Standard Please Don't Sue Me Disclaimer.

The Stacey Residence, Gwen's Room -

Gwen stared at her computer without seeing it. The beginnings of a frustration headache sent pricking needles along her temples and deep into her eyes. She had been working on this project for days and it had yet to come close to right. The words tripped over each other and tangled into unappealing mess so she closed her laptop with a worrying crack and slammed her head into her desk. Surprisingly, it didn't make her head feel better. Nothing was going to get done tonight.

A hard tap on her window almost made her jump straight out of her skin. Peter was at her widow, in full Red and Blue Spandex.

"Your mom here?" He asked without preamble.

Gwen shook her head, "She and the boys are out on the town."

Her boyfriend slid into the room as smooth as silk. Even after seeing him fight time and again, she was still awed by the sheer grace and power that was coiled into those compact muscles. His current expression of dull anger and contempt was decidedly less appealing.

Peter glanced around her room, shock melting his glower, "I love the new look."

Her room had been stripped to the tacks: Posters gone, bookshelves removed, rugs rolled up in the corner. Only her desk and bed remained.

"Mom's been on a cleaning spree since…" Her throat closed around the words. Just thinking of them made her heart ache. She shook her head and continued with forced humor. "She wants me to scrub every inch with a toothbrush before she'll put any of it back."

Peter nodded absently, prowling around with nervous energy. Gwen watched him while he examined several blank spots where pictures of them once hung. She shifted in her wheelie chair, growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute.

"What's wrong?" she asked at last.

He signed, shoulders sagging and arms flopping to his side. "Besides the obvious."

He dropped to the bed with a heavy thunk.

"Aunt May's out of the ICU. She's still gotta stay for couple more weeks."

"Mr. Stark still covering the bills?"

"Yeah," There was a laugh in his voice. Peter had lived in a house where his aunt and uncle each worked fifty hour weeks to make ends meet and the clothes sometimes came from Good Will. Now he had a billionaire footing all his bills. "He's said he's taking it out of my future pay check."

She smiled at the joke, weak as it was. Mr. Stark adored the teen genius. The few times she had sat in on their special science club meetings, they had moved together with the precision of a Swiss watch, casually tossing each other tools, textbooks, and solutions to the other's problems. Stark would buy a dozen hospitals free of charge if it helped Peter out.

"And?" she prompted.

Peter stared back at him, more than a little guilt crossing his face. "And what?"

Gwen arched one golden eyebrow at him. "And you didn't come to my house at ten o'clock at night to tell me that your aunt moved to a slightly different room and that you're still living with a billionaire."

Peter didn't answer. His lips stretched into a thin angry slash. He stared at her for more than a minute while she fidgeted. Just when she was thinking about getting something for them to drink, his head dropped to his pillow and spoke in a resigned muffle.

"I'm thinking I would have been better off living with the Green Gosborn."

"Better off with a man who tried to kill you, me and a good portion of the NYPD. Twice."

His head came up again, his face set in hard grim lines. There was no trace of his usual levity or kindness. The sight made fear hook deep into her spine, pulling her whole being taut as a drum. She had only seen him like this twice and both times had nearly killed her.

It wasn't as bad as she had thought. Gwen had imagined Extraterrestrial Terrors of Lovecraftian magnitude or vast conspiracies of psychopathic werewolves controlling the stock market. This was shocking and more than a bit disturbing but it wasn't likely to end in mutilation or property damage in ten figures.

"Natasha Romanoff said she was your biological mother." She could barely even think the words. The image of The Black Widow with an awkward rounded belly and swollen ankles was simply ridiculous. Like seeing a shark gnawing on a tofu pizza.

"What did you say back?" She fought to keep her voice steady and serious. Peter still acted like this was the end of the world and laughing seemed like a bad idea.

Peter didn't sit up, his voice muffled by the pillow he had face-planted in. "I said hi, mom, you missed my birthday party but I forgive you. Let's bake cookies and dish."

"Seriously?" Knowing him, he might have.

His head shot up at once, "No!" his red faced anger melted as he hesitated over his next words. "I called her a psycho whore."

"Peter!"

"I couldn't think of anything else." His words were sullen and defensive but not really sincere.

Her nose crinkled with disgust. "It sounds like something Kenny Kong would say."

Peter's face fell into disgust at the comparison to Manhattan Magnet's most notorious bigot. He buried his head into her pillow again, running hands through his fluffy hair. "Am I gonna catch hell for this?"

"Of course," she nodded, ponytail bouncing against her neck. Her voice was light and breezy she continued, "It shall be unending. When you least expect it I shall shame you for this. When we have coffee I shall tell the pretty Barista that you called your mother a whore. I will find a Black Widow fan club and I will announce to the collective body that Peter Parker called Natasha Romanoff a whore. When we're eighty-six and eating oatmeal at our hover table…"

A muffled laugh came from her bed. "All right. I get it. You're gonna make my life miserable and I deserve it."

He pulled up his head up from the pillow. Peter was frowning again. "She is insane."

She considered him for a moment. Peter could be outrageously stubborn when he wanted to be. "Peter, you realize that if Natasha were crazy enough to latch onto some random teenager as her long lost child, SHIELD might have noticed."

"She's a spy." He argued, "She hides things for a living."

Her silence spoke volumes to her boyfriend. Anger returned to his voice as he slid off her bed. "Well then how else could she have gotten that stupid idea?"

"You do know what a black widow is, right?"

He snorted loudly. "Last time I checked my dad didn't die til I was six."

Disgust and laughter mingled in her voice. "That's not even close to what I meant."

Brown eyes glared at her, "My parents loved each other."

"Peter," pity seeped into her voice against her will, "this is not the kind of thing a six year old could pick up on."

He continued trying to poke holes in her logic. "Then how did I get to them? Did she mail me to them in a cardboard box?"

She was not gonna roll over because Peter wanted to stay in denial. "This is really the kind of thing you should ask Natasha."

The glare deepened and his face hardened into a stone mask, "I am not talking to her until I can prove she's a damn nutjob."

Gwen paused for a moment, wanting to make her meaning clear. "And if she's not?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"You have to consider the possibility that she might - might" She emphasized the word carefully, "be telling the truth."

"What?" Every line of his body conveyed outrage and horror. "How can you even consider that?!"

Gwen felt more than a touch of guilt roiled in her stomach. She was probably one of two people Peter had counted on being in his corner. Now she had proved herself to be just someone else tearing his life apart.

Welcome to the club.

She pulled a little square of glossy paper from her desk drawer and handed to Peter. Just a simple photo, one of hundreds Peter and his Aunt kept around their home. He hadn't even noticed it was missing.

"I found it when I was look for your phone."

"My phone?" he grabbed the photo out her hand, "Why were you looking..."

He trailed off while he stared at the photo. It was clear in her mind's eye. She had stared at it for hours, memorized every detail over and over again.

"I didn't even notice until you told me that she came to pick you up."

The moment she realized it, it hit her like a freight train. Two people, young and vibrant, holding each other tightly and brimming with hope and happiness for the future; Richard and Mary Parker at their graduation from Empire State. Two people who had no idea how miserable their lives were about to become.

"You weren't old enough to tell?"

Peter didn't answer. He dug into his backpack for a moment and pulled out another photo. She had seen it once or twice. It was also of his parents, just a tad older, standing arm in arm with Nick Fury in some anonymous stretch of desert. His eyes darted over them, studying every detail. Sadness and fear mixed with rage and denial as he looked closer at the people who had raised him. It was most likely the first time he had really seen them.

On the surface, Peter look very much like his parents: Brown hair, Brown eyes, fair skin. But the closer she had looked, the more she saw how different they were. Eyes, nose, lips, chin and cheekbones, Peter had nothing for the Parkers in his face. His body was lean, compact and lose limbed. Mary was pear-shaped and stocky. Richard was as lean as Peter but much shorter and broader in the shoulders. Richard's hair was light and feathery, closer to blond than Peter's thick coffee-colored waves and Mary had board straight terra cotta for her hair. When it came down to it, Peter didn't look a thing like them.

They sat there for a moment. She didn't want to poke him where he hurt just yet. "You okay?"

"Yes," he answered flatly "No. I don't know." His hands came up to rub his face. "What the hell can we do? I can't go back to the Tower."

She brightened a little at this, "Well, there is something we can do right now."

"Cry?" he said without his usual humor.

"I hacked your parent's medical records." She pulled another sheaf of paper out of her desk. "Your mother's OB has the night shift in a hospital downtown. It should only take about fifteen minutes by cab."

Peter stared at her, brown eyes wide and shining with unshed tears. A broad smile broke out across his face. "I could kiss you right now."

She grinned crookedly at him. "You want to go or what?"

"I'll get my pants."

Dr. Rachel Donavan was more of a craft project than a woman: pipe-cleaner limbs, fine lamb's wool hair, parchment paper skin. The mug of containing the five espressos they had bribed her with looked like it was going to break her fingers. Her other hand waved in a complicated pattern as her high thin voice detailed her experience with the Parkers.

"I really don't know what I can help you with." She plunked herself down with a surprising thump in her armchair. "I mean I wasn't even in the same country when you were born. Your mother went into labor while they were vacationing in Warsaw."

"But you did a check up on me when I got back, right?" Peter asked. Gwen could hear all his hopes hanging on his words. With a single sentence, this woman could destroy his whole world.

"Pediatricians do that." Her words were sickeningly sweet, like she was explaining something to a couple of kids. Which they were. Technically. "OBs jobs are done the minute the baby is born."

Peter looked ready to yell at her condescending tone. Gwen cut in with the brightest, fakest smile she had, "Still, you checked in on Mrs. Parker. Her file said she was a high risk, a history of miscarriages and infertility and the stress of her vacation."

Peter glanced sidelong at her. He had only skimmed his mother's medical records on the ride here. Mostly he just looked out the widow and smiled. Gwen had looked over a dozen times, reviewing every condition and notation. Richard and Mary each had serious conditions, a perfect storm of infertility.

"I don't presume to know." Her body was poised too carefully; her voice was just a little too brittle.

Peter burst in at that moment, close to crying. "Please. There's this crazy woman trying to claim she's my real mom."

"That's…" She stammered and hummed as if she could make the two go away by pretending to talk.

Peter looked ready grab her by the collar of her medical coat and shake the answer out of her. Gwen put her hand on his arm, pressing just a little harder than she had to. Her blue eyes found Dr. Donavan's watery green ones. She adopted the wide, pleading eyed look that had won her most of her arguments with her father.

"Please?" she said in her quietest, most lost little girl voice.

The doctor stared at her for a moment. Her already weak will was crumbling. Her next words were simple and offhand as if she were discussing the weather.

"The Parker baby was a girl."

Peter leap over the last five steps of the hospital entrance and landed with less than his usual grace. He hadn't spoken since Donavon had made her revelation. Anger burned in his eyes and shouted from every line in his body. Gwen came down the steps at a more reasonable rate while Peter glowered at a lamppost. She considered him for a moment.

"Peter" She began but Peter cut her off with a grunt. She repeated his name louder and sterner. "Peter."

Peter turned on her, fury and pain radiating like a heat wave. "Don't say it." He growled.

"It needs to be said." She answered, acid dripping from her voice. "You need talk to her."

He hunched his shoulders more, curled around his quickly crumbling life "I can't."

His voice was pathetic, a kitten's whimper. He didn't want to put the final nail in his fragile reality's coffin. Gwen stared at him for a moment. There was something familiar about this situation.

"Peter," she started forcing false calm and confidence into her voice, "You just found out your whole life is a lie. You're a mess and you need advice."

She pulled him closer to her. "We'll figure this out."

Peter stared at her for a second. He sighed like he didn't believe her then pulled away. She smiled, sad and tight, at him for a moment. He was sagging under the weight of his new world. What he needed right now was to talk with someone he trusted: not Fury or any of the Avengers. They would take Romanov's side or tried to play mediator. Want he really needed was someone who had always been in his corner. And considering she just pulled the rug out from his whole world that left only one choice. She climbed onto the curb and flung out her arm for a cab to the North Shore Hospital.

Something grabbed her wrist at eighty miles an hour; her foot slammed against a car hood as she left the ground. She heard her bones snap and her shoulder separated her body with a dull pop. Searing pain lanced from her limbs and across her body, sending it into excruciating spasms. Thick cloying smoke burned her eyes and choked her. Blackness swallowed her world from the outside in. Someone was screaming. In her last moments of conciseness, she felt hear a cackling laugh in her ears.