entire family and make sure he eats all of it.”
“Yeah, got it,” Duke says. “Thanks.”
Sam disappears. Peter settles back into his burning migraine.
* * *
The smell of freshly made soup and bread cuts through his pain like a knife. The pain rolls back so suddenly that it’s almost disorienting. Alfred is in his room, carrying a bowl of steaming chicken broth and freshly made bread on a covered tray. Peter blinks awake, his head clearing for the first time since Loki manifested himself into reality. He sits up slowly, running one hand through sweat slick hair, squinting sleepily at the butler and the food. “He cast a curse with a very simple way to break it,” Dr. Strange murmurs appreciatively. “The pain lasts until Peter is fed.”
“Which he wasn’t likely to get if he went back to the fire station,” Hill says. “No wonder he made such a huge scene outside of the school. He wanted to give himself a head start.”
“Are you feeling well enough to eat, Master Peter?” Alfred asks politely. His voice is low and gentle, wary of triggering the migraine.
Peter, who has never been called a master anything, blinks up at him in confusion. “I think so, yeah. Uh. How long was I asleep?”
“Almost twelve hours,” Alfred says, arranging his pillows to support his back before pulling out the sides of the tray to turn it into a table. He sets the table in front of Peter and uncovers the tray. “Just a simple broth and bread for now, I’m afraid. We'll move on to more substantial food when you're feeling better.”
Peter eyes the soup warily. Food has been a laughable idea during every other migraine, but this is different. He picks up the spoon and takes a wary sip of the broth.
The pain disappears, only to be replaced with a ravenous hunger. Peter sets the spoon down, picks up the bowl, and outright drinks the broth. He drains it in seconds, sets the bowl down, and tears into the soft bread. It's the worst table manners he's ever shown, but he’s too hungry to care.
He's cleared the bowl and tray within a minute of Alfred setting it out for him. Alfred tilts his head and says, simply, "Hm. I see we're ready for another helping."
Peter rubs the back of his neck. "Er, sorry--"
"You have nothing to apologize for," Alfred says, taking the tray from him. "Nothing at all. Please wait a moment, I'll return shortly."
Peter doesn’t exactly have an option. The migraine hangover and the extreme hunger have robbed him of his desire to get up and move. The bed is too comfortable, the room is too warm, the sound of the rain is too soothing. Alfred leaves the room with the tray, gently shutting the door behind himself.
Peter leans back against the pillows, relaxing. There’s a bone deep itch tingling up his back and into his arms and legs. It may have just been broth and bread, but it was good broth and bread. Enough to help, at least. Peter settles into the bed fully, dozing. He snaps out of it when Alfred wheels in an entire cart full of food.
“I decided this would be much more efficient,” Alfred says. He sets out the tray again and covers it in small plates. Broth, soup, bread, water, tea. “Since Master Duke’s instincts were correct and it seems you only needed food to recover...”
“Yeah, I guess I did,” Peter says, staring at the food. He’s close to actually drooling.
“Then eat your fill, Master Peter. And don’t hesitate to ask for more. I understand things haven’t been going in your favor for quite some time,” Alfred says. The way he pauses at the sight of Peter makes Peter wonder exactly how bad he looks.
“You look like a starving orphan,” Drax says helpfully. “Small. Pale. Pathetic. Like a puppy that is sad.”
Great, thanks. Good to know.
Peter starts to eat. He clears the entire cart of food, eating the tray bare and sitting back while Alfred fills it again. By the time he drinks the last bit of soup and eats the last crumb of bread, he’s close to full and a low, tingly itch covers his body from head to toe. His healing factor is hard at work, apparently.
Alfred takes the tray from him one last time. “How do you feel?”
“Better. Great,” Peter says, fighting back a yawn. “Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Alfred replies. He tucks the blankets back around Peter. “Rest. When you’re feeling well enough, I’ve left a change of clothes in the bathroom.”
Peter is suddenly aware of how grimy he feels. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Alfred smiles, then leaves. Peter is asleep before the door shuts.
* * *
BATCHAT
Steph (11:10am): so does anyone know where damian went?
Tim (11:11am): he snuck into the plane when Bruce left
Steph (11:12am): okay that tracks
Steph (11:13am): in that case i’m stealing this candy bar he had hidden in his room that’s definitely not approved by alfred
Damian (11:14am): Touch anything in my room and you forfeit your life.
Steph (11:15am): come and stop me, wayne.
Steph has uploaded an image ‘got_your_illegal_chocolate.jpg’
Damian (11:16am): Sleep with one eye open, Brown.
* * *
Peter wakes up, rolls out of bed, and shuffles straight for the bathroom tucked away into the corner of the room. He showers, revels in the warmth of the water, and then shuffles out. Clothes are neatly folded on a bench. Tim’s clothes, actually; jeans, socks, shirt, and--amusingly enough--a sport coat. He changes, then pulls his old shoes back on; he and Tim definitely don’t have the same shoe size and Peter’s work well enough for now.
He brushes his teeth, does his best to tame his hair, gives up, and steps back into the bedroom. He pauses to take in the room.
It's easily the size of his apartment back in Queens. There’s a bed, a desk, a small living room area complete with a small sofa, a plush chair, and a flat screen, and a door leading out to a balcony. Floor to ceiling windows line the wall, and beyond it, Peter can see the distant shape of Gotham City, muted by rain. It's strangely beautiful in the murky afternoon.
He takes stock of himself. He feels great; he's not hungry, he's clean, he's warm, and it feels as if he can think clearly for the first time in months. He needs to thank Tim and Duke for bringing him here for the night. He owes them.
It really is going to suck when he goes back to the fire station.
"For a genius, you're an idiot sometimes," Fury remarks.
Well, that’s just rude.
A knock on his door brings him back to himself, and he’s quick to cross the room and pull the door open.
Dick is standing on the other side. He takes in Peter’s appearance and perks up, smiling at him.
"Hey, Pete. How are you feeling?" he asks.
"Human, for once," Peter answers, running a hand through his hair. "Thanks for letting me stay the night. I think I needed it."
Dick pauses and tilts his head. "It isn't just for one night, Peter."
Peter frowns. "What?"
"We overheard everything last night. It sounds like Tony isn't coming back for you," Dick says after a moment.
Peter starts to protest, then stops. Tony isn't coming for him, but not for the reason Dick thinks. He frowns, staring past Dick.
"Yeah. I guess he isn't," he says after a long moment.
"You can stay here with us," Dick says. "Alfred’s already getting everything set up for you, and Duke and Tim are excited to have you here. Just stay here."
Peter stares at him. "Just like that?"
"Just like that," Dick says.
Peter mulls it over. It really isn't much of a decision; either freeze and starve in Crime Alley, or stay here where he's safe, warm, and close to his friends. Bonus: the balcony in his room will make it easy to slip out for patrol. So will the warm bed and food. He'd have to sneak around Tim, Duke, Dick, and Alfred, but that shouldn't be too hard, right? Especially in a place this big.
"Yeah. Yeah, okay," Peter says. "I, uh, think I'd like that."
Dick smiles in relief, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. “Good. Welcome to the family, Peter.”
Peter is a little amused and curious about how quickly Dick has taken to him. He seems nice enough. Tim and Duke look up to him, and that’s good enough for Peter, but he’s curious about how familiar Dick is with him. They probably weren’t talking about him to their big brother, right?
“Uh, thanks,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Do you have anything you want to grab from your old place?” Dick says.
“Yeah, definitely. If you drop me off at a bus stop, I can go--”
Dick scoffs, holding up a set of car keys and motioning for Peter to follow him down the hall. “Yeah, right. Come on, I’ll drive you.”
“It’s in Crime Alley,” Peter says, following after him. He’s briefly overwhelmed by the size of the manor. They walk down a grand staircase, with a family portrait hanging above the landing. A family portrait that includes Bruce Fucking Wayne. “Are you, uh, sure you want to...”
“I can handle Spider Alley,” Dicks says dismissively, jogging down the steps. “We won’t be very long, and it’s day time anyway.”
Peter hesitates, takes one last look up at the family portrait on the wall--how had he missed Bruce taking in so many kids?--and follows Dick outside. He’s a lot less sure of his decision to stay at the manor now.
* * *
BATCHAT
Duke (06:33pm): where’s Peter?
Tim (06:34pm): dick grabbed him to go get his stuff from his old place
Duke (06:35pm): okay good
Tim (06:36pm): btw, unrelated to everything, what was the ghost situation like in that car
Tim (06:37pm): like where did they even sit?
Duke (06:38pm): please stop
* * *
The drive into the city is quiet. The steady rain turns freezing, and then into a steady sleet. The roads turn slick and the ever present fog that envelops the city lowers to ground level. Dick turns on some music, attempts to make some small talk, and then ultimately gives up when Peter doesn’t respond much. He’s being rude, and he knows it, but he needs some time to think. It’s much easier now that he isn’t starving or exhausted. Imagine that.
How the fuck did he not notice that Tim and Duke are literally Bruce Wayne’s kids? How did he miss that? Even Steph was on the family portrait, and he had no clue she spent much time with Tim and Duke outside of school. At least, not that he’s noticed, but he also makes a habit of all but fleeing out of the school to go on patrol as soon as possible. He just never paid attention.
He has the sinking suspicion that Bruce knows he’s stolen from him, that he’s just indulged in Peter's theft. God, he hopes not, he knows he covered his tracks, but he’s not Ned. He might have missed something.
“So, where exactly am I taking you?” Dick asks after a moment. He frowns at the surrounding buildings. Half are in blatant disrepair and somehow look even more pathetic in the sleet and rain. “You never gave me an address.”
“Yeah, it’s in a weird spot. Parking is kind of at a premium,” Peter says. He points to a strip mall parking lot playing host to a flea market despite the fog, the chill, and the rain. It’s one of the safer parts of Crime Alley, and is coincidentally about as far as he wants to bring one of Bruce Wayne’s kids into it. “Just park here. I can walk the rest of the way.”
Dick glances at him from the corner of his eye, but dutifully turns off the main road and into the parking lot. He parks the car, turning it off. “I’ll walk with you--”
Peter’s out of the car the moment it stops, disappearing into the fog.
* * *
Sneaking off from Dick probably hadn’t been a good idea. He’ll find his way back to the man eventually; he did agree to live at the manor with everyone, after all. He just needs some time to himself to think. Somewhere away from the manor. Somewhere familiar. Which just happens to be the building he climbed up that first month in Gotham, where he met Nightwing. He hasn’t been here in awhile, and the climb up the fire escape had been mildly inconvenient with the icy rain, but he can withstand the cold much better today than usual.
Too bad his thoughts aren’t going anywhere helpful.
“I think you’ve sulked long enough,” Shuri says. “You should get your things.”
Yeah, probably. The sleet is starting to bother him. He sighs, standing up and stretching, before considering the ground below. He could just walk down the side of the building and avoid the slippery fire escape altogether. That’d be quicker, at least--
“Hey, I’d really appreciate it if you took a few steps back from that ledge,” a calm voice says behind him.
Peter startles in place and turns around to face the source of the voice. He ends up almost face to face with Dick Grayson, and aims a disbelieving look at him. That voice. It’s a different accent, but someone trained by Batman would know to train themselves to use something other than their natural speaking voice, wouldn’t they?
Dick smiles sadly, walking over to Peter. He offers him his hand, just as he did as Nightwing. Peter hesitates for a moment before taking it. He doesn’t need it, of course. He could sprint down the side of the building and be just fine. Dick takes hold of his hand and pulls him away from the ledge, shifting them so that he stands between Peter and the ice slick roof ledge.
“I wondered if you’d come back to this rooftop,” Dick says, keeping his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “You do like to come up here.”
“If I told you it’s not what it looks like, would you believe me?” Peter asks.
“Eventually, but probably not right now,” Dick admits, guiding Peter over to the fire escape.
“Yeah, figured as much,” Peter mutters. He climbs down the fire escape smoothly and drops to the asphalt with no problem; his old instincts are already in recovery after a few hearty meals from Alfred. “I really do come up here to think, by the way. Things are clearer.”
“I can’t fault you for that. I’m the same way with my night job,” Dick says. He brushes off his hands and looks up and down the street.
“Yeah, Tim never mentioned your night job,” Peter remarks. He wants to ask about that, wants to press him on the details, but holds off. Who knows who else is around?
Dick smiles at that, as if laughing at his own private joke. Then his expression softens and he glances around the neighborhood. It’s definitely not as nice as the run down strip mall where they parked. “I never could figure out why you’d choose this building. There’s nothing around here.”
“It’s next to where I live,” Peter says. He’s actually kind of going to miss this horrible little neighborhood.
Dick frowns at him. “There’s nothing around but half empty office buildings, warehouses, and an abandoned fire station. The nearest apartment is six blocks away, and that’s not safe territory to cross at night in Crime Alley.”
Peter shrugs, and motions for Dick to follow him over to the fire station. Dick follows him, but slows slightly when he sees Peter climb up the fire escape to the second floor window of the old fire station. The building, already a sad sight on a clear day, looks even worse with the onset of winter. Peter pauses at the window, crouching on the ledge, and looks down at Dick.
“You can wait there if you want. I won’t be long, promise,” Peter says. He ducks into the building and is pleasantly surprised to see that it’s mostly dry inside. Sure, a part of the roof is leaking, but it’s a slow trickle.
“Better hurry,” Bucky says. “Grayson’s behind you.”
Peter starts to pack up his things. There isn’t a lot, fortunately. His suit is tucked away in his backpack, he doesn’t have any food to take, and he can just leave the electronics for now. A few are ruined by the leak, but they were already broken anyway.
He hears Dick step in through the window and stop.
Peter doesn’t look up, focused on packing. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you about last night, by the way.”
“Yeah?” Dick says, subdued.
“Yeah. About Tony. What you saw wasn’t him, for the record,” Peter says, gathering his things. He picks up the Stark radio he made months ago and turns it off. He doesn’t need the alarm function anymore. “He’s not actually like that. He doesn’t drink anymore, he isn’t some selfish monster. He’s--he’s a hero. Genuinely.”
It sounds hollow and unconvincing even to his own ears. He sighs, packing away the rest of his things and turns to face Dick. He freezes when he sees the expression on Dick’s face. Horrified is too mild a word. Heartbroken is close, but it doesn’t encompass the furious set to his jaw.
Peter stands there awkwardly for a moment, suddenly realizing how this must look. He fidgets with the Stark radio in his hands, then clears his throat. “I, uh. I’ve got everything I need.”
Dick takes one last look around the fire station, eyes roaming across Peter’s makeshift desk, ramshackle lights, and 'bedroom' made of a tarp and ragged blankets, and takes in a deep breath, obviously fighting back a surge of fury.
"Good. Let's go home."