Nope. I still don't own him. Marvel said I'm not cool enough. I think they're lying, though. I'm pretty damn cool.
Oh, and I know it's kind of confusing, but when M.J. and Peter/Spider-Man narrate, they sometimes talk to themselves. It's not quoted or italicized or anything in the past chapters (I might go back and change it) but in this one I'm going to start italicizing it again – I realized that it's confusing without it.
Is anyone still reading this? If someone is, here's chapter 5. Hope you like it. Review it if you do! (or even if you don't – I don't mind constructive criticism!)
********M.J.'s POV (Consciousness)****************
I was roused by a chilling draft flowing amid the walls of my apartment. As I reached down to the floor to recover my lost blanket, I remembered…
Spider-Man is in my room. Sleeping in my bed. Between my bed sheets, with his head on my pillow.
Is it wrong to feel so excited by his presence? He is, after all, a person. There is nothing different between him and every other Joe Schmoe in New York City. Zilch. Nada. Zippo.
If you don't count the fact that he's half arachnid.
But other than that, he's just Peter Parker. A guy you've known since fourth grade. College student, part-time job, dreams of a happy future.
And one hell of a night life, I'm sure.
Wrong or not, I was excited.
I threw the blanket back on the ground and rose from the makeshift bed. The tile floor, cold against my bare feet, was littered with the belongings I had brought with me from Peter's room. He hadn't changed last night, which meant he was still in his blood stained spandex. Picking up the nearest pair of jeans and a t-shirt, I crept through the rest of the mess to my room.
I knocked quietly on the door, and waited for a response. None. He must still be sleeping. The door creaked open, and I peeked inside.
So that's where the draft was coming from…
The curtains swayed gently in the breeze, pushed by a subtle autumn wind streaming through the open window. I looked to the bed, almost expecting what I saw. The sheets were pulled back, exposing a bare mattress. A crumpled piece of paper lay on the pillow. Slowly, I walked over to the note, bending down to read the scribbled message – 'I stole your phone'.
"Didn't anyone ever teach you that stealing was bad?" I caught myself talking aloud and hushed myself. Well, only one thing to do now.
No one, not even Spider-Man, disobeys M.J.'s orders and gets away with it.
That boy was going to get it.
************Peter's POV (Consciousness)*************
That was stupid, Peter…
I was suspended by a network of white ropes, hanging beneath Claudius.
Yeah. Claudius.
He lives in a crack between a rusted gargoyle and a tier on top of an abandoned mansion. He's a spider. Enoplognatha ovata. Similar looking to the spider that gave me my powers, but not quite the same. He's normal – not mutated.
Hey, a superhero's got to have some friends that he can trust with his secrets.
Someone could have seen you leaving M.J.'s place. Someone could have been waiting, watching, suspecting…and then what? Connections would be made, you would be associated with M.J… Someone would find out.
You're lucky.
In more ways than one. No one had seen me. And, I'd made it. I'd lived. My body hurt, but the pain felt good. It reminded me that I was still alive.
I watched the sun rise and a new day begin. A light rain was falling, moistening the sidewalks and erratic patches of grass. Glancing up, I noticed Claude's silken spider web, glistening with dew. Not strangely enough, I felt at home here, amidst the shadows and spiders. Under the gargoyles as they protected the city with watchful eyes. I felt like I belonged. I wasn't different. I fit in.
I could be dead right now.
Why couldn't I get that thought out of my head?
I had woken up early, before the rush of traffic started, before New Yorkers began their daily lives. I felt as though I owed Dr. Marcel. And I did. Owe him, I mean. It wasn't just a feeling. The man had saved my life.
No, he had saved Spider-Man's life. He doesn't know who I am. That I'm just a boy. A boy that lives in the apartment behind his house, a boy who had been his patient for the primary years of my life.
And then once more after those years.
So I had snuck out of M.J.'s through the window. I'd swung to my apartment, avoiding light and people. Took a shower and cleaned myself off, never realizing how bad blood could stain one's skin. Watched as red puddles swirled down the drain, spinning into whirlpools and vortexes.
Then, for some odd reason, I'd thought of Dr. Marcel's floor. The tile that I'd lain on, semi-consciously, for far too many long, terrifying hours.
I'd changed into regular clothes and hailed a taxi to the drug store. Bought some extra strength floor cleaner and a brand new mop. I'd made sure that neither he nor Trisha were home, and…I won't say I broke in – was it really my fault he didn't lock the window? – but I had entered my "hospital" and cleaned up the stains that I'd left. I'd placed a thank you note on the kitchen table. Thanked him for all that he did, although I really couldn't thank him enough. Said that anytime he or anyone he knew needed me, to let M.J. know. But only if it was important. Having one person know of our closeness was already one person too many.
After that, I'd again gone to my apartment, this time changing into one of the spare suits I kept hidden around.
And now, here I was.
Hanging, thinking, and occasionally squirming from the dull ache in my chest. But the thinking hurt most of all. I had no leads on who would – could – frame me. He'd had webbing, for one. And he --
A strange sensation at my right hip pulled me from my thoughts. It was as if my spider-sense were going off, but…different. I reached up and felt a hard rectangular object protruding out of the side of my red spandex. What the…?
Oh. Duh. M.J.'s phone.
It was vibrating. No ring. Just vibrator. I picked it up, looking at the display which read 'UNFOUND NUMBER' in bold letters. Pressed the answer button and held the plastic to my ear. "This is the butcher, what's your beef?"
"You!" Wow. She sounds mad. "Pe -- Spidey, where are you? I distinctly remember telling you to --"
Pe-Spidey? "What did you just call me?" She'd slipped again, or I was hearing things.
Again.
"…Spidey?"
I needed to know. One way or the other. Maybe she hadn't said "Pe". Maybe it was static on the phone…Or maybe you just keep making up excuses and stories, telling yourself that she doesn't know. If she knows, she knows. "M.J. Let's talk. Meet me at --"
"No. You will get your wise-cracking little red-and-blue ass back here so I can feed you a good breakfast and you can get some rest."
She was beyond mad. Unless she was kidding. That's what I loved about M.J. – she was so spontaneous, sporadic, that you never expected what came next. You could never tell what she was thinking or how she would react.
"I already ate."
"Oh yeah? Well, what could you possibly eat that would be better than one of my home cooked meals?" I almost choked holding back a laugh. I'd seen this girl cook. She was to food like Picasso was to art – to other artists the pieces make sense, but the undistinguished public just wants to know what the hell it is.
"Flies." I heard silence on the other end of the line. "M.J., I'm kidding. I'm not a total freak. I'll be over in a few minutes."
"You'd better be."
"Or else…?"
"Or else I'll come after you, and cram some rest down your throat." I heard a giggle. Yep, she's kidding.
"Is that possible?"
"Do you really want to find out?"
"No, I guess I don't." I really didn't. It sounded painful.
"Then get over here. Now."
"Yes, ma'am. Just let me get my army uniform, maybe you can teach me some drills or something."
"You've got five minutes."
"Oh. Well. In that case, I'll see you in two."
"Will you just hang up the phone?"
"Does this mean you don't like talking to me?"
"I'm hanging up."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"Ok, then. Do it."
"No."
"No?"
"No. You first. I called you, so you have to hang up."
"M.J., what are you talking about.?"
"Phone rules," she said simply. Like I know anything about talking on the phone? I'm a male. This conversation needed to end.
"Bye M.J." Not waiting for a response, I hit the "end call" button on the keypad and slid the baby blue Nokia between my skin and suit. I climbed up my web to the top of the roof and surveyed the ground below me. Cabs flew over the street and through the intersections and people milled along the sidewalks, stopping at newsstands and food hawkers. I wondered if Jeb was down there. Or maybe my evil twin.
Before descending, I made sure to say goodbye to Claudius. "It was nice hanging with you, Claude. No pun intended. I'll be back." And I would. It was one of the few spots in the city that I could go to for some deep thinking. And I'll definitely be doing a lot of that in the next few days.
Sticking to the back alleys, so the ever-gullible New Yorkers wouldn't see me and shoot me (again), I threaded my way back to M.J.'s. I walked most of the way, probably for the better. Swinging was still agonizing, and I didn't want to reopen the gash.
Well, here I am, I thought to myself as I hid in the shadows near the stumpy apartment building. Taking a quick glance around and seeing nobody, I quickly ascended the fire escape. It felt good to do it myself this time. Almost rewarding. I entered through the window. Doing so reminded me of something my English teacher used to say to me every time I got in the way. "You make a better door than a window." Except, instead of me, the window made a better door than a window. Which didn't really make sense. I mean, it was a window.
All I can say is I must have still been tired.
Either that or Dr. Marcel gave me some kind of medication. Some strong medication.
"Get in here. Sit. Eat. And don't you ever, ever run away like that again." I was verbally attacked before I was halfway through my window-door. There she stood, with an anxious look on her face and an accusing finger thrust into mine.
"Oh, come on, M.J. I'm fine. I needed to get some fresh air." Her face softened and a smile crept onto my lips. I win this argument.
"Yeah, but…something could've happened."
"You think I don't know that? I'm careful." Sometimes.
Oh, you just butt out of this, conscience.
She released a withheld sigh, and I swiftly became serious. "We need to talk."
"…About what?" She must have noticed the significance in my voice, and seemed frightened. What was she afraid of?
Stupid question, Pete. Wouldn't it be better to ask, why are you so terrified?
I wanted to cry. I'd waited for this day so long, postponed it due to my worries, my thoughts, my veracity. And now it was here. I started doubting my choice to bring her into the picture.
"About…" A long pause. It stretched on forever. Do it, Peter. She already knows. Telling her won't hurt. It can't.
Unless she doesn't know.
But she does!
Either way…
I let my breath out. Now or never, Pete. "About me."
"Ok…what about you?" Her words were slow and select. If I didn't already have a few leads to her knowledge of…me…then I'd be more apt to believe she didn't know.
"About me. Who I am." The brilliant green spheres made their way ever so slowly from the floor up to my mask. Looked into my silver mirrored lenses, and into me.
I didn't move. I couldn't. I could do nothing but wait for her to say something. We stood for a while, staring at each other, wondering when the other would speak. It was tense. In an intimate kind of way.
Finally, a soft whisper broke the silence. "Who are you, Spider-Man?" I watched as her lips trembled, and her lashes fluttered to halt her tears from dropping.
Tell her. Just tell her.
Taking a step closer, I reached for her hand. "Either you're a very good actress, or completely ignorant." My other hand reached for the cuff of the mask at my neck. Pulled it towards my jaw. Lifted it slowly, exposing the bottom half of my face.
"I…" She was rudely cut off as my lips invaded hers, taking the life from them. Abusing them.
"You what?" She pulled back, tracing the edges of my lips with her silky fingers, eating them with her eyes. I watched as she gnawed on her own lower lip with white, pearly teeth. My fingers raised automatically to brush the wisps of hair from her face.
God, she was so damn beautiful.
"I…I love you."
It wasn't the first time she'd told me that. But still, I wasn't expecting it. I had no answer.
"How many times do I have to tell you that, Pete?"
