Four hours later, Peter was being rolled out of the hospital by his Aunt May.  "Seriously, Aunt May," he insisted.  "I can walk.  You don't have to—"

    May shook her head.  "Peter, you heard the doctor.  You have to take it easy. And this is easy."

    Peter glumly resigned himself to being pushed around like a baby in a stroller.  "That's just what they tell everyone leaving the hospital."

    Harry grinned, throwing Peter's backpack over his other shoulder.  "Whatsa matter Peter?  Don't like being babied?"

    Peter managed a half-hearted scowl at Harry.  Harry smirked back.

    As May rolled him down the sidewalk to her car, Peter's spirits dropped once more.  Harry was trying to cheer him up, though it was clear he didn't feel like bantering with his wheelchair ridden best friend.  

There was no change with MJ.  Her mother had arrived, with tears in her eyes, and for the brief moment they had spoken, Peter felt she was silently blaming him.  She couldn't know, of course, but when confronted by the mother of the woman he loved, Peter had been certain she could see right through him into his mind, could see that it was his fault her child was in the hospital fighting for her life.

     Dr. Monroe had questioned him once more about the man trying to kill him, and Peter had once more provided half answers and truths.  Well, no truth.  He'd told them he had no idea who that man was, and he must have just been some nut that got his name somehow.  They'd been reluctant to let him go, but he'd insisted "the man" was gone, and since there were no complications with his injuries, they had no reason to keep him.  

Shooing Aunt May's insistent helping hands away, Peter slid into the front seat.  Harry tossed his backpack in the back seat and wheeled the wheelchair back to the hospital.  When he'd returned, May drove them both to their apartment and dropped them off.

    "Now you'll remember what the doctor said?  About taking it easy?"

    Peter nodded, completely subdued by the stern glare she had them both under.  "Yeah, I'll remember."

    Her motherly gaze shifted to Harry.  "And you'll make sure he does?"

    Harry unconsciously stood up a little straighter and cleared his throat under her gaze.  "Yes, ma'am."

    She studied both of them for a moment more as if judging their sincerity. Apparently satisfied, she nodded. "All right then.  Goodbye, boys.  I love you, Peter.  Good to see you, Harry."

    Harry nodded and Peter gave her a quick one armed hug.  "Love you, too, Aunt May.  I'll keep in touch."

    They watched for a moment as May drove off.  Harry turned and started walking.  "You're lucky, Pete," he said.  

Peter jogged a little to catch up.  "I'm lucky?  How so?"

    Harry shrugged as they made their way up the stairs to the apartment.  "Well, to have someone like that always there for you.  If I was in the hospital, you would come.  I think that's about it."

    Peter frowned.  "Harry, my aunt would come for you, too.  She loves the both of us.  I mean, how long have we been friends?  She's there for you, too, like you were her nephew."

    Harry shrugged and slung Peter's bag over his other shoulder.  "I guess.  But you're still luckier than I am.  The only family I really had and knew….or tried to know, anyway….was stolen from me."

    Peter's eyes dropped as his face burned.  Every time Harry mentioned that, Peter was sure Harry would know with one look at his face that he was Spiderman.  And though he knew he'd had no choice, he still felt as though he had stolen his friend's father.  Because of his gift.  His curse.

    "Harry…did you ever think that maybe it wasn't Spiderman?  Maybe Spiderman tried to save him?….Or just found him like that?"

    Harry glared at him, eyes burning.  "No.  Spiderman brought my father, dead, back to the mansion.  He didn't explain anything.  It was him."

    Peter nodded.  It was useless.  Harry needed someone to blame, and it looked like it was going to be Spiderman, no matter what.  Once more, Peter cursed the spider that had bitten him.




    Norman sat in the lab, head in his hands, rubbing his eyes.  "No.  This is one thing I won't do."

    But you want to.  

    "No, I don't.  I would never drag him into this."

    Don't lie to me!  Besides, we can use the help.  Who better to help us than someone living with him?

    Norman only shook his head.  "No."

    You're his father.  Tell him a little story, ask for help.  He'll jump at the chance.

    "Peter is his friend!  He won't kill his friend!"

    Given enough reason, enough incentive?  He will.

    Norman snorted a little. He had treated his son like crap for nineteen years.  He hadn't appreciated him, he hadn't helped him any, he'd only looked at Harry's faults and pointed them out.  Norman loved Harry more than anything, but he hadn't been a good father.  He'd wanted Harry to be the best man he could, and as a result, he'd relentlessly bullied Harry.  Norman felt a faint sense of self-disgust, but whether it was from the Goblin or himself, he wasn't sure.  He'd realized too late that he could have done so much more for Harry. By the time he had realized that, killing his son's best friend and ex-girlfriend had seemed the best way to make up for nineteen years of misery.

    No way would Harry kill Peter for his father.

"He won't do it, but if he did, then what?  He goes to jail when he's caught?"

    He wouldn't even have to kill him.  Just bring him to me.  You're dead already, remember? Who'll accuse us?

    Norman jumped up and paced, an old habit.  The Goblin always found a way around Norman's defenses.  He always won the arguments, always bent Norman to his will.  Norman felt helpless.  He stopped, fists clenched, and blew out a breath.  "Please." His voice was barely above a whisper.  "Please, don't make me drag my son into this.  He shouldn't be a part of this.  We can do it alone."  

    Is that so? The voice lowered to a sinister hiss. Is that why Spiderman is still alive? Is that why we flew away when we could have killed him in an instant? Because we can do it alone?

    "My son was standing there!  I wasn't about to kill my own son!"

Exactly. He would've died because he's close to Spiderman.  His own fault.  He's getting in the way.  He helps us, or he dies next time.  We can't let something as petty as this stop us.

Norman's voice lowered to a menacing tone.  "I said no."

I will kill him if you don't do it.  

Norman froze.

And you will watch.  You will be there for it, because there's nothing you can do. I'm stronger than you and you know it.

    Norman closed his eyes, utterly trapped.  He did know that.  He, of all people, knew that the Goblin was stronger, but if he ever did anything to harm Harry…Norman would fight it with everything he had, every ounce of willpower he possessed.  "Fine," he said quietly.  "He'll bring Spiderman to us.  Nothing more."

    Done.





Spiderman stood on the bridge, the cold wind against his face.  The night was filled with the sound of the cars screeching to a halt in front of the fire beneath him and the ocean roaring in his ears.  Hot flame beneath him, cold sky above him.  Red against black all around.  Red and blue against green on the bridge.  These thoughts danced wildly through Spiderman's head as his legs weakened at what he saw.

MJ once more dangled over the black water, black to match the sky,  screaming for his help.  The tram full of kids rocked in the cold wind, all crying and sobbing for him to save them.  The Green Goblin's plan had worked perfectly.  He had shattered Spiderman's heart with the choice.

"Don't do it, Goblin!"  

His words sounded slow and helpless to his own ears.  MJ pleaded with him, pleaded with the Goblin, pleaded with God.  The children screamed and cried.  

And suddenly, the children were gone.  Harry now stood alone in the tram, but was calm.  "You killed my father.  Now you'll let me die, too?"

"No, Harry!  I didn't mean for it to happen…."

The Green Goblin raised his arms higher and howled his lunatic rage though the night to Spiderman, the terrible voice filling Spiderman's head.

"We are who we choose to be!  NOW CHOOSE!"

And the tram was suddenly gone, only MJ was falling.  But he was too late.  He would always be too late.

He swung through the cold wind, trying to save MJ from her inevitable end.  A horrific explosion went off in a blast of blinding green light as his arms encircled MJ.

He was suddenly kneeling on the floor, cradling a broken, bloodied MJ.  He was screaming and begging her forgiveness, the maniacal cackling filling his head and driving him insane.  "I'm sorry!" he cried out hysterically.  "I'm sorry!  I'm sorry!  Please forgive me!"

"Please – "

Peter sat up in bed, gasping for air, tears running down his face.  The sheets were tangled around his legs, and his mouth was as dry as sandpaper.  A cold sweat covered him, chilling him to the bone. He could still feel it, the terrible cold of the wind that night on the bridge.  The ache in his bones, made all the worse by the fear.  

He sat for a moment, rocking back and forth, dragging in deep shuddering breaths.   His hand felt as though it were on fire, and his throat hurt.  He must have yelled in his sleep.  Harry's snores floated through Peter's open door.  He had no idea of the phantoms haunting his best friend's dreams.  Peter could still feel the words on his tongue, and feel the burn in his throat.  The nightmare filled his mind, the fear still running through him, almost paralyzing him.  

Peter untangled his legs by the light of a streetlamp shining through his window, casting eerie shadow patterns around the room. He got unsteadily to his feet and staggered into the bathroom, missing the light switch on the first try.  He went to the sink, hunched over it and turned the faucet on, splashing cold water on his face, trying to rid himself of the nightmare.  After vigorously rubbing his face for a few seconds, he turned the faucets off and looked in the mirror.  A pale, scared face looked back with haunted eyes.  "Just a dream," he whispered to his reflection.  "Just a dream."

Broken images and events from the nightmare ran crazily through his mind, mixing into a confusing blur as he made his way back to his room in the dark.  The dream was already fading a little, the  horror dissipating a tiny bit.  The image of holding a dying MJ was vivid, though, and Peter repeated his plea from the dream, whispered this time.
"I'm sorry, MJ.  Please forgive me."

Taking deep breaths, Peter laid back down, rearranging the blankets around his legs, trying to calm himself.  He swallowed painfully. Closing his eyes, he thought of MJ, lying in a hospital at the same moment, eyes also shut, but in coma.

One aspect of the dream bothered him.  Everything else was terrible to be sure, but one thing stuck out in his mind.  He couldn't remember who was in the tram.  He
remembered someone in the tram, remembered a sinking feeling when the person spoke.  But nothing else.

It was three a.m. when he finally fell back into a troubled sleep, the dream faded into an unpleasant blur.





Harry sat alone at his desk the next night, tapping a pencil against the wood.  The book in front of him made no sense.  He'd taken a book out of a library about business, looking for a little help, but it was more confusing than trying to do it by himself.  Peter was out, or else Harry would have asked for help.  The young photographer was at the newspaper office, begging Mr. Jameson's forgiveness about having to stay in the hospital after almost being killed.  

    He tossed the pencil down and snapped the book shut, exasperated.  At this rate, Oscorp would be dead before he could do anything for it.  Sitting for a moment, he raked a hand back through his thick hair, and blew the air out of his cheeks, an unconscious imitation of his father.  "I can't do this, Dad," he whispered.  "I need help."

    Harry sighed and rested his head in his hands, elbows on the desk.  He shut his tired eyes for a moment and though about the past days' events.  MJ was still in the hospital, and Harry, though she had betrayed him for Peter, of all people, was deeply upset.
 Harry couldn't be angry at Peter, he was his only friend, but it still hurt.  It was MJ's fault that she had strayed to Peter.  Anger flared at the memory of the glances between her and Peter at Thanksgiving dinner, holding hands at the hospital….

    You think a woman like that's sniffing around because she likes your personality?

    Harry sighed again, his father's harsh but true words still in his head.  "You were right, Dad," he whispered.  "You usually were."

    The phone suddenly rang, and Harry sighed.  He rubbed his bleary eyes for a second, considering letting the machine get it before he picked it up.

    "Hello?"

    "Harry?"

    Harry frowned. He could have sworn he recognized the voice, but he wasn't sure…  

    "Who is this?"

    "Harry, listen to me.  Come to Oscorp.  Right now.  Lab C35.  Go quickly."

    The voice was hauntingly familiar…..deep, a little raspy……

    "Who is this?"

    "Go.  Now."

    Harry held his breath, irrational hope in his heart.  "Dad?"

    Click.

    Harry stared at the phone receiver in his hand for a second, afraid to believe.  A moment later, he leapt to his feet and grabbed his coat, running, almost stumbling down the stairs.  On his way through the kitchen, he paused suddenly, wondering if he should tell Peter where he was going.

No.  Something about the whole situation struck him, something in the tone of the caller's voice.  Don't tell anyone.  He hadn't said it, but it was implied.  

    Harry continued on his way.  A thought struck him when he was at the door.

    Should I even go?  Could this be true?

    After hesitating a moment longer, Harry made his decision.  He needed to know.  He needed to know who the voice was and what he wanted.  Harry locked the newly fixed door behind him and headed down the stairs.





Peter rode the elevator to the top floor, eyes shut, head against the wall.  His jaw cracked as he let out a yawn.

    Striding down the hallway after exiting the elevator, Peter sighed for no real reason.  Jameson hadn't really cared as to why Peter hadn't been there for two days, he'd just been the littlest bit concerned that his photographer of Spiderman had almost died.  Peter assumed that was as compassionate as the man could be to him and took it as a compliment.

    After talking to JJ, Peter had spent three hours with MJ, just sitting beside her bed as she remained comatose.

Adjusting the sling around his neck, Peter rooted through his pockets with one hand, searching for his keys.  Rather than a cast, they'd sent him home with a very large, thick bandage around his hand.  They couldn't put a cast on his hand, or else the fingers wouldn't heal properly.  They'd put metal braces on each of the broken fingers – his pinky, his middle finger and his pointer – and wrapped the hand itself in an extremely thick bandage.  The bandage went around his palm, across the back of his hand, above the thumb.  His fingers only had hairline fractures that would heal in a week, two at most, so he could take the metal casts off when he pleased.  Of course, they advised him to leave them on, but it was hard to go through a week using three metal encased fingers.  He knew how to snap them open and take them off.  The fingers were wrapped in adhesive tape underneath so they weren't completely unprotected should he take the braces off.  They'd also sent him home with a sling, just so he wouldn't have to hold all that bandaging up constantly.

    Peter finally got the door open.  Yawning again, he tossed his keys on the table and took his jacket off, which was somewhat harder to do than usual.  Peter stretched.  He was beat.  It had been a long day.  A long week.  

    He collapsed onto the couch and closed his eyes.  All he needed was a catnap.  Just a little sleep to get going again.  He couldn't fall asleep too long, or the goblin might come for him.

    Peter groaned.  "Who am I kidding?  I'm going to bed.  If he kills me, at least I won't know it's happening."

    It took him three tries to get to his feet, but eventually he did.  Knees cracking like an old man, Peter slowly stumbled to the stairs.  Time for bed.

He was halfway up the stairs when the quiet of the apartment suddenly struck him.  It wasn't the usual quiet, but an empty sort of silence.  The empty feeling when no one was home.

    "Harry?"

    No answer.

    "Harry, you home?"  Still no answer.  "Huh, must be out," Peter decided.  He looked at his watch.  "Eleven o'clock?  He didn't say anything about going out tonight."

    An uneasy feeling started to grow in him and he suddenly felt wide awake.  Something was wrong, he could feel it in his gut.

    Peter went back down the stairs into the kitchen and flipped on the light. No note lay on the kitchen table, no message of any kind.  Peter snatched up the phone and quickly punched in Harry's cell phone number.  He hung up when he noticed Harry's phone was lying on the kitchen counter.  OK, so he wasn't at home, he didn't take his cell phone.  Where would he be?  Peter paced, trying to figure out what to do.  It was possible nothing was wrong.   Maybe Harry went to the store or something.  

    At eleven p.m.?  Think again, Parker.

Maybe he had a date.  Maybe he had a meeting.

Maybe you should stop playing the maybe game. Think, Parker, where would he go?
It took him about three seconds to come to a conclusion.

No longer sleepy, Peter sprinted up the stairs and into his room, praying he wouldn't be too late.  He carefully slid into his Spiderman costume, using all the skill he could to slide on the tight material with one hand.  He could attempt to web to Oscorp one handed, and supposed it would work, but he would have to be very careful.  Wouldn't do any good to die on the way there.

Snatching the mask and gloves out of the box he kept it all in, he pulled the sling off and tossed it carelessly on the bed.  It was a liability, a bother.  Impulsively, he unsnapped the three metal braces on his hand and left them on the bed, too.  Should he need his hand, he'd rather use it and maybe hurt it more than save it and end up dead.
Peter's raptor gaze swept the room as he opened the window.  He had everything he needed.  Except for time.  The one thing he was running out of.  Time.

Peter swiftly climbed out the window, heading towards what felt like the final battle.