Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Parker apartment smelled like roasted peanuts and honey. Aunt May liked to boil honey to make the whole place smell warm and sweet. Said it made any place feel more homey. And she was right, even three hours after she stopped boiling the honey, and left for her shift, the apartment still smelt like honey and was more familiar than anywhere else in the world. Peter laid on the living room floor, fingers methodically snapping LEGO bricks together as Harry counted the seconds between thunder and lightning outside. The rug itched beneath him and his back hurt from laying there for hours but he had to finish the LEGO build.

“Seven,” Harry announced. “It’s closer now.”

Peter didn’t look up. He didn't have to look up, he knew Harry knew he heard.

His hands worked in rhythmic precision, locking the yellow piece into the base of his tower. He could feel the tiny ridges of each brick, the satisfying snap when they fit together.

“Peter, it’s not gonna stay up. It’s too top-heavy,” Harry said, leaning in. Harry smelt like the hot chocolate they had drunk after dinner.

“It’ll stay.” Peter replied. Because it had to, the math said so.

“I give it five seconds,” Gwen said from the couch, her voice light with laughter. The couch squeaked a bit as she shifted, Peter knew she was going to start leaning towards them.

Harry snorted. “It’s already leaning. You’re doomed.”

“You’re gonna sneeze, and it’s all gonna crash.”  Gwen added.

Peter rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. He liked the way the tower felt strong in his hands. It wouldn’t fall unless someone—

A gunshot echoed through the walls.

Peter froze mid-motion. The sound was sharp, but it felt distant, like it didn’t belong.

“What was that?” Harry asked, his voice trembling.

Gwen was already off the couch, her bare feet slapping against the floor as she bolted to the door.

“Gwen, wait!” Peter scrambled to his feet, his tower forgotten.

She was in the hallway before he could stop her, the apartment door swinging open. Peter hesitated, his chest tightening as he heard her soft voice call out:

“Dad?”

The door to her apartment was ajar, shadows shifting inside.

“Gwen, don’t—” Peter’s words were drowned out by a second gunshot.

---

Panic doesn’t come all at once.

It starts in flashes: the sound of footsteps, heavy and uneven. The glint of something metal in the robber’s hand. The metallic tang in the air.

Peter’s heart hammered as he stumbled forward, his thoughts spiraling. He reached the door, shoved it open just enough to see inside.

Gwen lay crumpled on the floor.

The robber didn’t even look back as he climbed out the window, disappearing into the storm.

Peter dropped to his knees beside her. His hands hovered over her, useless. There was so much blood, and her breaths were faint and shallow. What was he supposed to do?

“Gwen?” His voice broke.

It feels like an eternity.

Her eyes fluttered open. “Pete…”

“It’s okay. I’ll get help.”

She tried to smile, but her face twisted in pain. “Dad’s… coming. He’ll fix it.”

Her hand slipped out of his.

Peter didn’t remember screaming, but he must have. The next thing he knew, Uncle Ben and Mr. Stacy were suddenly there, pulling them away from the scene. Mr. Stacy’s voice was hoarse as he shouted her name, cradling her limp body.

Peter backed away, his chest heaving. His hands were shaking.

“Peter!” Ben’s voice was muffled, like it was coming from underwater.

“Peter!”  

---

The sound of Ben’s voice shifted.

It wasn’t muffled anymore. It was sharp, clear.

Peter blinked, his head jerking up. He wasn’t in Mr. Stacy’s apartment. He wasn’t eight years old. He was sitting in a classroom at Midtown High, staring blankly at the whiteboard.

“Peter, are you listening?”  

Ben stood at the front of the classroom.

No, not a classroom.

The kitchen.

Their kitchen.

The light was different. The air smelled faintly of coffee. Peter blinked again, and the world snapped into focus. He wasn’t in elementary school in Queens anymore, he wasn't eight and crying in Aunt May and Uncle Ben’s bed.

He was fourteen, back in the family apartment.

“Sorry.” Peter muttered, his voice hoarse.

Ben leaned against the counter, his arms crossed. “You’ve been out of it all week. I figured it was just that bug you caught, but you seem better now. What’s going on?”  

Peter’s throat felt tight. The memory of Gwen lingered like a shadow, fading but never truly gone.

“I’m fine.” Peter said, forcing a smile.

Ben raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You sure? You’ve been quiet lately. Not like you.”  

Peter nodded, even as his chest tightened. He felt stronger lately, but it wasn’t just because he’d recovered from the flu. The spider bite had been a distant thought at first, but now... now he couldn’t ignore how his senses were sharper, how he could hear things he shouldn’t be able to hear, see details he never noticed before.

He clenched his fists under the table, the faint tingling in his fingertips a constant reminder of how much he’d changed.

Ben’s voice softened. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”  

Peter nodded again, though he couldn’t find the words. He stared at the kitchen table, at the faint scratches on its surface. For a moment, the lines blurred into something else—into the cracks in the floor of Mr. And Mrs. Stacy’s apartment.

---

Peter didn’t know how long he sat there after Ben left. His mind drifted between past and present, between what was and what could have been.

Gwen’s face lingered in his thoughts—not just the last time he saw her, but all the times before. Her laugh, her boldness, the way she always seemed so sure of herself.

He wondered if, in some other life, she’d still be here.

He wondered if, in some other life, they’d grow up together.

Somewhere deep inside, Peter felt like he already knew the answer.

Chapter Text

Gwen sat cross-legged on the couch, spinning a pillow in her lap. Peter was on the floor with Harry, his tongue sticking out in concentration as he stacked LEGO bricks with the meticulousness of a surgeon. Harry kept glancing at the structure like he was waiting for the inevitable collapse, and Gwen couldn’t help but grin.

Boys. They were so oblivious .

She glanced at Peter again, letting her smile linger just a second longer. She liked him. Really liked him. Not in a gross “kissy face” way like Aunt May joked about, but in a way that made her want to laugh louder around him, tease him about the way his hair stuck up like he’d been electrocuted, and plan an entire life together.

Okay, maybe a little kissy face.

Gwen pulled the pillow closer and hugged it, letting her mind wander. She’d grow up and become a journalist, and Peter would be a scientist, and Harry would write books that no one could understand. They’d live together like a family—with at least twenty cats, all of whom would hate Harry because he was so pish-posh, but that was okay because they loved him anyway.

It was a perfect plan.

“Peter, it’s not gonna stay up. It’s too top-heavy.” Harry said. 

“It’ll stay.” Peter said, his tone resolute.

“I give it five seconds.” She teased, watching Peter add yet another piece to his teetering LEGO tower.

Harry snorted. “It’s already leaning. You’re doomed.”  

Gwen grinned, leaning forward to make a show of inspecting it. “You’re gonna sneeze, and it’s all gonna crash.”

Peter ignored them, his focus unshakeable. She loved that about him. God, I might actually love him.

The thought made her cheeks flush, and she buried her face in the pillow, pretending to cough.

Then the gunshot rang out.

---

The sound was sharp and immediate, cutting through the warm chatter of the apartment like a blade.

Gwen sat bolt upright, her heart pounding.

“What was that?” Harry whispered, his voice trembling.

Peter froze, his hands mid-motion over the LEGO tower.

Gwen was already on her feet, the pillow forgotten on the couch. Her senses buzzed with the weight of something wrong, an instinctual pull that made the hair on her arms stand up. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did.

It wasn’t firecrackers. It wasn’t a car backfiring.

It was a gunshot.

Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: Be brave, Gwendolyn. Bravery doesn’t mean not being scared; it means doing the right thing even when you are scared.

“Gwen, wait!” Peter’s voice called after her, but she didn’t stop.

The hallway outside the Parker apartment was dim, the overhead light flickering faintly. Gwen’s bare feet moved silently over the carpet as she approached her own apartment door. Her pulse roared in her ears, but she kept going.

She wasn’t sure if it was bravery or recklessness, but she couldn’t stand still.

The door was ajar, the shadows inside shifting like a living thing.

“Dad?” She called out, her voice shaking.

There was no answer.

The air inside was cold, and everything felt wrong. Her father wasn’t home. If he were, he would’ve already come out to meet her, standing tall in his uniform, reassuring her with a steady voice.

The man standing in the living room wasn’t her dad.

He was skinny, wearing all black, and his hands trembled as he clutched a gun. He looked at her, startled, his eyes wide and panicked.

“Who—” Gwen started, but the words caught in her throat.

The man raised the gun.

The shot came faster than her brain could process.

---

Pain.

White-hot and searing, like a brand pressed into her side.

Gwen staggered back, her knees buckling beneath her. She hit the floor hard, the impact jarring her already throbbing body.

The man didn’t stop to look at her. He bolted for the window, climbing out and disappearing into the storm.

For a moment, Gwen could only lie there, gasping. Her hands pressed against the wound instinctively, but it didn’t stop the blood. It felt warm and sticky against her palms, soaking into her clothes.

Her mind buzzed with static.

Then Peter was there, his face swimming into view above her.

“Gwen?” His voice cracked, heavy with panic.

She tried to focus on him, but everything felt blurry, like the edges of her vision were fraying.

Peter. Sweet, oblivious Peter.

She wanted to tell him not to cry, that he looked cuter when he smiled. She wanted to tell him everything—how much she liked him, how she’d imagined their future with the cats and Harry and the tiny apartment that smelled like coffee and books.

But the words wouldn’t come.

“Pete” She rasped, forcing her eyes open.

He was crying. She hated that he was crying. She wanted to reach up and brush the tears away, but her arms felt like lead.

“It's okay, I'll get help.” But his hands hovered over her, unsure of what to do. He's not going to get help . She knew it was because he didn't want to leave her. He's rambling, he's scared. She wonders, distinctly, if he knows he is rambling or if it's all just second nature.

Don’t cry. She thought, hoping he could hear it. You’re so cute. I think I love you. I’m sorry. Tell Harry I’m sorry.

Her lips twitched into the smallest of smiles, though the pain made it hard to hold.

“Dad’s… coming,” She says, the words barely audible. It hurts to speak. “He’ll fix it.”

Because he always does. He fixes her braid when mama isn't home and he fixes her cake when she fails horribly at baking.

Peter’s grip on her hand tightened, his own shaking. The pain was unbearable, but she felt safe in his arms. Peter always made her feel safe.

She let her eyes close, the faint echo of his voice calling her name the last thing she heard.

She hopes she gets good dreams.

Chapter Text

Harry was counting between the lightning and the thunder. It was a game he had always played when storms came around. It kept his nerves in check, though it didn’t always work. It's okay, because it reminded him of mom. He counted to seven this time before thunder boomed through the Parker’s apartment.

“Seven. It’s closer now.” He announced.  

Peter didn’t look up, his focus completely consumed by his precariously tall LEGO tower. Gwen didn’t react either, but Harry knew they both heard him. Somewhat. Hopefully.

He knew Peter did, for a fact. Peter had super-hearing for anything remotely scientific. Gwen though? She was probably off in “Peter land” again, thinking about marrying him and having a gazillion of cats. He grimaced at the thought, scrunching his nose in exaggerated disgust before turning his attention back to Peter.

“Peter, it’s not gonna stay up. It’s too top-heavy,” Harry said, leaning in to inspect the inevitable failure. The tower was like the leaning tower of Pisa, only far less stable. He wants pizza now.

“It’ll stay,” Peter said firmly, like his word was law. Harry rolled his eyes. You're not Jesus, if it falls it's because I know it'll fall. He doesn't say that though, because he's a nice friend and he does, in fact, know his boundaries.

“I’ll give it five seconds.” Gwen chimed in. Her tone was light and playful, and Harry didn’t need to look to know she had that dreamy look on her face. It was gross. Still, he couldn't help but agree with her.

“It’s already leaning. You’re doomed,” Harry added, mentally planning the funeral for Peter’s build. He’d probably write something clever on the gravestone, like ‘Harry called it.’

“You’re gonna sneeze, and it’s all gonna crash,” Gwen teased, and Harry found himself agreeing with her again. So tragic. He doesn't want to keep agreeing with her, it's weird.

Peter rolled his eyes at them both, but just as Harry was about to shove him for the disrespect, something made him freeze.  

A loud bang.  

For a second, he tells himself it was the movie playing on the TV. Cowboys were dueling in a shootout, and gunshots echoed through the apartment. But Harry’s stomach dropped when he noticed Peter and Gwen’s expressions.  

“What was that?” he asked, his voice trembling. He knew it wasn’t a dumb question, but he was desperate to hear someone say it was nothing.  

Gwen didn’t answer. She was already standing up, heading toward the door of the Parker apartment.  

“Gwen!” Harry hissed out, fear gripping his chest.  

Peter was already moving, scrambling to his feet and knocking the LEGO tower down.  

“Gwen, wait!” Peter shouted, his voice frantic.  

Harry stayed frozen for a moment, panic rooting him to the spot. He wanted his dad, or Mr. and Mrs. Parker, or Captain Stacy—anyone who could fix whatever was wrong.  

Another gunshot rang out.  

Harry’s legs finally moved, and he ran after Peter.  

“Gwen!” Peter’s voice cracked as he pushed open the door to the Stacy apartment.  

Harry reached the hallway just as Peter ran inside. He could hear Gwen’s voice, faint and trembling:  

“Dad’s coming. He’ll fix it.”  

Harry stood there, frozen in the doorway, as he watched Gwen’s hand go limp in Peter’s.  

“Gwen!” Peter’s scream tore through the room, and Harry echoed it instinctively.  

They were three peas in a pod—always Gwen, Peter, and Harry. Gwen couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t .

Mr. Stacy shoved past him, his face pale with panic, and Mr. Parker pulled Harry and Peter back into the hallway. Peter was sobbing, his hand the same posture it had been in when he had been clutching Gwen’s hand.

The paramedics arrived, lifting her limp body onto a stretcher.  

Harry stared, horrified, as they wheeled her away. She didn’t have Mama Banana, her favorite stuffed monkey, with her. Gwen never went anywhere without Mama Banana.  

“She looks wrong.” Harry whispered, tears streaming down his face.  

---

The ride to the hospital was a blur. Peter was inconsolable, crying into Mr. Parker’s chest as they drove.

Harry had begged Mr. Parker to take them to the hospital, desperate to see Gwen, to make sure she was okay.

Because she would be. Just like when she broke her arm and was alright after surgery even though she had that cast on for five weeks.

She'd wake up and say ‘hey losers’ or something and Mr. Stacy would tell her to mind her language but they all knew he'd let her get away with anything because Gwen was his girl.

But this isn't a broken arm. She was shot . His brain adds, and he ignores it in hopes that Gwen will be alright.

Because she has to be.

Gwen will always be alright.

The sky is blue, the sun hurts to look at, and Gwen will be alright. 

But when they arrived, Aunt May came out with a surgeon. The haunted look on her face already tells him everything he needs to know.

Still, Harry wants to beg for her to put that face away. Because she can't be gone. She's not really dead, this is just some cruel prank for yesterday when he took Mama Banana and had her stranded on the shelf.

But they stop in front of Captain Stacy.

And before Harry can tell them to stop—

“We’re so sorry for your loss.”  

Harry’s world is shattered.  

May was sobbing. Captain Stacy fell to his knees, his cries echoing in the sterile hospital hallway. Gwen’s mom, who had been on a business trip, was on the phone, her wails audible even through the receiver.  

Peter is crying and Harry knows he's crying, maybe he's the one screaming , but his world isn't here. He's far away from the present, because Gwen isn't here .

Harry felt like he was suffocating. He wanted to wake up from this nightmare, but everything was real. Too real.  

He doesn't know when dad gets here but he does, and he now knows how his dad felt when mom died. Because his dad is giving him the same look he gave him when they called in mom's time of death.

He hopes this is a nightmare.

---

The funeral was quiet, but Harry’s sobs broke the silence when it was his turn to say goodbye. Gwen looked peaceful in her favorite dress, but it wasn’t right .  

“Where’s Mama Banana?” Harry cried. “She needs Mama Banana, or she’ll be scared.”  

Peter, who had been silent for most of the day, broke into fresh sobs.  

“And where’s the stupid friendship bracelet? She said we can’t take it off, so she can’t take it off!” Harry’s voice cracked as he rambled, tears streaming down his face. “She’ll be scared if she wakes up and doesn’t see it!”  

Mrs. Stacy is now sobbing, and Mrs. Parker is hugging her and whispering beautiful nothings into her ears and they're both on the floor. Mr. Stacy is on the chair, he can't get up and is crying as two other officers are there with him.

His dad pulled him into a tight hug, and Harry hoped it would help take the scary things away like it used to.

“It'll be okay Harry.”

But it didn’t help.

“She'll wake up scared!”

Nothing could help.

“Gwen!”

Gwen was gone.  

---

Harry woke up with a jolt, gasping for air.  

At first he thinks he passed out at the funeral, and that he's at home or in the spare bedroom of the Stacy or Parker apartment.

Because the ceiling is plain white, it doesn't have the glow in the dark stickers he placed when he was five.

But as he sits up he realizes it is his bedroom, just not the same one.

He isn't eight anymore. He's fourteen, and the funeral had been a nightmare.  

Or maybe it was a memory.  

Because how could anything involving Gwen be a nightmare?

He stood shakily and walked to his art station. Pulling back the cover, he stared at the painted portrait of Gwen he’d been working on since he was nine.  

It was all wrong.  

Gwen’s smile had more crinkles around her eyes. Her nose twitched when she snorted.

The painting didn’t capture any of it.  

Frustrated, Harry threw it aside, where dozens of other discarded portraits lay.  

He grabbed a blank canvas and started again.  

He couldn’t fail her. He couldn’t forget her.