-1Authoress Note: A longer chapter, as I promised. Merci to any who read and merci beacoup to those who reviewed or will review. Yes, this does contain spoilers for SM3.

Also, Danny Phantom SG-1, I didn't mean to make you cry!

MJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJMJ

Chapter I

"Hello, Harry? It's Mary Jane. Would you…like some company?" It all started with those ten little words. Three proper nouns, two common nouns, a question word, a greeting, a contraction, a verb and an adjective. Now that I think about it, it must have started long before I said those words. It must have started when I stormed out of the Constellation Restaurant, knowing full well that Peter was concealing Aunt May's engagement ring somewhere, waiting for his moment to propose. Or maybe at the ceremony where Spider-man (cough, Peter, cough) was given the fabled key to the city and kissed Gwen Stacy. Who knows, it could have started at the World Unity Fair, but for the sake of my own emotions, I'm saying that it all started when I said: "Hello, Harry? It's Mary Jane. Would you…like some company?" If you don't like it, then, please, be my guest, rehash everything that's happened in the period of time where I felt my heart rate increase every time Harry Osborn entered the room that I was in, but, for the life of me, couldn't figure out why. The period of time during which I thought that Peter Parker caused all of that.

"You and Peter?"

"No," I said, rolling my eyes, even though he of course couldn't see me through my cell phone, "Just me."

"You kidding?" I gave him no answer, he then replied enthusiastically, "Sure. C'mon over."

"Are you sure I won't be intruding?"

He laughed. "No, you're not intruding! I'm just hanging out, doing nothing. Come on over!s"

"Okay then, see ya."

I snapped my cell phone shut, sighing without a cause, and headed over to the OsCorp building, the top two floors of which are occupied by Harry's penthouse. The security guards know me, even if it's only as "Mr. Osborn's red-haired friend" or "That Watson girl". On top of that, it was really creepy to hear Harry referred to as 'Mr. Osborn'. The name of his psycho pathetic father just didn't suit him.

The elevator muzak (it's not even really called music, I swear) played in Bose-quality, only succeeding in making it more annoying. It sounded something like a synthesized version of an old Beatles' song. Or something by David Bowie . "Changes", maybe? "I Wanna Hold Your Hand"? The stuff was so bad that I couldn't tell.

Fifteenth floor, sixteenth floor, seventeenth, eighteenth…

I don't really like elevators much, even the gold leafed and red carpeted one at OsCorp. I always hated thinking of something funny in that awkward silence, and then laughing at it, causing the other passengers to look at me as if I were a nutcase. But, anyway, the only other passenger at that time was a business man in a blue suit who kept staring at my rear. Take a picture buddy, I wanted to say, It'll last longer. But, hey, no one had looked at me with the smallest iota of interest in a pretty long time, or so I thought.

I had pushed the button for the penthouse, and the fifty-sixth floor also was lit, so, using a bit of the deductive reasoning that my great, great-grandfather had picked up from Sherlock Holmes, I decided that creepy suit-man must be headed for there.

It was going to be one long ride.

Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five…when was this going to be over? Creepy suit-man kept right on staring.

"Nice weather we're having." I said abruptly, and without reason. Creepy suit-man shifted his gaze from it's first resting place to my face (finally).

Fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, ding!

The doors open and creepy suit-man stepped our without a word, leaving me alone.

The rest of the ride afforded me some much needed time to think, but I just ended up realizing how indelibly crazy what I was doing was.

But, it's not like Peter was around for a chat.

Ever.

And Harry seemed so glad that I was headed over. And I have to admit, beneath all of my doubts, I was glad, too. When I had gotten the call from Peter, from the hospital, to tell me that Harry had been involved in a hit and run, that he hadn't been breathing, nor had he had a pulse…fear had seized me by the shoulders. It's a strange feeling, getting a message like that. It's not unlike the initial drop of the Tower of Terror at Disney World, if you catch my drift. But, I have to assume that not many people have received a telephone message causing them to believe that the person who understands them best in the world is going to die while riding the Tower of Terror, so, it's probably not a very comparable situation.

Ding!

"MJ!" I hadn't even stepped all the way off of the elevator before we embraced.

I kissed him on the cheek. "Looking good, tiger." I also bit my tongue after I spoke. 'Tiger' was usually reserved for Peter.

But, there was no Peter around.

There seemed to be no Peter at all anymore.

Just Spider-man.

Always just Spider-man.

The elevator doors began to close, and Harry pulled me into the penthouse. Bernard, his life-long butler, stood nearby with a silver tea service. "Miss Watson."

He said with a nod.

I resisted the urge to curtsey. "Bernard."

"Lovely to see you again."

"Likewise."

He pattered off, as old English butlers do. I turned to Harry. "How are you feeling?"

"Great, much better. It's just," he sighed, "Weird." An understanding of what he meant passed around through the room and between us.

An easel was set up across the room, it's canvas facing away from us. I spoke, "Harry, I didn't know you paint."

He gave me that smile. "Yes, kind of, uh, not very well."

"I don't believe that. Mind if I-"

Harry gently caught my arm. "No, no, no, um, it's not done yet." He guided me over to a spot just up from the easel , and a little to the right. "Just…stand there for a second."

He picked up his palette and stared at the side of the canvas that was hidden from my view.

"Harry," I laughed a little bit, "What are you-"

"Look at me for a sec, MJ."

In what could have possibly been the longest thirty seconds of my life, I obliged, and Harry just stared at me. Not like that's never happened before, but something was different. Something was wonderfully off.

He made a few brush strokes, analyzed them, whatever they were, and made a few more. Finally, after a moment, Harry sat his palette down and motioned me to come look with a simple, "Volia". I moved to him, and peered over his shoulder.

It looked so lifelike.

"I wanted to get your eyes just right."