A/N: Work is keeping me from going to the see the movie? Fine, fan fiction is keeping me from work. I have a life. I prefer to ignore it.
Chapter Two: This is Not a Date
Peter slid his hand nervously over his hair, and jumped the last step out of the bus. The young part-time physics student and full-time hero walked through the crisp night air to Mary Jane's apartment building, his palms sweating. He had taken on the Green Goblin, faced public outrage, literally laughed in the face of danger. He could do this.
He couldn't do this. Peter stood in the entrance, shifting from foot to foot as he tried to work up the courage to ring the buzzer for number 23. Deep breaths, go on...
Peter hadn't seen the lovely redhead since the day of Norman Osborn's funeral. Reeling from the horror of Osborn's death—and life—wrung out with pity by Harry's ironic declaration of friendship and revenge, Peter had sought out his uncle's grave, looking down at the simple stone as if it carried words of advice or comfort. But all he could read engraved on its polished face were the same words that had come to define his life. With great power comes great responsibility.
Then Mary Jane had come to him, her arms around him giving all the comfort a silent grave refused him. She had begun to speak, words that cut through his pain and confusion like knives to his heart. If she had only waited for another day, another time, he might have weakened, might have told her how much he loved her, how she had shaped his life, his dreams. If she had come to him anywhere but over Ben Parker's grave, declared her love for him any time but at the funeral of his tragic enemy, he might not have had the strength to turn her away. To tell her he could only be her friend. In some ways, MJ had the worst timing in the world.
Peter reached out and jabbed the buzzer with his thumb. The door responded instantly with a click, as if MJ had been waiting for him to get his act together and ring. Heart pounding, Peter pulled it open, got on the elevator and took it up to the carpeted hallway leading to her door. Knocking on her door, his felt his head spin for a panicked heartbeat—he'd had nightmares like this, where he'd gone to meet her and found himself standing in public in his costume, his mask off, people all around laughing and pointing while MJ stared at him in shock. He looked down quickly to make sure, yep, jacket, Henley and jeans, costume tucked safely under his sleeves and below his collar. When MJ opened the door, her eyebrow rose and her cheek dimpled to see Peter standing there, staring intently at his own chest. He looked up, caught her expression, and blushed.
"Ah, um...hi," Peter dredged up an awkward smile. There was a pause. "So, uh, nice place."
"Yeah, tiger, it is," MJ was trying hard not to laugh. "Why don't you come in and see it?" Peter turned red again and stepped past her as she stood aside and shut the door behind him. He looked around the little space, decorated with cheap furniture and bright throws. Mary Jane came around in front of him and studied the carpet, rocking back on her heels with her thumbs hooked in the belt loops of her jeans. The silence grew heavy.
"Um, yeah, it's...a nice place," Peter finally came up with, in desperation, and MJ did laugh, raising her head and brushing her hair back. Peter felt something inside him squeeze tight as he watched her, a slender girl wearing jeans and a green sweater, hair glowing as if the life and kindness inside her had to show itself as light. "Thank you...for asking me to come over. I wanted to see you," he added, his voice soft.
MJ nodded a little, still studying the carpet. "Well, I thought...if we're going to be friends, I...you did say, you wanted to be friends, so...this is a friendly thing, a friends-going-to-the-movies thing."
"Right, which is, entirely...great," Peter answered. He still wasn't sure this was a good idea, but he'd told her he'd be there for her. That meant he had to respond, sooner or later, to her invitations to spend some time together. A movie seemed safe, they wouldn't have to talk much.
He knew, from Aunt May, that Mary Jane had stayed with her mother for a couple of weeks after the Green Goblin's last attack. She'd been afraid to sleep alone. Peter would have given anything...he pushed that thought savagely away. No, this wasn't a good idea. And the silence was gaining weight again. "Then, do you know what you want to see? It's been awhile since I," he hesitated, "have seen what's showing."
"I know it, mystery man," MJ got her coat out of the closet. "You're never home, and when you are, you're always too busy to hang out. I nearly dropped the phone in shock when you said you'd come over tonight." Peter felt a pang of guilt lodge in his chest, adding another tight band around his heart, but MJ's tone was light. "You in the mood for drama, or feeling like some action?"
Certain that his face was a red as it could get without pulling his mask on, Peter managed to stammer that anything was fine with him. She was so beautiful. He followed her out the door, loving her teasing smile, her lively eyes, the gentle curves highlighted by her close-fitting coat. It was a surreal moment. Peter had to stop and remind himself that yes, he was here with Mary Jane Watson, going together to a movie. He'd fantasized about it so often in high school, dreaming of her through boring classes and alone in his room. He wouldn't have believed this was real if it wasn't for the bitter knowledge that it was a friendly thing; because he, Peter Parker, had insisted that it couldn't be anything else.
There were almost to the movie theater when he heard the sirens. Nope, not gonna go there, he thought. Ignoring them, he turned to smile at MJ, who was chatting brightly about something that had happened at work. She didn't even notice the sirens; in New York, they were part of the background, there all the time. Peter lost track of what she was saying again as another siren shrieked its way across the neighborhood. Not tonight, even your...friendly...neighborhood heroes get a night off now and then. An ambulance joined the disaster parade and Peter looked down the street—just curiosity, nothing more—to see what was up. There was already a fire truck parked down there, by the elementary school. He could see patrol cars pulling up around the old brick building. MJ was looking at him inquisitively, had she asked a question? He glanced over at the school once more as another ambulance went by, and MJ finally looked down the street too.
"Looks like something's up," she observed cheerfully. Peter focused on her, took a deep breath and said casually, "Yeah." He went up to the booth and bought two tickets for The Terminal. Handing one ticket to the girl at his side, he moved with her into the theater lobby. The sound of the sirens was abruptly deadened.
"Hey, Mary Jane? Would you mind...going into the movie without me? Just," Peter thought frantically, "I forgot to lock up." Well, that's lame. "I'm going to go call my landlord, see if he'll go up and make sure my door is closed..." MJ had that expression on her face again, with one eyebrow up. "It, uh, might take a little while, to uh, track him down...just, well, I'll be back fast, OK?"
"OK, I guess," she said slowly, obviously puzzled and not buying it for a second.
"Thanks. Seriously, right back." Peter headed back out the glass doors. Mary Jane looked after him, dumbfounded, and then turned to look at the bank of payphones on the right side of the lobby. "Ooo-kay."
Detective Lamont lit a cigarette. His wife nagged at him to quit, but he knew it was a simple choice; either he had a smoke now and then to help him relax, or he throttled one of the nitwits working on the force. You could call it a life-saving device.
The patrol cars were still splashing the buildings and pavement with red light, but the ambulances had turned off their sirens. Lamont headed into the school, which had that eerie, haunted feel of all schools late at night. The kindergarten rooms were down their own hall, the bulletin boards along the walls decorated with earnest crayon drawings and a flock of white papers doves hanging from the ceiling. The detective was pretty sure that was a violation of the fire code. The doors were painted in bright primary colors, like a zoo or an insane asylum. Or did they use pastels for the insane? Something mellow to calm them down. You'd think that would be better for packs of hyperactive five year olds, too. Lamont was aware that his mind was jittering from subject to subject, trying not to think about what they'd found in Mrs. Reed's room.
"Detective?" Officer Ruiz was holding the door for him. "Forensics is on its way, photographers are about through."
"So, have they done fingerprints yet?" Lamont asked.
"No..." Ruiz was puzzled. "Like I said, Forensics is on its way."
I need another cigarette. "Then what are you doing with your bare hand on the door of the crime scene?" Ruiz started and jerked his hand away guiltily. "Great. Any witnesses?"
"Just the one. It was a PTA meeting, something about protesting the new curriculum. Bunch of teachers and parents in here," Ruiz indicated the room with his head, keeping his hands tucked into his armpits. Good man. "Mrs. Wright, Kelly Wright, she's the third grade teacher, she went out to the ladies'," he nodded vaguely down the hall. "She was gone five minutes, maybe, and when she came back...well, she found them. She was hysterical when she called us. She's not much better now."
Lamont nodded, pulling on rubber gloves and opening the blue-painted door carefully by pulling at the top corner. Inside, a circle of folding chairs had been arranged on a rug covered in pictures round yellow cars driving over wide cartoon roads through green lawns. A glance around revealed that the relentlessly cheerful room was neat and tidy, nothing out of place. Except, of course, for the remains of the PTA meeting, still sitting in the circle of chairs. The windows were all closed and barred; Mrs. Reed and Mrs. Wright, who ran the PTA, had let everyone in with their keys and left the doors locked. From the inside, they opened when pushed, so the killer could have hidden inside the school, waiting for it to clear out, for the meeting to start. Then he had come into this room and...what? What could kill twelve people without a mark–leaving them sitting stiffly with their eyes wide open, looking for all the world like they were waiting for someone to call the meeting to order.
Lamont sent Ruiz out to keep the medical personnel on hold, leaving him alone in the room for a few precious moments. He thought best when he was alone, treasured the chance to have a few minutes of unobserved observation. He knew they would get the person responsible for this. But his first examination of the room revealed nothing unusual. Sitting by Mrs. Reed's chair was a pile of folders and a large bound file, a copy of the new curriculum. Lamont had heard about that, his own kids were getting the version for the upper grades. The state had accepted a huge donation of education materials from businessman Wilson Fisk, who was being lauded all over the television for his philanthropy. A vocal group was protesting the new curriculum, because Fisk had insisted on including advertising for company products in the text books and work books. A lot of people thought it was wrong to target advertising at young children, at school, where they might think the products were endorsed by their teachers.
Fisk had appeared personally on television, holding up a shiny new math book in his pudgy hands, brushing the criticism aside. He had pointed out, in his huge booming voice, the benefits he was bringing to give poor, inner-city schools with his charity program. Their corporate sponsors were helping all children to succeed, he claimed.
Going gloomily over the crime scene, Lamont almost missed the figure crouched against the ceiling. Just like the pictures in the tabloids, it wore a form-fitting bodysuit with a tight hood hiding its face entirely. Blank white eyes gleamed in the florescent lights. Lamont thought it was looking away from him, but it was hard to tell.
"This is a crime scene, buddy," the detective said, his voice rough with anger. "You need to get lost."
Spider-Man twitched, turning his face toward the cop. "What happened here?"
"What, you don't have ears? I said, get lost," Lamont was kneeling next to the circle of chairs, flipping carefully through the stack of papers with gloved hands and a pencil. He refused to get up and face that thing on the ceiling, although the hairs were rising on the back of his neck. What is it about this city and freaks? "I guess if what I've heard is accurate, drawing a gun on you is a waste of time, but I'm this close to trying it, buddy."
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, detective, we're on the same side here—"
"—like hell—"
"—I'm just seeing if there's anything I can do to help." Spider-Man said, ingratiatingly.
Lamont grunted and reached toward the teacher's desk. As he touched the handle of the drawer, strong hands suddenly slid under his armpits, hauling him upwards. Spider-Man twisted to kick at the barred window with one stocking-covered foot, sending glass and metal flying, and heaved the larger man through, following a heartbeat later. As the two men hit the pavement, a blast of hot air shoved them even further and knocked them apart. The detective, bruised and scratched, rolled over and sat up on his elbows, his mouth dropping open in shock as he saw the flames licking from the blown out windows. The whole room had exploded.