BLIIIINNNG! BLIIIIINNNG!

Peter groaned and buried his head under his pillow in a futile attempt to block out the shrill ringing coming from the infernal contraption sitting on his bedside table. Who in the world could be calling him so early in the morning? Who in the world was even up this early? Who in the world even had his phone number?

He cracked an eye open and looked at the clock. 5:13.

"Oh God…" he groaned. "Whoever you are, just go away…"

But the ringing continued incessantly until finally, Peter gave up. Reaching over, he grabbed the phone, which was at that moment the bane of his existence, and greeted whoever was on the other end irritably.

"Hello?"

"Peter! It's Anna. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"Oh no, I usually get up at 5 in the morning. I need plenty of time to take a shower, do my hair, put on my makeup…"

The infernal woman completely missed the sarcasm in Peter's voice.

"Oh, well that's good then! I just called to tell you that my little strategy didn't really work as I planned."

It was way too early for Peter to remember exactly what strategy Anna was talking about.

"Jonah just booted me out of his office and said that I could say goodbye to those Christmas fruitcakes he sends me every year. I've never actually gotten one of those fruitcakes, so it wasn't really a shattering loss…"

Please God, let this rambling end soon.

"But anyway, I decided to take your story someplace else. If Jonah didn't want it, that was his loss. Sooooo…"

She paused for dramatic tension, which was completely lost on the nearly unconscious young man to whom she was speaking.

"… I went to the New York Times."

"Wooowww…" Peter yawned.

"Isn't it exciting?" Anna squeaked. Peter held the phone away from his ear as she had one of those 'ditzy fits', as he called them. Even from a foot away, he could hear her squealing. When she had calmed down somewhat, he returned the phone to his ear.

"Yes, Anna. It's absolutely amazing."

"And you wanna know something else?"

Not really, but it appears I have no choice.

"They want to copyright it!"

"Who's 'they', and what are they copyrighting?" he asked in tired confusion.

"The owners of the New York Times want to copyright your story!"

"My st – " Peter slammed his head into his pillow. "Anna, that's like copyrighting my life."

"So? Everybody's going to want to write books about you, make movies, make toys… Somebody's got to have the rights, why not the New York Times?"

Suddenly, Peter was wide-awake. "Books? Movies? Toys!"

"Of course! What did you expect?"

In all actuality, Peter didn't know what he had expected.

"Anna, I don't know anything about all this legal copyright crap. All I know is that I'm very uncomfortable with the idea of somebody making a movie about my life."

"Well, if you don't want it done, just say so. It's your story, you'll always be able to veto things."

"Okay…"

"Look at it this way. Every time somebody writes a book, a script, or makes a game or a toy about you, you will get paid. And you'll have the right to say no to any new idea that comes along. Understand?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"So, do you want them to copyright it?"

"Um… sure. But I'd kind of like to meet these people before I sign my life away. Literally."

"Good plan. I'll call you later to set up a time. Don't forget to read your own article today! I'm very proud of it; I think it's one of my best. Now go back to bed, sleepyhead. You've got a busy day ahead of you."

Apparently, the sarcasm hadn't gone over her head after all.

Three hours later, Peter was walking along the crowded sidewalks to class. He was trying to think about the whole copyrighting thing, and what sort of impact it would have on him, but he couldn't get MJ's disbelieving, hurt face out of his head. Had he done the wrong thing? Could he have spared her this pain?

No. I did what I had to do. She's safe now. Her family is safe. And if I stay away from her, sooner or later… she'll forget me.

A deep, burning pain tore away at his heart at the words. He blinked furiously to stop an onslaught of tears. Fiercely, he pushed his emotions into the smallest corner of his mind and locked them there. MJ was gone, dead to him. The girl next door had run away with his heart, and he feared he would never be whole again.

A newsstand caught his eye, and the depressing topic was yanked from his mind. He stopped suddenly, and the man walking behind him collided with his back.

"Watch it, buddy!" the man snarled. Peter didn't even notice him. He was staring, wide – eyed, at that day's edition of the New York Times.

There it was. Blazoned across the front cover. THE REAL LIFE OF PETER PARKER, THE MAN BEHIND SPIDERMAN'S MASK. Peter's stomach lurched unpleasantly. He hadn't really given much thought to the fact that his life, and everything about it, would be laid out on paper for everyone to read. It made him feel horribly exposed, and he unconsciously wrapped his arms around himself.

"You okay there, son?"

The grizzled old man selling the newspapers peered curiously at Peter's hooded form. The boy suddenly realized how strange he must look, standing stock still in front of a newsstand, staring at the New York Times as if it were his death sentence, wearing a hoodie and hugging himself.

"Y – yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

"You wan' anything?"

Peter hesitated, then shook his head. He had better ways to spend his money than on a story he already knew.

Harry was drunk. Again. In fact, he was always drunk. His philosophy was that if you just kept drinking, you would never get a hangover. Of course, it made living rather difficult.

Ever since Otto Octavius's failed experiment and subsequent eight – legged rampage, Harry had been holed up in his mansion, trying to forget. Forget what? you might ask. Everything, he would answer. His own inferiority, his weakness and shame, his failures, Mary – Jane, his father's death… But above all, the thing he wanted to completely eradicate from his mind, whether by alcohol or by suicide, was the sight of his best friend's face emerging from underneath that hated red and blue mask.

Peter. The epitome of geekiness. Glasses, backpack and all. Not once could Harry have imagined what the boy who won all the science fairs would evolve into.

Murderer. Traitor. Liar. Harry couldn't think of everything foul that described him. But he could think of quite a few good curses.

So Norman Osborn had been the Green Goblin. So what? Did that give Peter the right to kill him? Had that given him the right to comfort Harry over the grave of the man he had murdered with his bare hands? Harry clenched his teeth and crushed the fragile whiskey glass he held, ignoring the pain as blood trickled down his hand. He hated Peter so much, so very, very much…

And yet he had not betrayed him. He had not revealed his secret for all these years. And even Harry himself could not explain why. Maybe it was because Peter, despite his traitorous ways, had been his best friend. Maybe Harry was trying to prove he was the better man. Whatever it was, it was strong enough to keep Harry silent.

But now that the secret was out, Harry could act. The press would be keeping close tabs on the young man who saved the city every day. Wherever he went, whomever he met, whatever he did, Harry would know. And Harry would make his life miserable.

For though he did not think he could stand to harm Peter himself, Harry had no such qualms about hurting Peter's friends.

A/N: Like Peter, I know diddly – squat about legal stuff and copyrights and all that, so please don't kill me if I get it all wrong. I know some of you wanted to read Anna's article, and I'll try to fit it in somewhere. If I can't, I'll just write it anyway, and then stick it in as a random chapter.

Thanks sooo much to all my wonderful reviewers: Locathah, Delia Ra'Nar, deppfreak, RSegovia, ilovethestorys, RevolutionChick (your duct tape threat worked, wink wink), conan98002, IcyWaters, shadowknight, and htbthomas.

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