I had this idea in my head about 3 in the morning, I had to write it down or I would go insane. Hang in there, I have a lot of other stories to continue and, I can't make promises, but I will try my best to complete as much as I can of them. This is my first Spidey fanfic. Be gentle with me if it's crap. Please read and review. Thank you and I apologize again for keeping you all waiting literally months for my other stories. Xx

Disclaimer: Any characters or plot lines you recognise are not mine. If they were, I would probably be famous. But I'm not, so.

-Gwen types furiously at her computer desk, her fingers slamming into the keys at top speed. Her eyes keep trained on the science project filling up the screen space and she tries to keep the mix of the heroic nerd's different possible fates out of her head. George Stacy had been called off during dinner to intercept a full-scale armed attack on the city; during which, people had caught glimpses of Spiderman swinging through Manhattan and dropping into the sewers. Her father, who had returned from the scene almost over 2 and a half hours ago, claims he had not seen the masked hero again that night. So where was Parker? He promised her he would always call when he slipped back in to his bedroom after a long night following police radios.

Gwen sighs heavily and glances at the clock beside her. 11:23. She runs her hand over her face exasperatedly and moves to save the project and cut the power off, when three dull thuds catch her attention. Peter fucking Parker is sat on her fire escape. She laughs airily and in relief and gestures for him to lift open the window and clamber in. She quickly flicks off the computer and aimlessly shuffles a pile of papers around on her desk. She begins to chatter about his responsibility to keep her informed on whether or not he dies on a job, and how she was beginning to assume the worst, when she turns in her chair to fully face the window.

Peter hasn't moved from his spot leant against the wall on the fire escape. The window is still shut tight. The red Spider mask is balled up in his fist and the only way to describe his face is… damaged. Gwen gasps and wrenches apart the glass frame from the sill, sliding out onto the grated metal and cradling Peter's cheeks.

"Peter? Peter?"

Her thumbs run over cuts and gashes, a deep blue bruise under his left eye. His eyes themselves are clamped shut and when Gwen raises an eyelid, there is no sign of life in the brown irises. Blood coats his jaw line and his neck and down over the hem of his suit. Gwen covers her mouth to hold back a scream and leaps back into her room. She hammers on her father's bedroom door in just her t-shirt and shorts, and the look on his face when he swings the door open is a cross between confusion and anger and surprise; and then concern.

"Gwen? Honey, what's wrong?"

"Dad! Peter. Robbery, I think… on the fire escape… he's hurt. Dad, you gotta help-"

"Gwen! Gwen!"

George grabs her shoulders as his wife stirs in her sleep behind him. Thank God she's a heavy sleeper. He places a finger over his daughter lips and hushes her.

"You gotta help him." She whines, tears in her eyes.

"Take me to him, Gwen."

George shifts the lanky teenager awkwardly through the window and holds him bridal-style against his body. The still-unconscious Peter's right arm and leg hang to the floor and George struggles to hold all six feet of boy. Dropping him as gently as he can on Gwen's bedroom carpet, he pulls at the lycra body suit to check for injuries. The fabric is impossible to control and he turns to Gwen, who has been hovering above them, crying silently and biting her nails.

"Get me one of my shirts and a pair of sweatpants. Quickly, Gwen. Then close the door. I need to change him outta this damn thing."

Gwen disappears and reappears with a bundle of clothes. She is pushed reluctantly out into the corridor and George can hear her snuffling the other side. He peels off the rest of Peter's suit and his jaw drops his torso. Already-dried blood coats his chest and neck, darkening into a clotted lump around a wound near his diaphragm. George pauses for a long moment, eyeing up the wound- gunshot?- then jumps into action. He pushes Peter's limbs as gently as he can into the sweatpants and shirt, and as the fabric is pulled over his head, the boy jolts back to life. He gasps for air and groans loudly, clutching at his chest and squirming under George's grip. George clamps his hand over Peter's mouth and mutters at him to calm down. Peter's eyes are wide and unblinking and his breathing is ragged against George's palm, but he quietens as best he can.

"I need to clean the wound, Peter. You need to be quiet."

Peter nods once as George unbuttons the shirt to get a better look.

"I'll be right back."

George slips out of the room and Peter's vision spins as a commotion arises in the hallway. His impaired hearing picks up snippets of a hushed argument;

"…you're not-"

"You don't understand, I have-"

"Gwen, no-"

"…don't care-"


Then the door swings wide open and Gwen breathes heavily in the doorway. She stares, horrified, down at Peter; barely conscious, his torn chest, the way his head sways dangerously and the dullness of his eyes. She drops to her knees beside him and holds his face in her hands again. He sadly smirks up at her, squeezing her elbows. He mouths her name and she hugs his head to her, the tears falling again. Her father appears by her side and prises Peter out of her grip; their hands remain tangled strongly together.