Peter swung lazily between buildings, one hand on his phone.
You wanna go see a movie tonight?I sold some photos to the Daily Bugle—Spider-Man ones. Made 200 bucks.
He hit send.
"…Please say yes," he muttered, tucking the phone away as he arced over another street.
Then—
A whistle.
"Hey! Spider-Man!"
Peter slowed, spotting a police officer on the street below waving him down.
"…Huh."
He dropped mid-swing, landing lightly in front of the officer.
"You rang?" Peter said. "Or whistled. Which, by the way, bold move."
The officer didn't smile. "Captain wants a word."
Peter straightened slightly. "…That sounds official."
He was given the station location.
Peter nodded. "Alright. I'll swing by."
—
A few minutes later, he landed outside the precinct, perched briefly before hopping down.
George Stacy stood near the entrance, arms crossed.
Peter kept a little distance.
"…You wanted to see me?"
George stepped forward.
"My officers are about to hit one of Tombstone's operations," he said. "Warehouse. Quietly, if possible."
Peter tilted his head. "Mob boss, right? Big, gray, charming personality?"
"That's the one," George replied dryly.
He continued, more serious now. "I trust my people. But if things go bad…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Peter understood anyway.
"…You don't want to be knocking on doors tonight."
George met his gaze.
"Exactly."
Peter nodded once. "Alright. Where?"
George gave him the location.
Peter turned slightly, already preparing to leave.
"I'll get there first," he said. "Clear out anything… unpleasant."
George gave a small nod. "Appreciated."
Peter paused for just a second—
"…Hey," George added.
Peter glanced back.
"I don't believe what the Daily Bugle says about you."
That landed.
Peter shifted slightly, not sure what to say for a second.
"…Thanks," he said finally.
Then—
He fired a webline—
and launched into the air.
—
Across the city, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Gwen.
But for now—
Spider-Man had somewhere to be.
The warehouse was almost disappointing.
Peter slipped in through a broken skylight, landing without a sound.
"…Wow," he whispered, looking around. "You guys couldn't even spring for one competent guard?"
The thugs were sloppy—loud, distracted, predictable.
Peter moved like a ghost.
Thwip. One down.
Flip. Thwip. Two more.
A quiet sweep, a quick dodge, a webline here, a trip there—
and within minutes, the entire place was silent.
No alarms.
No witnesses.
"…New personal best," he muttered.
He started looking around.
Crates.
Lots of them.
He cracked one open—
Drugs.
Another—
Guns.
"…Yeah, this is definitely the bad guy starter pack."
Toward the back, he found a small room.
Inside—
A table.
A map of the city, red circles marked across it.
And blueprints.
Peter stepped closer.
"…Okay, that's not great."
He leaned in, studying it.
"…Bank."
His eyes narrowed.
"Vault… and—"
He traced a line beneath it.
"…Sewers."
He straightened slowly.
"…Oh, that's clever."
A way in that bypassed everything.
Peter glanced back out at the unconscious thugs.
He double-checked his work—tight webs, no one waking up anytime soon.
Then he pulled out a small scrap and stuck it to the wall.
Courtesy of your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.
"Branding," he said. "Important."
He turned—
and stepped out of the warehouse.
—
His spider-sense exploded.
Not a tingle.
Not a warning.
A full-blown alarm.
"—!"
Peter tried to move—
Too late.
A blast of sand slammed into him, sending him flying across the yard and crashing into a metal container.
BANG.
"…Okay—ow—!"
He groaned, pushing himself up—
just in time to see the sand shift.
Move.
Rise—
—and form into a man.
Flint Marko.
Loose sand-colored pants.
Green striped shirt.
Eyes locked on him.
"…You're new," Peter said, shaking out his arm. "Or I missed a memo."
Flint cracked his neck slightly, sand shifting unnaturally along his arms.
"You messed with the wrong place," he said.
Flint didn't hesitate.
The ground beneath him shifted as his body partially dissolved, sand spilling outward before snapping back together as he surged forward.
Peter barely had time to react.
A massive sand fist swung toward him—
WHAM.
Peter flipped backward, the force of it still clipping his side and sending him skidding across the pavement.
"…Okay—yep—that hurt," he groaned, pushing himself up.
Flint advanced, slower now—but heavier, more deliberate. Every step left a faint trail of sand behind him.
"You should've stayed out of it," Flint repeated.
Peter wiped dust from his suit, already circling. "You know, I hear that a lot. Starting to think it's, like… a catchphrase."
Flint's arm expanded again, stretching outward into a wide, sweeping blade.
Peter ducked under it, rolling to the side.
"Do you workshop these lines, or—?"
The blade slammed into the metal container behind him, slicing clean through it like paper.
Peter froze for half a second.
"…Okay, no, that's actually terrifying."
He fired a webline—
thwip!
It stuck—
for half a second—
before Flint's arm simply… crumbled.
The web sank into the sand and lost all tension.
"…Oh, that's not fair," Peter said.
Flint smirked slightly.
"You don't get it, do you?"
Peter bounced to his feet. "No, no, I get it. You're sand. I'm guessing punching you is gonna be a whole thing."
Flint didn't answer.
He slammed both hands into the ground.
The concrete beneath Peter's feet cracked—
then shifted.
A wave of sand erupted upward, knocking Peter off balance and launching him into the air.
"Whoa—!"
Before he could recover—
another hit.
A solidified sand fist caught him midair and spiked him into the ground.
BOOM.
Peter gasped, the air knocked out of him.
"…Okay," he wheezed. "That one—definitely counts."
He tried to push himself up—
but Flint was already there.
A foot slammed down beside his head, cracking the pavement.
"You're not stopping anything," Flint said.
Peter rolled just in time to avoid the follow-up strike, scrambling to his feet and flipping backward.
"Funny," Peter shot back, though his voice was tighter now. "I usually am pretty good at that."
Flint's arm expanded again—this time forming a massive hammer.
It came down fast.
Peter dodged—
barely.
The shockwave still sent him tumbling.
He hit the ground hard, sliding several feet before stopping.
"…Okay," he muttered, forcing himself up again. "You hit really hard. Noted."
Flint advanced again, relentless.
Peter tried webbing his legs—
thwip! thwip!
—but the webs sank uselessly into shifting sand.
"Yeah, that's still not working."
Flint swung again—
This time, Peter wasn't fast enough.
The blow caught him clean.
CRACK.
He was launched across the yard, slamming into another container and denting it inward.
Peter dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
"…Okay," he said under his breath. "This is… not going great."
Flint approached, looming now.
"You're just wasting time," Flint said.
Peter blinked.
"…Wait."
He looked up.
"Wasting time?"
Flint froze for half a second—
just enough.
Peter's eyes narrowed.
"…You're not here to beat me," he said slowly. "You're here to keep me busy."
Flint's expression hardened.
"…Doesn't matter."
"Oh, it matters," Peter said, pushing himself up again. "Because that means something else is happening."
Flint lunged.
Peter dodged, but slower now—his movements heavier, less precise.
Another hit clipped him across the back, sending him stumbling forward.
"…Okay—focus—focus—"
Flint pressed the advantage.
Blow after blow.
Peter blocked what he could—but most of it still got through.
A punch to the ribs.
A backhand across the shoulder.
A slam into the ground.
Each one chipped away at him.
"…You're… really… bad at letting people… leave conversations," Peter gasped.
Flint raised both arms—
bringing them down like twin hammers.
Peter rolled at the last second—
but not far enough.
The impact still caught him, sending him spinning.
He hit the ground hard.
Didn't get up right away.
"…Okay," he whispered to himself. "This might be the part where I lose."
Flint stepped closer.
Sand shifted, gathering, forming something bigger—denser.
"Stay down," Flint said.
Peter forced himself up again, swaying slightly.
"…Yeah, I don't really do that."
Flint's arm pulled back—
ready to end it.
Then—
CRACK.
A pipe along the wall burst.
Water exploded outward in a pressurized spray.
It hit Flint full-on.
The effect was immediate.
The sand darkened.
Heavier.
Slower.
Flint staggered.
"…What—"
Peter blinked.
Then looked at the pipe.
Then back at Flint.
"…Oh."
A grin spread under the mask.
"Oh, that's interesting."
Flint tried to reform his arm—
but it sagged, clumping together.
His movements lost their fluidity.
The massive shapes collapsed back into something smaller.
More human.
"No—" Flint growled, trying to pull himself back together.
Peter didn't waste the opportunity.
He rushed forward.
One punch—
solid.
Real.
Flint's head snapped to the side.
Another—
to the ribs.
Flint staggered.
Peter followed up, driving him back with a quick combination—each hit landing harder than the last now that Flint couldn't disperse.
"Yeah," Peter said between strikes. "Definitely… easier to hit… when you're not a sandbox!"
One final punch—
Flint went down.
Hard.
Unconscious.
Peter stood there for a second, breathing heavily.
"…Okay," he muttered. "Water. Good to know."
He quickly started webbing Flint up, reinforcing it layer after layer.
"Stay," he added. "Seriously this time."
Sirens grew louder.
Peter glanced up.
"…Right on schedule."
Police cars pulled in, lights flashing.
Officers poured out, weapons ready—
then paused when they saw the scene.
Spider-Man.
Standing over a webbed-up Flint Marko.
Peter gave a small wave.
"Hey! So, uh—heads up—this guy turns into sand. Water helps. A lot."
He stepped back slightly, letting them move in.
"And you might wanna move fast," he added. "Pretty sure I was just the distraction."
Peter quickly pulled the folded blueprint from his bag and handed it to one of the officers.
"Look here," he said, pointing. "They're not going through the front—they're drilling into the vault from the sewer system underneath."
The officer's expression shifted instantly as he took it.
"Dispatch," he barked into the radio, "possible breach from sewer access—bank vault. Move units now!"
Peter didn't wait for anything else.
He shot a webline—
and swung.
—
The city blurred past him, but this time… it hurt.
Every swing pulled at his side.
"…Yeah," he muttered through clenched teeth. "That's definitely… not nothing."
He adjusted midair, favoring one side.
"…Probably cracked. Maybe two. Cool. Love that for me."
Still—
he didn't slow.
—
By the time he reached the bank, the place was already locked down.
Police cars surrounded it.
Civilians were being rushed out, some shaken, some crying.
Officers moved in fast.
Peter landed on a nearby building, watching for half a second—
then dropped down.
Inside, things were tense but controlled.
The bank manager was being rushed forward under police escort.
"Open it," an officer ordered.
Hands shaking, the manager unlocked the vault.
The heavy door creaked open—
And there it was.
A hole in the floor.
Clean.
Deliberate.
Leading straight down.
A couple of criminals stood there, bags in hand, clearly not expecting company.
Peter stepped forward, cracking his neck slightly.
"…You know," he said casually, "most people just use ATMs."
They froze.
Behind Peter—
five officers raised their weapons.
"Hands up!" one of them shouted. "Now!"
The criminals looked around.
No exit.
No plan.
They slowly dropped the bags and raised their hands.
Peter nodded approvingly. "Good choice. Saves everyone a lot of paperwork."
The officers moved in quickly, securing them.
Peter stepped back, holding his side for just a second—
then straightened.
"Make sure nothing else comes up from that hole," he added. "That's their way in—and out."
One of the officers nodded. "We've got it."
Within minutes, the criminals were being escorted out, loaded into the back of a police van.
Peter watched just long enough to make sure everything was under control.
Then—
thwip.
He was gone again.
Outside, a family who had just been evacuated stood off to the side, watching.
A young blonde girl about 14 stared up at the skyline where Spider-Man had disappeared.
"…Who was that?" she asked.
Her older sister smiled slightly.
"Well, Kara," she said, "that's Spider-Man."
i
Peter didn't go far.
A few blocks away, he slowed his swing and landed hard on a rooftop, one hand immediately going to his side.
"…Okay," he hissed, leaning forward slightly. "Definitely cracked. Maybe two. Great. Love that."
He took a breath, steadying himself, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
The screen was cracked straight across.
Peter stared at it.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Thanks for that, sand guy."
He tapped it a couple times—it still worked, barely—and his messages loaded.
Gwen.
He opened it.
Gwen:YES. Movie sounds perfect.Gwen:Also you're paying now, so I'm picking the movie.
Peter smiled despite himself, thumbs moving carefully over the cracked glass.
Peter:That feels like a trap but okay.
A second later—
Gwen:Hey… are you okay?Gwen:The news is going crazy right now.
Peter blinked, glancing up at the skyline before looking back down.
Peter:Yeah I'm good. Just… busy.
The typing bubble popped up almost instantly.
Gwen:They're saying Spider-Man took down a gang hideoutGwen:fought some kind of metaGwen:and stopped a bank robbery… all in like the last hour
Peter let out a small, tired laugh.
"…Yeah, that checks out."
Gwen:Is that actually true??
He hesitated for half a second—
then typed:
Peter:You know how news is. They exaggerate.
A pause.
Then—
Gwen:Peter.
He winced.
"…She knows me too well."
Peter:Okay maybe a little true.
There was a longer pause this time.
Then—
Gwen:You need to be careful.
The words sat there for a second.
Simple.
But heavy.
Peter looked down at them, his expression softening slightly.
Peter:I am.
Another pause.
Gwen:Good.Gwen:Because I still expect that movie tonight.
That got a small smile out of him.
Peter:Wouldn't miss it.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket, standing up slowly, testing his side.
He stepped to the edge of the roof—
Gwen stepped out onto the sidewalk, the late afternoon sun dipping just enough to cast long shadows across the street. The city felt calmer now—like it was catching its breath after everything that had happened.
She checked her phone, smiling slightly at the last message.
Then—
A blur of red and blue dropped in front of her.
Upside down.
"Evening, citizen."
Gwen jumped slightly—then immediately laughed.
"Really?" she said, crossing her arms. "That's what you're going with?"
Peter tilted his head, still hanging there. "Hey, I'm workshopping it."
She stepped closer, looking up at him.
"…You're late."
"I prefer fashionably dramatic."
Gwen rolled her eyes—but reached up, grabbing the edge of his mask and pulling it up just enough—
and kissed him.
Peter froze for half a second—
then relaxed into it.
"…Okay," he said softly when she pulled back. "Worth it."
He flipped down, landing lightly in front of her.
"Give me a second," he added, jerking his head toward a nearby alley.
He ducked inside, unzipping his bag and quickly changing—mask off, hoodie on, suit packed away.
A moment later, Peter Parker stepped back out.
"Much less cool," he admitted.
Gwen smiled. "Debatable."
They started walking together, close, easy—like the chaos from earlier belonged to a different day.
—
Across the street, three familiar figures slowed.
Lois Lane narrowed her eyes.
"…Did you just see that?"
Beside her, Jimmy Olsen blinked. "Uh… yeah. That was—"
Clark didn't speak right away.
Clark Kent watched the alley.
Watched Peter come out.
No mask.
Normal.
"…That's him," Clark said quietly.
Jimmy's eyes widened. "Wait—seriously?!"
Lois didn't hesitate.
"New plan," she said, already moving. "We follow them."
"Aren't we supposed to be—" Jimmy started.
"Interviewing Captain Stacy?" Lois cut in. "Yeah. We still might."
Her eyes stayed locked on Peter and Gwen.
"But this?" she added. "This is bigger."
Lois kept her distance, eyes locked on Peter and Gwen as they moved through the crowd.
Ahead of her, the two of them were… carefree.
Laughing.
Bumping into each other.
Gwen looping her arm through Peter's like nothing in the world could touch them.
Jimmy watched, lowering his camera slightly.
"…They look like they're in love," he said quietly.
Lois didn't answer.
Clark did.
"…They do."
—
At the crosswalk, the light changed.
People started moving.
Peter and Gwen stepped off the curb together.
Gwen was mid-sentence—
"…and if you pick a bad movie I'm leaving—"
Then—
Peter's spider-sense screamed.
Not a warning.
A blast.
His head snapped toward the street—
A car.
Too fast.
Too close.
No time.
No room.
No way to dodge without giving everything away.
"…Gwen."
He didn't think.
He just acted.
Peter grabbed her—
and turned.
Putting himself between her and the impact.
"Peter—?"
CRASH.
The car hit them head-on.
The force launched them into the air—
Peter twisting mid-flight, arms locked around Gwen, forcing her above him—
Shielding her.
Protecting her.
They hit the ground—
Peter took it.
His head slammed hard against the pavement.
Everything went dark.
—
Screams.
People running.
"Call an ambulance!"
"Oh my God—!"
Lois froze.
Jimmy stared.
"…Clark—"
But Clark was already moving—
he provided first aid until the ambulance came
—
Gwen groaned, pushing herself up slightly.
"…Peter?"
No response.
"…Peter!"
Blood.
Too much blood.
Sirens in the distance.
—
The ambulance came fast.
Paramedics rushed in.
"Male—unconscious, head trauma!"
"Female—conscious, multiple cuts—"
They moved quickly.
Efficient.
Peter was lifted onto a stretcher.
Gwen tried to follow—
"He's with me!" she said, panicked.
"You're coming too," a paramedic told her. "Sit down—now."
—
The ride blurred.
Flashing lights.
Voices.
Gwen barely heard any of it.
Her eyes never left Peter.
—
At the hospital, everything moved fast.
Gwen was separated first.
"Let's get you cleaned up," a nurse said gently.
"I'm fine," Gwen insisted. "I need to—"
"You're not fine," the nurse replied firmly. "Sit."
Gwen didn't argue after that.
Not really.
They cleaned the cuts on her arms, her face, her hands.
Small injuries.
Nothing compared to—
"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice shaking. "The boy that came in with me—Peter—"
"We're working on him," the nurse said. "Doctors are with him now."
That didn't help.
Not really.
"…Can you call my parents?" Gwen asked.
The nurse nodded. "Of course."
—
A phone call.
A few short sentences.
And across the city—
George Stacy and Helen Stacy were already on their way.
Gwen sat in the hospital waiting area, hands clasped tightly together, her foot bouncing uncontrollably against the tile floor.
Every second felt longer than the last.
Her cuts had been cleaned, small bandages placed along her arms and cheek—but she barely noticed any of it.
Her eyes stayed locked on the hallway where they had taken Peter.
"…Come on," she whispered under her breath. "Please…"
Across the city, the call had already reached George Stacy.
The moment he heard hospital and Gwen in the same sentence, he didn't hesitate.
"Keys," he snapped to his lieutenant as he moved.
"Sir—"
"Now."
They were in the car within seconds.
His lieutenant drove.
Fast.
George sat in the passenger seat, already pulling up access through his police credentials.
he pulled up the cctv footage of the accident
A moment later, the footage loaded.
Grainy.
Wide angle.
But clear enough.
George watched.
He saw Gwen.
Saw Peter beside her.
Saw the light change.
Then—
The car.
George leaned forward slightly.
Then he saw it.
Peter's movement.
Fast.
He grabbed Gwen—
turned—
put himself between her and the car.
Took the hit.
George's jaw tightened.
He replayed it.
Again.
And again.
Each time, it was the same.
Deliberate.
Protective.
Selfless.
"…Kid didn't hesitate," his lieutenant muttered as he looked over at the screen.
George didn't answer right away.
He just stared at the screen.
"…No," he said quietly.
"He didn't."
He locked the tablet, leaning back in his seat as the car sped through traffic.
Something in his expression had changed.
The car pulled up to the hospital hard.
George was out before it fully stopped.
Inside, he moved fast, flashing his badge when needed, cutting through the waiting area—
"Gwen."
She looked up instantly.
"Dad!"
She stood, rushing toward him.
George grabbed her shoulders, scanning her quickly.
"You okay?" he asked, voice tight.
"I'm fine," she said quickly. "It's Peter—"
"I know."
He softened slightly, pulling her into a brief hug.
"I saw."
Gwen pulled back, confused. "…Saw what?"
George hesitated for half a second.
"…The footage."
Her expression shifted.
George studied her for a moment, then glanced down the hallway where Peter had been taken.
George walked over to the nurses desk and asked about peter
—
A few minutes later, Helen arrived, breathless, eyes wide with worry.
"Gwen—!"
"I'm okay, Mom," Gwen said quickly, stepping into her arms.
Helen hugged her tightly, relief flooding her face before she pulled back.
"Peter?" she asked.
Gwen shook her head slightly. "They're still working on him."
When he came back, Gwen and her mother both stood immediately.
"Well?" Gwen asked, her voice barely steady.
George didn't answer right away.
He looked at her first—really looked—then exhaled slowly.
"He's alive," he said.
Gwen's shoulders dropped instantly, like the air had been knocked out of her in relief.
"But—" George continued.
That word brought the tension right back.
"He's got a cracked skull," he said carefully. "And two broken ribs."
Helen covered her mouth slightly.
Gwen just stared at him.
"…But he's going to be okay," George added quickly. "No internal bleeding. No spinal damage. Doctors say… he's lucky."
Gwen let out a shaky breath, her eyes glassy now.
"…Lucky," she repeated quietly.
George nodded once.
"He's still unconscious," he added. "They've got him under observation."
Gwen swallowed. "Can we see him?"
George glanced toward the hallway, then back at her.
"…Yeah," he said. "You can."
Gwen didn't wait.
She moved immediately, her mom right behind her.
George stayed for half a second—
then spoke again.
"I'm going to go get his aunt."
Gwen paused, turning back. "Aunt May?"
George nodded. "Do you know where she works?"
"Yeah," Gwen said quickly. "She works at FEAST."
George gave a short nod. "Alright."
He turned and started toward the exit—but not before glancing once more down the hallway.
Inside the room, it was quiet.
Peter lay in the hospital bed, bandaged, hooked up to monitors that beeped steadily in the background.
Gwen stepped in slowly.
"…Hey," she said softly, moving closer.
He didn't respond.
She sat beside him anyway, carefully taking his hand.
"You're an idiot," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
A small, sad smile followed.
"…But you're my idiot."
Behind her, Helen stood quietly, watching.
George Stacy pulled up outside FEAST and stepped out quickly, not wasting a second.
Inside, the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Warm.
Busy.
People talking, eating, resting.
George moved through it all with purpose, scanning faces, looking for one in particular.
"Excuse me—have you seen May Parker?" he asked one volunteer.
They pointed further inside.
Before he could move again, a calm voice met him.
"Officer—how can I help?"
George turned.
Martin Li stood there, composed, hands folded politely.
George shook his hand. "Captain Stacy. I'm looking for May Parker."
Martin's expression softened slightly. "I hope she's not in any trouble."
George shook his head quickly. "No, nothing like that. Her nephew—Peter—was in a car accident. He's stable now, but I need to bring her to the hospital."
Martin's calm expression shifted to concern.
"That's terrible," he said sincerely. "But May's shift ended about an hour ago. She went home."
George nodded once. "Thank you."
He didn't stay.
—
Minutes later, George pulled into the Parker driveway.
He didn't even have time to get out before the front door opened.
Aunt May stood there, frantic, fumbling with her keys, trying to lock the door while clearly not thinking straight.
When she saw the police car—
and him—
her heart dropped.
"I just got the voicemail—" she said quickly, rushing toward him. "They said Peter was in an accident—is he—?"
George stepped out, steadying her gently.
"He's alive," he said first.
That was the most important part.
May's shoulders sagged slightly in relief—but her eyes were still wide with fear.
"He's going to be okay," George continued. "He's got two broken ribs and a cracked skull, but the doctors say he's stable."
May swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Okay—okay—let's go."
George guided her toward the car.
As he opened the door—
another voice called out.
"May?"
They both turned.
Mary Jane Watson walked over, concern already written across her face as she looked at the police car.
"What's going on?" she asked.
May didn't hesitate.
"Peter's been in a car accident," she said.
MJ froze.
"…What?"
"He's at the hospital," May added quickly. "He's alive."
MJ didn't even think.
"Can I come?"
May nodded immediately. "Of course."
MJ climbed into the back seat, worry clear on her face.
George got behind the wheel this time.
And they drove.
—
The car was quiet at first.
Heavy.
Then George spoke.
"I owe your nephew a lot," he said, eyes on the road.
May looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"
George exhaled slowly.
"I saw the footage."
May's expression tightened.
"…What happened?"
George kept his voice steady.
"The car came out of nowhere," he said. "Too fast. No time to react."
He paused.
"Peter did."
May's hands tightened in her lap.
"He grabbed my daughter," George continued. "Turned his body—took the hit himself."
Silence filled the car.
Heavy.
Real.
In the back seat, MJ's eyes widened slightly.
May closed her eyes for just a second.
"…That sounds like Peter," she whispered.
Then—
"Gwen," May said suddenly. "Is she—?"
"She's okay," George said immediately. "Cuts and scrapes. That's it."
He glanced at her briefly.
"Because of him."
May nodded slowly, emotion catching in her throat.
"…Of course."
The car continued through the city
When they arrived, everything felt quieter.
Hospitals always did that—like the world outside didn't quite reach inside the walls.
May Parker didn't rush.
She moved quickly—but carefully—as if moving too fast might somehow make it worse.
George led her down the hall, stopping just outside the room.
"He's in there," he said softly.
May nodded.
And stepped inside.
—
The room was dim.
Machines hummed quietly.
And there he was.
Peter.
Still.
Bandaged.
Breathing, but unmoving.
May's eyes softened immediately—but she didn't go to him right away.
She noticed the others first.
Helen Stacy sat on the couch in the corner, hands folded tightly in her lap, her posture straight but tired.
And at the bedside—
Gwen Stacy.
Holding Peter's hand.
Like she was afraid to let go.
May took a slow breath and walked toward her.
Gwen looked up the moment she noticed her.
"…Mrs. Parker—I'm so—"
She didn't get the rest out.
May pulled her into a hug.
Tight.
Warm.
Immediate.
Gwen froze for half a second—
then broke.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice shaking. "This is my fault—I shouldn't have—"
May held her a little tighter.
"No," she said gently.
Gwen shook her head against her shoulder. "If I hadn't been there—"
"Gwen," May said softly, pulling back just enough to look at her.
"We both know," she continued, her voice calm but certain, "that if Peter had to choose between himself and you…"
She gave a small, sad smile.
"He'd choose you. Every time."
Gwen's eyes filled instantly.
"…I know," she whispered.
And that made it worse.
She leaned forward again, crying quietly into May's shoulder.
May just held her.
Let her.
After a moment, she gently guided Gwen toward the couch.
"Sit," she said softly.
Helen shifted slightly, making space as Gwen sat beside her.
Helen placed a hand on her daughter's back, steady and reassuring.
—
Meanwhile, Mary Jane Watson stepped forward slowly.
She hadn't said much on the way here.
Hadn't needed to.
Now, she took the chair beside Peter's bed.
"…Hey, Tiger," she said quietly, her voice softer than usual.
She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against his arm.
"You always did have terrible timing."
She gave a small, shaky smile.
"…You're gonna wake up and complain about this, right? Because I'm not dealing with you being all quiet like this."
She glanced at his face—
at the bandages—
and swallowed.
"…You better wake up," she added under her breath.
—
Across the room, Helen leaned slightly toward May.
"Who is she?" she asked quietly, nodding toward MJ.
May followed her gaze.
A small, thoughtful look crossed her face.
"That's Mary Jane," she said softly. "She lives next door."
Helen nodded slowly.
May's expression softened just a little more.
"Peter's been in love with her since the day she moved in," she added.
A pause.
"…Or so I thought."
Helen glanced between MJ… and Gwen.
Then back at May.
"…Things change," she said gently.
Visiting hours slipped by too quickly.
No one wanted to leave—but eventually, they had to.
Before stepping out, George Stacy stopped at the nurses' desk again, speaking quietly but firmly.
"Call me the moment he wakes up," he said, sliding over his card. "Any time."
The nurse nodded. "We will."
George gave one last glance down the hall toward Peter's room—
then turned back.
"Let's go."
—
The drive back was quiet.
Too quiet.
No one really knew what to say after a day like that.
George dropped them off at the Parker house first.
The porch light was on.
The front door slightly open.
And that's when the tension snapped back into place.
A man stood there, unsteady, swaying slightly—
Philip Watson.
Drunk.
Angry.
The moment Mary Jane Watson stepped out of the car—
"Where have you been, you stupid—"
"Don't," MJ said quickly, trying to move past him. "Not tonight, Dad."
But he grabbed her arm—
and before anyone could react—
SMACK.
The sound cracked through the night.
MJ hit the ground.
Everything stopped.
For half a second.
Then George moved.
Fast.
He stepped between them instantly.
"That's enough," George said, voice low and dangerous.
MJ's father swung at him—
wild, uncoordinated—
and George took the hit without flinching.
Then, just as quickly—
he grabbed the man, turned him, and cuffed him.
"Dispatch," George said into his radio, calm but firm. "I need a unit. Domestic disturbance."
He pushed the man back against the car, securing him.
Then his attention shifted immediately.
To MJ.
He knelt beside her.
"You alright?" he asked.
MJ nodded quickly, brushing herself off, though her eyes were still wide. "…Yeah. I'm fine."
George stood, turning to May.
"Can you look after her?" he asked. "He'll spend the night in the drunk tank. Give him time to cool off."
May nodded without hesitation. "Of course."
George looked back at MJ.
"I can press charges," he said. "That's your call."
MJ hesitated.
Then shook her head.
"…No. Just… let him sit there tonight."
George studied her for a second—then nodded.
"Alright."
The patrol car arrived moments later, taking her father away.
Silence settled again.
Heavy.
—
MJ stood there for a moment… then turned to May.
"…Peter once told me I could stay here," she said quietly. "After one night things got bad at home."
She swallowed.
"I know he's not here right now but… I was wondering if I could stay. Not just tonight. Maybe… longer."
May didn't hesitate.
"Of course you can," she said softly.
MJ nodded, relief flickering across her face.
"Thank you."
She stepped inside, quickly grabbing a small bag of clothes.
—
Back in the car, Gwen had seen everything.
Heard everything.
And as MJ walked back toward the house—
something tightened in her chest.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Something more complicated.
She shifted slightly in her seat.
"…Mom?"
Helen glanced over. "Yeah?"
Gwen hesitated.
"…Do you think my… probation could be over?"
Helen's lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
"I think," she said, "you've earned back my trust."
Gwen blinked. "…Really?"
Helen nodded.
"Really."
Then—
just a little teasing—
"…Or is this about something else?"
Gwen looked away quickly. "…No."
Helen chuckled softly.
"Jealousy's not a great look, you know."
"I'm not jealous," Gwen muttered.
"…Mmhm."
But despite the teasing—
Helen reached over, squeezing her daughter's hand.
And Gwen didn't pull away.