Apologies about this chapter. I was just really unenthusiastic about this one for some reason, so it's a helluva lot shorter and more badly written than it should be. Next one will be better, I just had to get this one out of the way.

Of course, he had been completely and hopelessly passed out until he had been left in the room, where he had woken up and decided to stay 'unconscious' for the larger part of seven hours.

The smaller part had been spent actually sleeping. He hadn't bothered staying awake after that, just committing it to memory before 'hey, I think I deserve a nap'.

He mulled over the conversation. It was nice to think that Tony Stark and Captain America hadn't wanted to beat the shit out of him, but it didn't exactly detract from the fact that they had.

Of course, it was still hugely satisfying that Captain America thought he was doing the right thing.

That was pretty cool.

Yeah.

He narrowed his eyes at the ceiling.

A few hours must have passed since that conversation. The lights had dimmed slightly in the room, making him sure that it had morphed into night outside while he drooled into his mask.

Peter slowly turned his head to the side, trying to look out the window to the room without any cameras picking up the movement. He assumed he got away with it, because the lights didn't flicker on and no burly agents came to stand menacingly at the door.

Peter decided to risk another movement. This time, a much larger movement.

He yanked at the strap tying his arm to the bed.

Well, he hadn't intended for it break so easily, but it was hardly his fault that they seemed to have placed him in a cell for regular humans.

That thought forced him to hold back a bark of laughter. Hah. So much for S.H.I.E.L.D. Fucking idiots.

He pulled his wrist up to his face and to his utmost delight, found that they had not removed his web shooters.

S.H.I.E.L.D. truly was incompetent.

At around 4am, long after Steve Rogers and Stark had returned to the city, Fury found himself grinding his teeth at a screen in the control room. Maria Hill stood firmly next to him, surveying the footage displayed seriously.

The footage in question showed Spider-Man breaking free of his bonds, somehow breaking through a wall (Fury had to give it to the bug, he was a lot stronger than he looked), and disappearing into the night: also called free-falling from the helicarrier which was currently directly above New York City.

A few agents filtered through the doors to the control room nervously. One or two coughed, and another pulled out a phone and began playing a game, his eyes flicking from the small screen to Fury anxiously. It was completely silent.

"Who was the fucking idiot," Fury said, "who put Spider-Man in a cell designed for normal humans?"

The silence was completer (if possible), until the agent with the phone meeped.

Peter lay on the ground, his face in a puddle, and moaned.

What… a fucking… disaster.

Yeah yeah, heroic escape, it would have been very nice and everything if he hadn't broken his goddamn ankle in the fall.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was probably laughing right now at any security footage of him falling.

Peter pulled his face up off the ground and irritably surveyed his location. He didn't get much from it, except that it was a dark, gross-smelling alley with something weird against the wall that didn't seem to be human, animal, plant or anything except for sludge.

He let his face fall back in the puddle.

It was probably time to head over to Gwen's.

It took a very long way to limp his way to Gwen's apartment, but when he finally arrived there (it was thankfully not occupied by her brothers of mother at the moment), he climbed through the window and collapsed on the nearest flat surface available, which happened to be the floor.

Gwen spilled tea everywhere. "Peter! I've been so worried! What- holy shit, what did they do to you?!"

"How come your people aren't here?" he mumbled into the carpet evading the question. He hurt so much, and he was just so tired...

Gwen gently rolled him over until he was facing the ceiling. She kneeled over him, a silhouette against the overhead lights. He couldn't see her face, but he could imagine what her expression was.

"They're interstate, visiting grandparents," she replied, pulling off Peter's mask. She gazed down at his face, concerned. "They won't be back for another few days. You look terrible, if it helps to know." She wiped her tea/blood stained hand on her thigh, and then kissed him. "Let's get you fixed up, bug-boy." It sounded like she said it with a smile, but a worried one at that. "You can stay the night here, and then I'll take you back to your aunt. She's worried sick, but I don't think she should see you when you're so beaten up."

After a miniature surgery that Peter never wanted to repeat again (except Gwen's hands were nice and cool on his bruised chest, but his ankle and shoulder didn't take well to being reset), he seriously needed to sleep.

Gwen refused to let him sleep on the floor, and Peter refused to let her sleep on the floor, or her to let him sleep in her family's beds (who wanted to come home and sleep in a bed that had occupied a disgustingly dirty teenage boy? He could manage on the floor), so after a brief argument, one which Gwen won, Peter sulkily climbed into her bed.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Literally. Gwen had to stifle her sniggers at how silly he looked as he just completely collapsed. She turned the light off and left the room, leaving her ridiculous boyfriend to sleep in peace.

Sorry about this chapter guys. For some reason I really didn't have my heart in it. Next one will be longer and better, promise.