Welcome back! Sorry this one took so long. 

         I'm going to apologize in advance for the Peter/Peter and M.J./M.J. arguments…you'll see what I mean. They argue with their consciences and it's just plain weird.  Sorry!

         No, I don't own Spider-Man.  Why don't you rub it in?

**********Peter's POV*************   

My life was changed forever.  Because of one comment, one tiny little event, I could never be the same again.

         Not like this is the first time that's happened.

         But this is different.  She loves me, I love her, and we can finally be together.

The morning progressed into evening, then into night, until weariness finally beckoned me into the sagging couch cushions.  I had told M.J. everything - from being bitten, to Uncle Ben's death, all the way through what had happened in the elevator shaft.  Apparently, she had known the whole time about Mr. Osborne – who he was and what he did. At first, it had seemed odd to me...but then I remembered that I was talking about M.J.  Considering her outstanding ability to unravel any and all situations, it wasn't strange at all.  She'd known who I was, too, and what I'd done.

         More specifically, what I'd chosen not to do.

         (FLASHBACK START)

         "Peter…Pete, how did you do it?  How did – do you – live with yourself?!"  She affectionately gripped my arm with her warm hands and searched my eyes for the answer.  She could, now; my mask had been removed after…The Kiss.  She knew, and that meant we could be together. 

         "I didn't, M.J.."  I had secluded myself from all I loved, became even more of an outcast.  A recluse preoccupied with self-pity and isolation.  "I just…look, I really don't want to talk about this.  I…can't."  The question brought back so many memories, so many things I had tried so hard to forget.  I had put them into the back of my mind for the time being, but knew that they would always resurface to haunt me.  "I can't."

I had killed Mr. Osborne.

         No, Pete.  He killed himself. 

But I didn't do anything.  I could have helped him, called 911 or something…

He was trying to kill you.

         "Talking helps.  You should talk about it, get it out in the open."  Why was she so damn persistent?!

"No, M.J.!  I don't want to talk about it!"  Didn't she realize how horrible this was for me?  She was torturing me by igniting my own emotions.  I rose abruptly from my seat at the table and crossed to the window above the kitchen sink. 

         I heard her meek voice rise from the sudden quietness.  "I'm sorry, Pete."  Turning back to face her, I noticed the shocked look on her face. 

         I let out a deep sigh.  "Me too, M.J.  Please, I…"  I put my head in my hands, rubbed my face and eyes.  "It's just…I…I can't…"  It was no use.  There was just no way to put my emotions into comprehensible words.   No way to make her understand.  "You wouldn't understand."

         Her eyes grew large with the slight dropping of her jaw.  "Only because you won't let me!" 

         "You're right," I answered calmly, simply.  "I won't.  Don't you see, M.J.?  I don't want you to understand.  This is not your cross to bear."

         The way she looked at me with those puppy eyes, begging me to let her help me…

         She can't.  She can't help you.  No one can help you. 

         You can't even help yourself.

         Even still, it's a nice feeling having somebody to be able to talk to…somebody to trust…

(FLASHBACK END)

         And so, it was decided that M.J. would be my ally, my partner.  However you want to say it.  My supporter and my assistant collaborator.  Oh, yeah, and my girlfriend. 

         My girlfriend.

         I definitely liked that title best.  

         Do you have any idea of how long I've waited – scratch that – needed to say that?

         Too long.

         But now, I have a purpose.  I have the drive and motivation to do everything to the best of my abilities, more so than I had before.  I have faith in myself, and in her.  Especially in her.  I finally have something steadfast; a constant to hold my life together.  A love, resolute and unyielding, to help me along the way.

         I lay on the couch, contemplating my life and future.  Enjoying the relaxation that I never seem to get enough of.

         Why?  How is it,  with all that is going on, that you're able to relax?  You can't just lie here and do nothing!  You need to get to the bottom of this.

         "You know what, conscience?  You're only good for one thing."

         What's that, Peter?

         "Spoiling things."

         Ah…don't you think you should get going?

         "Tomorrow.  I promise."  One more night, conscience.  Just give me one more night of peace.  One more night of sanity. 

         I drifted off into a restless sleep.  All I remember of the night is that each time I woke, I found myself searching my mind for ideas or clues…remembering faces I haven't seen in years.  Trying to link someone, anyone, to this baffling episode of my complicated life.  I was subconsciously working on the mystery.

         Imagine you get a jigsaw puzzle for your birthday.  There is no picture on the box; instead you have to figure out what goes where on your own.  The only clue you have is that the picture on the puzzle will show you something that will drastically change your life, quite possibly kill you.  Other than that you have no leads, and the only person there to help you is blind. 

I know what you're thinking.  "Spider-Man…you're a superhero.  You've saved lives, cities even.  You've stopped numerous merciless villains from destroying New York.  Surely you can do a jigsaw puzzle."

Now imagine that when you open the box, pieces are missing.  The ones that are there are irregular and don't fit together.

         And don't even think about starting with the corners and straight edges.

         There are none.        

         Just a jumbled mess of cardboard cutouts.

         So you want to know what I'm thinking?

         I may be a hero to some, but never a superhero.  All I am is some confused kid with an unusual power, trying to do what I think is right.  You think jigsaw puzzles are easy?  I'll trade you lives.  You try being me for a day, and see how much you like it.  See how much you hate yourself for the things you'll do.  Regret your actions on a day-to-day basis, and just try to love yourself…

         Try.  You'll see.

         It doesn't work.

************M.J.'s POV***************

         Thus far, all of my life has been a pretense.  I've breezed through it with a disguise on, ignoring problems, believing they would go away if they weren't noticed.  If you can't see it, it must not be there.  No one knew about my home life, mainly because I didn't have one.  I had an abused mother who couldn't learn to stick up for herself, and my stepfather…I prefer not to talk about him. 

         When I met Peter – now I mean when I really met him, this morning, when I saw the world through his eyes – I realized how staged my life is.  Every morning I wake up, force a smile on my face, and go out into the world as a sweet, carefree, high school student.  I hang out with the popular crowd, blend in with all the bubbly cheerleaders and laugh at the jocks' dim-witted jokes.  On the outside, people see me living my fun, happy life.

         On the inside, I just want out.  I want away from it all. 

         I remember being very young, with my father on a ferry crossing the Hudson Bay.  We were on a trip to my Aunt Sybil's house for a three day weekend, just me and my dad.  I wasn't too old, maybe six or seven.  But as we sat on the deck, watching the giant paddle at the back of the ferry, we had a conversation that, until now, I had forgotten.  He told me to always be myself; to never be afraid of who I am or what I can accomplish.  "Always reach for the moon, M.J.," he'd said.  "Even if you miss, you'll land with the stars."

         I never took his advice.  I never believed in myself.  I never had to.  That's what my 'friends' are for.  We can just lean on each other's reputations and be happy.  Status id all that matters in life, anyway.  Who cares about the real you?  No one. 

At least, that's what I used to believe.

         Peter, on the other hand, had always been himself.  All through elementary school and junior high he was picked on for being the nerd, the teacher's pet, the freak.  In high school he was the genius.  Yet he never strayed from himself; he didn't change, even to please the bullies that stole his lunch money.  Why would he do that, and give them the satisfaction they didn't deserve?

         Now, I've learned that people like Peter, people who matter, care about the real me. 

         I've also learned that I need to care about the real me.  I need to let her out.  I need to be myself to be happy.

         "I can do that."  I smiled as I rose from the bed.  Today was the start of my new life.   I rose from my bed and threw on the first pair of clothes I came across.  As I passed through the living room on my way to the bathroom, I peeked at Pete lying on the couch.  He was curled up under a blanket, one arm behind his head and the other hanging over the edge of the couch.  He looked so adorable, with his messy hair and drooling mouth. 

I'll have to remind him to wipe that pillow off when he wakes up.  I smirked at the thought, and traversed the maroon carpet to turn off the TV.  He must have been watching it before he went to bed, and hadn't turned it off.  As I neared the set, my eyes focused on a picture above and to the right of the anchorwoman's head.  The caption below it read "Good bug, bad bug?"  while the picture itself showed a blurred witnesses' photo of the bank heist.  Sure enough, there was Spider-Man holding a bag bulging with something, most likely the money stolen.  I reached across the screen to adjust the volume.

         "…days ago, here in New York City.  Police investigating the crime scene have stated in disbelief that it was, in fact, the work of Spider-Man.  Any one with any information of the ex-superhero's whereabouts is to call the number at the bottom of the screen immediately.  We recommend that you keep children under watchful eye and…"  The voice droned on about warnings and cautions as I slowly looked over my shoulder at the sleeping body behind me. 

         What if he did do it?

         "He didn't."

         But, how can you prove it?

         "I…I don't need to," I whispered to myself.  "I just know!"  I knew in my heart that Peter didn't, and could never, do something like this.  I turned back to the TV, hoping it would clear things up.  The middle aged woman was now talking about some kind of new restaurant opening in Times Square, so I reached to change the dial to a different channel.  Before I got there, the screen flashed to a man in a trench coat outside Central Park, in front of a tall office building.  He spoke into a microphone with a Channel 6 News logo on it and kept looking over his shoulder nervously.  I stayed on the channel for a moment out of curiosity. 

         "We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a Channel 6 Special Report.  Witnesses have just admitted to seeing Spider-Man break and enter the window of the administrative center behind me."  The camera angle moved up the side of the building and showed an open window towards the top.  "We have reason to believe that workers inside are being held hostage and may be in danger.  Those of you with – oh, oh my God…"  Now, the camera was shaking, distorting the clarity and complicating things.  I couldn't follow what was going on.  "I can't believe…that…oh my, watch out!  Every one get back!"  I heard loud noises and screaming coming from the set, but the actual view was impossible to see.

         "Peter!  Wake up!"  Seeing that he wasn't budging, I grabbed a book from the coffee table and threw it at him.  "Wake up!"

         "Ugh…"  He yawned and rolled over mumbling something about "doing it tomorrow" and "always spoiling things".  I was too confused to think about what he was saying.

         "Peter, you have to see this."  I turned back to the TV.  The camera was still again, and on the ground in front of the building were furniture and office supplies that had been thrown from the window above.  They had been smashed to pieces in the fall.

         "Ladies and gentleman at home – it appears that Spider-Man has entered the office building and is now throwing…stuff…out of the window.  This is a live report from Channel 6, and you're anchorman is speechless.  Please remain calm, the police are on their way.  Hey! Hey, you, get back!"  He reached out to a group of onlookers as more debris came crashing from the window.  The camera man ran forward in an attempt to dodge it.  He must not have made it to safety, or something must have smashed the camera because the screen went fuzzy.  I turned back to Peter, now awake and sitting on the edge of the couch staring at the blank screen with his mouth open.

         "What the hell was that?"

         "That was our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, Pete.  Now what do we do?" 

         Our eyes met, and I could almost see his brain working behind his bushy hair and tired eyes.

         "You better go down there.  Go find out what just happened."  He looked down at the floor, as if he were debating whether or not to go.  When he looked up, a familiar spark was in his eyes, one that had been missing before. 

         "Yeah.  Ok.  I'll be back, M.J."  He rose from the couch, and I noticed one tiny little detail.

         He was wearing only boxers.

         "Peter, your suit…It's ruined.  What are you going to wear?"

         "I have more.  At my apartment.  I'll stop on my way…can I just borrow a shirt to get there?"

         "Yeah…here."  I handed him his own small pile of clothes.  "I brought these from your apartment."

         "Thanks."  He changed quickly and I followed him to the window at the back of the apartment.  Before exiting, he looked down at his clothes and turned to me.  He had a puzzled look on his face.  "How long have you known?"

         "We'll talk about it later.  Go!"  I lifted the window open and motioned him out.  He left, but not before giving me a small peck on the cheek. 

         Minutes later, I sat on the floor in front of the blank TV, hand to my cheek.  I had nothing to do now but wait.

         Wait and worry.

Ok, there's chapter 6! I hope I am doing a good job.  I think this story is going to be turning into a kind of mystery type thing, what with the imposter and all…just review and let me know what you think!

Dear Reader,

         I command you to press me!

                  Love, the review button

Please forgive me…I'm sick and on medication…plus I'm just weird to begin with.  YOU BETTER DO WHAT THE BUTTON SAYS! He gets violent sometimes, trust me.