Part two Dirty Laundry
"I make my living on the evening news,
Just give me something, something I can use
People love it when you lose,
They love Dirty Laundry!
I could have been an actor, but I wound up here,
I just have to look good, I don't have to be clear.
Come and whisper in my ear,
Give me Dirty Laundry!
Kick 'em when they're up!
Kick 'em when they're down!
Kick 'em when they're up!
Kick 'em when they're down!
Kick 'em when they're up!
Kick 'em when they're down!
Kick 'em where they sit!
Kick 'em all around!"
--Don Henley
"Dirty Laundry"
Leo Goldman had lived in New York for all of his fifty-seven years. He had seen a lot of living in his days, the very best and the very worst in humanity, much of it from the vantage point of the hot-dog stand he had run near Sheep's Meadow in Central Park for the last three decades, and took most of it in stride.
He smiled whenever he saw young lovers stroll down central park. He maintained a calm vigilance whenever roving gangs of matching jackets passed him by, youthful arrogance in their stride. He joined his fellow New Yorkers in prayer, mourning and outrage when the Towers fell. He wore his Dodgers hat and the title of 'New York Native' with equal pride. It's how he identified himself, a New Yorker. And on those infrequent occasions when he had the opportunity to witness true heroism in action, he would not let it go unacknowledged.
"Hey, Leo," a familiar voice greeted him from directly above. "What did the Zen-Buddhist say to the hot-dog vendor?"
Leo craned his head and saw Spider-Man hanging upside-down from a webline suspended between two stout branches of the tree where he kept his stand during the warm summer months, and grimaced as the hero recited the joke he had heard from half of his customers every day. "Make me one with everything," he answered, smiling. "You know how many times I hear that joke, Spidey?"
"One hundred and fifty a week," the hero guessed. "What can I say, it's a city ordinance. New Yorkers are required by law to say it every time they pass a hot-dog stand."
Leo's laughter was a generous, infectious thing. His bonhomie and good spirits were why Spider-Man frequented his stand more than most in the Manhattan area. Without even asking, he opened his steamer tray and pulled out a quarter-pound kosher frank, slapped it on a bun and slathered it with brown mustard, relish, ketchup and onions. "Here ya go, Spidey," he handed the resulting culinary masterpiece up to the waiting hero. "Enjoy."
"Thanks, Leo," Spider-Man answered, "and here you go." He handed Leo a five dollar bill, which the vendor swatted aside like a mosquito. "What do I keep tellin' ya, Spidey? Your money's no good here! It's on the house!"
"Thanks," Spider-Man answered reluctantly. "I just don't like taking charity."
"What charity?" Leo laughed. "I was there on the bridge, y'know."
"Yeah, I know," Spider-Man answered, somewhat hastily. He heard Leo tell this story to him time and again, how he stood on the Brooklyn Bridge three years ago and witnessed Spider-Man's efforts to rescue Mary Jane Watson and a gondola car full of innocent children from the mad whims of the Green Goblin. Peter Parker didn't like to think of how close he had come to losing the woman he loved, especially the sight of MJ nearly falling to her death still invaded his nightmares with alarming regularity. He didn't want to discuss that terrible night any further.
"Well, I'll keep trying to pay you, Leo," Spider-Man insisted, as he lifted his mask up a little, exposing his mouth enough to eat his hot-dog. "It's my upbringing."
"And I'll keep refusin' it, Spidey," Leo promised. "Way I see it, you do a lot for this city, and don't get enough credit. What with that ol' muckraker Jameson on your case and all. So if I can offer a free meal once in a while, it's the least I can do for a fellow New Yorker."
Spider-Man chuckled back at Leo. "Thanks, friend." In six quick bites, he devoured the makeshift meal, and flashed a grateful smile. "Take care now, Leo."
"You too, Spidey," he answered as the arachnid hero leaped out of the tree and back toward the concrete canyons of Manhattan. "You're all right. A bit meshuga, but all right."
As his hot-dog digested, Spider-Man managed to find a quiet ledge two blocks away from the Daily Bugle building, and pulled his digital camera out of the waistband of his tights. As he scanned the digital monitor on the back of the camera, he imitated the voice of J. Jonah Jameson as he viewed the shots he had captured of his battle with the Scorpion; "Crap, crap, mega-crap, crap-a-doodle-doo, crap on a stick, crap-crap-bo-bap, banana-fana-fo-fap, fe-fi-mo-map, Cra-ap!" He chuckled ruefully as he glanced toward the pale gray edifice of the Daily Bugle Building. He wondered why he was planning to visit the Bugle that day anyway; Jameson had pretty much made it clear the last time he had the misfortune to encounter him that Peter Parker would no longer be welcome at the Daily Bugle. He still blamed Peter for Mary Jane bolting from her wedding to John Jameson, a mortal blow to the tabloid editor's ego. J. Jonah Jameson was known far and wide as a champion grudge holder.
But still, he needed the money. His job as Curt Connors' teaching assistant would not start for another week, and he still had some utilities to pay. Tucking his camera in a safe place in his waistband, he swung out on a slender web, locating the ledge a block west of the Bugle where he had kept his street clothes in a web-pack. Ten minutes later, Peter Parker strolled toward the Bugle building, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Jameson.
The red-and-blue flashing light atop the police car in front of the tabloid building was the first thing Peter noticed as he approached the Bugle. No sirens blaring, he thought, and just the one car, so at least I don't have to slip into my work clothes. As he neared the building, the lobby door flew open, and two police officers hauled a third person out of the building and into the waiting police car. Whoever was being arrested, he had a coat thrown over his head, so Peter wasn't able to identify him. He made a mental note to ask Betty Brant about the arrest?assuming Jameson didn't call security to toss him out of the building as soon as he recognized him.
The city room of the Daily Bugle was pure chaos, even by the standards of most newspapers. Peter noticed Ben Urich shouting into his phone receiver, while Betty Brant was repeatedly putting callers on hold in rapid succession, the pencil in her hand riddled with tooth-marks. "Hey," Peter greeted Betty as he approached her desk. "Is Jameson busy?"
"Oh he's busy all right," she answered, the irritation in her voice palpable. "He's downtown getting his picture taken." She then returned her attention to her phone, callers on hold lighting up the board like a Christmas tree.
Before Peter could ask what Betty meant by that comment, an imposing black man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair charged out of Jameson's office. "Parker," he greeted Peter, his voice friendly but clipped, "tell me that you have shots of Spider-Man's battle with Scorpion."
"Actually I do, Mr. Robertson," Peter shook his head in Robbie Robertson's sudden interest in his photos. "I was going to give Jameson first refusal, before taking them to the Globe."
"My office, Peter," he ushered the confused college student through the office door. "Let me see them."
As Robertson closed the office door behind him and pulled down the shades, separating himself and Peter from the rest of the newsroom, Peter asked him, "What's going on here anyway? On my way in here, I saw the police drag someone off in handcuffs, and now you're using Jameson's office. What's happening here? And where is J.J?"
"J. Jonah Jameson," Robertson answered as he sat behind Jameson's desk, the tension of the last few hours draining from his form as he finally began to relax, "is currently enjoying the hospitality of the City of New York, at taxpayer's expense. In plainer language, Peter, he's been arrested."
Peter tried to speak, but found his mouth only capable of hanging open in an artist's study of surprise. Robertson continued his explanation; "The Scorpion, that armored bank robber that Spider-Man collared today? Turns out that he's really Macdonald 'Mac' Gargan, a three-time loser who was facing the Three-strikes Law. So he gave the DA the name of his weapon's supplier, a two-bit arms inventor and dealer who calls himself the Tinkerer. Gargan also named J. Jonah Jameson, saying that Jameson hired him to lure Spider-Man into the open, and also financed the weaponry he used. Jameson has been charged with reckless endangerment and gross negligence."
"Oh my God..." Peter whispered. "That was Jameson being dragged away? I know he was never the president of the Spider-Man Fan Club, but I can't believe he'd actually go this far!"
"I don't know what he's thinking," Robertson answered, shaking his head. "Even if he beats the charges, the civil suits from those Gargan attacked, not to mention the bank, could be enough to give the Bugle a major headache for years to come. As a result, the Board of Directors has chosen to suspend him from his position as Editor in Chief indefinitely, without pay, pending the outcome of the charges against him. The upshot of this is that, for the foreseeable future, I am the acting EIC. And we still have an evening edition to put out." Nodding his head and turning to his computer, he concluded, "And unlike J. Jonah, I believe in paying my freelancers what they've earned, not the bare minimum I can get away with. And you're evidently the only shooter that even got near the scene, which brings me to my original question; how soon can I see your pictures?"
"I haven't had the chance to upload them," Peter apologized, producing his digital camera. "If you have a camera port on the computer I can put them on your monitor right now."
"Jameson has a few cables jammed in his desk drawer," Robertson opened the drawer in front of him and fished out a nest of cables. "He never could make heads or tails out of them, though."
"Let me see," Peter leaned forward and picked through the maze of wires. "Hmm, I think this is the connector to the camera," he mused as he drew one cable away from the others. "Okay, let's just hope that the software's been installed..."
Ten minutes of Peter futzing with the computer, and he was able to upload the shots from his camera. Robertson scanned each shot briefly, before settling on two in rapid succession. "Hmm...some of the shots seem a little rushed, and it looks like you maintained the same vantage point from all of them," he mused aloud.
"Hey," Peter defended himself, "I wasn't gonna try and move in there for a better shot. My Aunt May didn't raise an idiot."
"Understood," Robertson smiled at the young photographer. "But you still managed to get in much closer than any other shooter in town. Very ballsy. I like ballsy. And these two shots," he added, highlighting two of the two dozen shots Peter's camera had produced, "actually show some good composition. I especially like this one of Spider-Man, wrapping Scorpion's body in webbing. And since the Scorpion's rampage is connected to Jonah's arrest, that makes this front-page news. Okay, that'll be our page one shot. The headline should read something like, 'SPIDER-MAN NABS SCORPION, RESCUES HOSTAGE'. What do you think?"
Peter glared in pure amazement at Robertson's suggestion. "Whatever happened to 'SPIDER-MENACE AND SCORPION BUST BANK WALL'?"
"I told you, Peter," Robertson regarded Peter with a mentor-like amusement, "Jameson's not sitting in the editor's chair for the time being. And plenty of eyewitnesses from the police department testified that Spider-Man was clearly working to apprehend the perpetrator. No, I think I like my idea better."
"If you say so, Mr. Robertson," Peter fought to keep the laughter from his voice; the idea of the Daily Bugle no longer breathing fire down Spider- Man's back, filled him with a lightheadedness he seldom experienced.
"Please, Peter," Robertson answered, "call me Robbie." He scribbled a few lines on a tablet, ripped out the top form and handed it to Peter. "Just hand this voucher to Betty for your payment."
"Thanks, Mr. Ro?uh, Robbie." Peter took the voucher in his hand and scanned the amount. He almost dropped the voucher to the floor as he read it. "Twenty-five hundred? That's more than four times what Jameson usually pays me! Thanks!"
"You're worth it, Peter," Robbie nodded. "I just wish I could afford to keep you on salary. But with the pending civil suits this whole Scorpion debacle's going to raise, the Bugle's looking at some lean months."
"Gotcha," Peter answered. "And since I'll be starting work as a teaching assistant for Doctor Connors soon, I'm not looking for full time work as a photog anyway."
"Hey, congratulations, Peter," Robbie smiled broadly. "Always knew you had it in you. Hey, are you attending the genetic sciences symposium at Oscorp next month?"
Peter stopped short, suddenly feeling a faint chill down his spine. "Maybe, Robbie," he admitted. "I know Dr. Connors will be attending, and he said me to join him for at least one day, but I don't know for sure if I can swing it."
"Well, if you can wrangle an invitation, let me know," Robbie announced. "I'd like to do a photo-essay on the symposium, and since that sort of thing is your field, maybe you could even help with the writing."
"I'll see," Peter answered. "But I don't know if I'll be welcome there. Harry Osborn?well, he and I were friends in high school, but we haven't been all that close lately."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Robbie nodded in sympathy. "If you can make it, though, will you let me know?"
"Will do, Robbie," Peter answered. "And thanks again."
Leaving the Daily Bugle two and a half grand richer, Peter Parker considered Robbie Robertson's offer; the money for shooting the symposium would certainly help with his Aunt May's rent, and Curt Connors would welcome positive press regarding his pet project, but if Harry Osborn was hosting the symposium, Peter doubted he would be welcome. Considering that Harry knows I'm Spider-Man and still blames me for his father's death. If he ever finds out that his father was the Green Goblin-? Peter shook his head vigorously, deliberately shaking the unpleasant thought.
But the terrible notion remained with Peter even when he switched to his Spider-Man costume and swung his way back to his apartment. And with it a fear that, should Harry learn the truth, no one would be safe. Not Peter, not Aunt May, not MJ.
Not for the first time, Peter prayed silently that he would be able to protect MJ. And not for the first time he feared that he would fail her.
========
Author's note; Thanks for all the feedback, gang. It's been a while since I posted anything over at ff.net(most of my previous stories were Buffy/Willow pieces) but I was inspired to write this one.
Oh, and DiabloDude1, to my knowledge not everyone called him the Terrible Tinkerer. Kind of the way not everyone calls him The Amazing Spider-Man. In the old Official Handbook he was referred to simply as the Tinkerer.
Hope you enjoy the next chapter. I know I'm looking forward to writing it; I finally have my big Peter/MJ scene!
"I make my living on the evening news,
Just give me something, something I can use
People love it when you lose,
They love Dirty Laundry!
I could have been an actor, but I wound up here,
I just have to look good, I don't have to be clear.
Come and whisper in my ear,
Give me Dirty Laundry!
Kick 'em when they're up!
Kick 'em when they're down!
Kick 'em when they're up!
Kick 'em when they're down!
Kick 'em when they're up!
Kick 'em when they're down!
Kick 'em where they sit!
Kick 'em all around!"
--Don Henley
"Dirty Laundry"
Leo Goldman had lived in New York for all of his fifty-seven years. He had seen a lot of living in his days, the very best and the very worst in humanity, much of it from the vantage point of the hot-dog stand he had run near Sheep's Meadow in Central Park for the last three decades, and took most of it in stride.
He smiled whenever he saw young lovers stroll down central park. He maintained a calm vigilance whenever roving gangs of matching jackets passed him by, youthful arrogance in their stride. He joined his fellow New Yorkers in prayer, mourning and outrage when the Towers fell. He wore his Dodgers hat and the title of 'New York Native' with equal pride. It's how he identified himself, a New Yorker. And on those infrequent occasions when he had the opportunity to witness true heroism in action, he would not let it go unacknowledged.
"Hey, Leo," a familiar voice greeted him from directly above. "What did the Zen-Buddhist say to the hot-dog vendor?"
Leo craned his head and saw Spider-Man hanging upside-down from a webline suspended between two stout branches of the tree where he kept his stand during the warm summer months, and grimaced as the hero recited the joke he had heard from half of his customers every day. "Make me one with everything," he answered, smiling. "You know how many times I hear that joke, Spidey?"
"One hundred and fifty a week," the hero guessed. "What can I say, it's a city ordinance. New Yorkers are required by law to say it every time they pass a hot-dog stand."
Leo's laughter was a generous, infectious thing. His bonhomie and good spirits were why Spider-Man frequented his stand more than most in the Manhattan area. Without even asking, he opened his steamer tray and pulled out a quarter-pound kosher frank, slapped it on a bun and slathered it with brown mustard, relish, ketchup and onions. "Here ya go, Spidey," he handed the resulting culinary masterpiece up to the waiting hero. "Enjoy."
"Thanks, Leo," Spider-Man answered, "and here you go." He handed Leo a five dollar bill, which the vendor swatted aside like a mosquito. "What do I keep tellin' ya, Spidey? Your money's no good here! It's on the house!"
"Thanks," Spider-Man answered reluctantly. "I just don't like taking charity."
"What charity?" Leo laughed. "I was there on the bridge, y'know."
"Yeah, I know," Spider-Man answered, somewhat hastily. He heard Leo tell this story to him time and again, how he stood on the Brooklyn Bridge three years ago and witnessed Spider-Man's efforts to rescue Mary Jane Watson and a gondola car full of innocent children from the mad whims of the Green Goblin. Peter Parker didn't like to think of how close he had come to losing the woman he loved, especially the sight of MJ nearly falling to her death still invaded his nightmares with alarming regularity. He didn't want to discuss that terrible night any further.
"Well, I'll keep trying to pay you, Leo," Spider-Man insisted, as he lifted his mask up a little, exposing his mouth enough to eat his hot-dog. "It's my upbringing."
"And I'll keep refusin' it, Spidey," Leo promised. "Way I see it, you do a lot for this city, and don't get enough credit. What with that ol' muckraker Jameson on your case and all. So if I can offer a free meal once in a while, it's the least I can do for a fellow New Yorker."
Spider-Man chuckled back at Leo. "Thanks, friend." In six quick bites, he devoured the makeshift meal, and flashed a grateful smile. "Take care now, Leo."
"You too, Spidey," he answered as the arachnid hero leaped out of the tree and back toward the concrete canyons of Manhattan. "You're all right. A bit meshuga, but all right."
As his hot-dog digested, Spider-Man managed to find a quiet ledge two blocks away from the Daily Bugle building, and pulled his digital camera out of the waistband of his tights. As he scanned the digital monitor on the back of the camera, he imitated the voice of J. Jonah Jameson as he viewed the shots he had captured of his battle with the Scorpion; "Crap, crap, mega-crap, crap-a-doodle-doo, crap on a stick, crap-crap-bo-bap, banana-fana-fo-fap, fe-fi-mo-map, Cra-ap!" He chuckled ruefully as he glanced toward the pale gray edifice of the Daily Bugle Building. He wondered why he was planning to visit the Bugle that day anyway; Jameson had pretty much made it clear the last time he had the misfortune to encounter him that Peter Parker would no longer be welcome at the Daily Bugle. He still blamed Peter for Mary Jane bolting from her wedding to John Jameson, a mortal blow to the tabloid editor's ego. J. Jonah Jameson was known far and wide as a champion grudge holder.
But still, he needed the money. His job as Curt Connors' teaching assistant would not start for another week, and he still had some utilities to pay. Tucking his camera in a safe place in his waistband, he swung out on a slender web, locating the ledge a block west of the Bugle where he had kept his street clothes in a web-pack. Ten minutes later, Peter Parker strolled toward the Bugle building, dreading the inevitable confrontation with Jameson.
The red-and-blue flashing light atop the police car in front of the tabloid building was the first thing Peter noticed as he approached the Bugle. No sirens blaring, he thought, and just the one car, so at least I don't have to slip into my work clothes. As he neared the building, the lobby door flew open, and two police officers hauled a third person out of the building and into the waiting police car. Whoever was being arrested, he had a coat thrown over his head, so Peter wasn't able to identify him. He made a mental note to ask Betty Brant about the arrest?assuming Jameson didn't call security to toss him out of the building as soon as he recognized him.
The city room of the Daily Bugle was pure chaos, even by the standards of most newspapers. Peter noticed Ben Urich shouting into his phone receiver, while Betty Brant was repeatedly putting callers on hold in rapid succession, the pencil in her hand riddled with tooth-marks. "Hey," Peter greeted Betty as he approached her desk. "Is Jameson busy?"
"Oh he's busy all right," she answered, the irritation in her voice palpable. "He's downtown getting his picture taken." She then returned her attention to her phone, callers on hold lighting up the board like a Christmas tree.
Before Peter could ask what Betty meant by that comment, an imposing black man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair charged out of Jameson's office. "Parker," he greeted Peter, his voice friendly but clipped, "tell me that you have shots of Spider-Man's battle with Scorpion."
"Actually I do, Mr. Robertson," Peter shook his head in Robbie Robertson's sudden interest in his photos. "I was going to give Jameson first refusal, before taking them to the Globe."
"My office, Peter," he ushered the confused college student through the office door. "Let me see them."
As Robertson closed the office door behind him and pulled down the shades, separating himself and Peter from the rest of the newsroom, Peter asked him, "What's going on here anyway? On my way in here, I saw the police drag someone off in handcuffs, and now you're using Jameson's office. What's happening here? And where is J.J?"
"J. Jonah Jameson," Robertson answered as he sat behind Jameson's desk, the tension of the last few hours draining from his form as he finally began to relax, "is currently enjoying the hospitality of the City of New York, at taxpayer's expense. In plainer language, Peter, he's been arrested."
Peter tried to speak, but found his mouth only capable of hanging open in an artist's study of surprise. Robertson continued his explanation; "The Scorpion, that armored bank robber that Spider-Man collared today? Turns out that he's really Macdonald 'Mac' Gargan, a three-time loser who was facing the Three-strikes Law. So he gave the DA the name of his weapon's supplier, a two-bit arms inventor and dealer who calls himself the Tinkerer. Gargan also named J. Jonah Jameson, saying that Jameson hired him to lure Spider-Man into the open, and also financed the weaponry he used. Jameson has been charged with reckless endangerment and gross negligence."
"Oh my God..." Peter whispered. "That was Jameson being dragged away? I know he was never the president of the Spider-Man Fan Club, but I can't believe he'd actually go this far!"
"I don't know what he's thinking," Robertson answered, shaking his head. "Even if he beats the charges, the civil suits from those Gargan attacked, not to mention the bank, could be enough to give the Bugle a major headache for years to come. As a result, the Board of Directors has chosen to suspend him from his position as Editor in Chief indefinitely, without pay, pending the outcome of the charges against him. The upshot of this is that, for the foreseeable future, I am the acting EIC. And we still have an evening edition to put out." Nodding his head and turning to his computer, he concluded, "And unlike J. Jonah, I believe in paying my freelancers what they've earned, not the bare minimum I can get away with. And you're evidently the only shooter that even got near the scene, which brings me to my original question; how soon can I see your pictures?"
"I haven't had the chance to upload them," Peter apologized, producing his digital camera. "If you have a camera port on the computer I can put them on your monitor right now."
"Jameson has a few cables jammed in his desk drawer," Robertson opened the drawer in front of him and fished out a nest of cables. "He never could make heads or tails out of them, though."
"Let me see," Peter leaned forward and picked through the maze of wires. "Hmm, I think this is the connector to the camera," he mused as he drew one cable away from the others. "Okay, let's just hope that the software's been installed..."
Ten minutes of Peter futzing with the computer, and he was able to upload the shots from his camera. Robertson scanned each shot briefly, before settling on two in rapid succession. "Hmm...some of the shots seem a little rushed, and it looks like you maintained the same vantage point from all of them," he mused aloud.
"Hey," Peter defended himself, "I wasn't gonna try and move in there for a better shot. My Aunt May didn't raise an idiot."
"Understood," Robertson smiled at the young photographer. "But you still managed to get in much closer than any other shooter in town. Very ballsy. I like ballsy. And these two shots," he added, highlighting two of the two dozen shots Peter's camera had produced, "actually show some good composition. I especially like this one of Spider-Man, wrapping Scorpion's body in webbing. And since the Scorpion's rampage is connected to Jonah's arrest, that makes this front-page news. Okay, that'll be our page one shot. The headline should read something like, 'SPIDER-MAN NABS SCORPION, RESCUES HOSTAGE'. What do you think?"
Peter glared in pure amazement at Robertson's suggestion. "Whatever happened to 'SPIDER-MENACE AND SCORPION BUST BANK WALL'?"
"I told you, Peter," Robertson regarded Peter with a mentor-like amusement, "Jameson's not sitting in the editor's chair for the time being. And plenty of eyewitnesses from the police department testified that Spider-Man was clearly working to apprehend the perpetrator. No, I think I like my idea better."
"If you say so, Mr. Robertson," Peter fought to keep the laughter from his voice; the idea of the Daily Bugle no longer breathing fire down Spider- Man's back, filled him with a lightheadedness he seldom experienced.
"Please, Peter," Robertson answered, "call me Robbie." He scribbled a few lines on a tablet, ripped out the top form and handed it to Peter. "Just hand this voucher to Betty for your payment."
"Thanks, Mr. Ro?uh, Robbie." Peter took the voucher in his hand and scanned the amount. He almost dropped the voucher to the floor as he read it. "Twenty-five hundred? That's more than four times what Jameson usually pays me! Thanks!"
"You're worth it, Peter," Robbie nodded. "I just wish I could afford to keep you on salary. But with the pending civil suits this whole Scorpion debacle's going to raise, the Bugle's looking at some lean months."
"Gotcha," Peter answered. "And since I'll be starting work as a teaching assistant for Doctor Connors soon, I'm not looking for full time work as a photog anyway."
"Hey, congratulations, Peter," Robbie smiled broadly. "Always knew you had it in you. Hey, are you attending the genetic sciences symposium at Oscorp next month?"
Peter stopped short, suddenly feeling a faint chill down his spine. "Maybe, Robbie," he admitted. "I know Dr. Connors will be attending, and he said me to join him for at least one day, but I don't know for sure if I can swing it."
"Well, if you can wrangle an invitation, let me know," Robbie announced. "I'd like to do a photo-essay on the symposium, and since that sort of thing is your field, maybe you could even help with the writing."
"I'll see," Peter answered. "But I don't know if I'll be welcome there. Harry Osborn?well, he and I were friends in high school, but we haven't been all that close lately."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Robbie nodded in sympathy. "If you can make it, though, will you let me know?"
"Will do, Robbie," Peter answered. "And thanks again."
Leaving the Daily Bugle two and a half grand richer, Peter Parker considered Robbie Robertson's offer; the money for shooting the symposium would certainly help with his Aunt May's rent, and Curt Connors would welcome positive press regarding his pet project, but if Harry Osborn was hosting the symposium, Peter doubted he would be welcome. Considering that Harry knows I'm Spider-Man and still blames me for his father's death. If he ever finds out that his father was the Green Goblin-? Peter shook his head vigorously, deliberately shaking the unpleasant thought.
But the terrible notion remained with Peter even when he switched to his Spider-Man costume and swung his way back to his apartment. And with it a fear that, should Harry learn the truth, no one would be safe. Not Peter, not Aunt May, not MJ.
Not for the first time, Peter prayed silently that he would be able to protect MJ. And not for the first time he feared that he would fail her.
Author's note; Thanks for all the feedback, gang. It's been a while since I posted anything over at ff.net(most of my previous stories were Buffy/Willow pieces) but I was inspired to write this one.
Oh, and DiabloDude1, to my knowledge not everyone called him the Terrible Tinkerer. Kind of the way not everyone calls him The Amazing Spider-Man. In the old Official Handbook he was referred to simply as the Tinkerer.
Hope you enjoy the next chapter. I know I'm looking forward to writing it; I finally have my big Peter/MJ scene!