TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy
Author's Notes
For those of you who have forgotten or are too young to have lived through the 1970s, streaking refers to the act of removing one's clothes and running through a public place, naked.
Peter's recollection of Liz Allen is taken, verbatim, from Peter David, Spider-Man, The Official Novelization of the Film, (New York, Random House, Inc., 2002), p. 25.
Disclaimer
This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon: Spider-Man, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Spider-Man 2, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Daredevil - Director's Cut, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and Hulk, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.
XVIII
EXPOSURE
Mary Jane had barely fallen asleep when she was jolted awake by a deep, guttural groan. Peter lay next to her sweating profusely, still hot with fever. At first she feared he might have been having an allergic reaction to the Ibuprofen. But when she turned on the light to try and rouse him, she saw right away that he was having a nightmare. His groaning grew louder as he started to twist around violently, contorting himself in ways that world-class gymnasts could only envy.
"Hey come on, Pete, wake up," she urged, gently shaking his unnaturally warm shoulder. Suddenly, Peter shouted "Nooooooo!" as his eyes flew open. With a single, powerful leap, he catapulted himself right up to the ceiling. A startled, incredulous Mary Jane managed to flick on the light just in time to see him scuttle across the ceiling and out of the bedroom, like the oversized arachnid he was.
Mary Jane quickly followed Peter into the living room, watching in terrified fascination as he shot around like a juiced up pinball. Unbeknownst to her, he was in the throes of a turbulent stage four sleep, a condition dominated by delta brain waves. In that state, he was able to move around with his eyes open, and even talk, but paradoxically, was barely aware of his surroundings. At one point, he had come extremely close to knocking her down, but as she braced herself for a collision, he somehow managed to veer away from her at the last second, apparently guided by his spider-sense, even when asleep.
"Peter!" Mary Jane cried out anxiously, trying to get his attention. Peter turned toward her, babbling incoherently, although M.J. clearly heard the words, "my fault," more than once. "Come on, snap out of it!" she urged, grabbing him by the arm.
But, driven by subconscious imperatives, he shook her off and started to open her big living room window. "Where is it?" he barked, somehow realizing that he was in a state of undress, but still unaware of Mary Jane's presence other than as a shadowy figure.
M.J. knew right away what "it" was. "In the washer," she responded, having no idea that he was not really talking to her.
As if on automatic pilot, Peter yanked his still-damp costume out of her washing machine and put it on in a sequence that took no more than a few seconds. In full regalia except for the mask, and shivering from the chill caused by fever and moist spandex against his skin, Peter threw open the window and crouched on the sill, getting ready to leap.
"Peter, what the hell are you doing?" Mary Jane shouted frantically, realizing that he would be going outside with his face completely uncovered.
Peter ignored her, focusing on his incorporeal objective as if she were not even there, his spider-sense still responding to a phantom emergency. It was then that she got a good look at his wobbly, highly agitated expression and, to her horror, finally understood that he was only projecting an illusion of being awake. Determined to bring him out of his live-action nightmare before someone saw him without his mask on, she picked up a wooden coaster and slammed it against the coffee table as hard as she could. "Dammit Peter, wake up!" she said sharply, "now!"
M.J.'s voice cut through the darkness enshrouding Peter's mind like a lighthouse beacon. Peter clung to the sound of her voice as though it were a life preserver on a stormy sea, thrown to him from some invisible ship. His eyes locked onto her as he fought his way back to consciousness. He got down off the window sill and rubbed his eyes, his expression changing from agitation to confusion as he shook off the last vestiges of what had turned into a tortured slumber. As he became aware that M.J. was standing in front of him, he slowly reached out and lightly caressed her face and neck. "You . . . you're alright?" he murmured, breathing a huge sigh of relief, as if he had imagined something dreadful happening to her.
Mary Jane smiled, took his hand and kissed it. "You were just having a nightmare," she tenderly reassured him. "But it's over now."
Peter took her in his arms and was about to hug her close when they suddenly felt a cold breeze blast them from outside. With a shock, Peter realized that he was standing in front of an open window and not wearing his mask. He quickly slammed the window shut and closed the blinds, praying that no one, least of all Eddie Brock, had seen them. Baffled and disoriented, he looked around her rather compact living room. "H-how did I end up out here?"
"You were sleep-walking," Mary Jane replied as she gently prodded him away from the window. "Or should I say, 'sleep-crawling.' "
"M-maybe a lot more than that," Peter suggested ruefully, still feeling a residual reaction from his spider-sense, a nagging feeling that something was tapping on his skull from the inside. "You sure you didn't hear anything, any explosions or sirens?"
Mary Jane shook her head. "Not a thing."
Peter looked at her a little sheepishly as he realized what he would have done had she not stopped him. "I . . .I was really gonna go out that window, wasn't I?"
"It sure looked like it," she answered with a soft smile, "Just think of the headline you would've handed Mr. Jameson if you'd forgotten your costume . . ." She gestured as though she were reading a headline printed on the air. "Spider-Man busted for indecent exposure," she intoned dramatically.
"I guess I would've taken streaking to a whole new level, huh?" he grinned, his sense of humor returning.
"That you would have," Mary Jane giggled, affectionately rubbing her nose against his. She felt his forehead. "Well, you're still warm," she reported. "Want me to take your temperature again?"
"Yeah . . . s-sure. And thanks for saving m-m-my reputation."
"Don't mention it," Mary Jane said as she took his arm and carefully guided him back into her bedroom. She quickly retrieved her thermometer. "A hundred and one," M.J. indicated, noticing that Peter was starting to shiver. She pinched the wet fabric of his costume between her fingers. "No wonder you're so cold. Why don't you let me run this through the dryer while you get back in bed." She smiled and lightly ran her hands along his backside. "After all, we wouldn't want to freeze these gorgeous little bahoovahoovas off now, would we?"
"No, ma'am." Peter replied dutifully between chattering teeth as he quickly handed her his damp uniform.
Arms akimbo, Mary Jane gazed intensely at Peter as he climbed back into her bed, trying to rein in the desire that seized her at the sight of her lover's muscular back, shoulders and thighs in their natural state. She quickly returned her attention to her immediate priorities, silently reproaching herself for thinking about sex when Peter was just coming through some kind of trauma, not to mention feeling ill.
Peter, meanwhile, wrapped M.J.'s quilt and comforter around himself as tightly as he could. Through the door, he heard the reassuring sound of M.J.'s dryer whirring, interrupted by the beeping of her microwave. A few minutes later, Mary Jane returned carrying a ceramic mug full of hot herbal tea. "Here love," she said soothingly as she sat down on the edge of the bed and extended it to him. "Drink this."
"Th-that's g-good," he sighed as he took a few sips. "Good nursemaids are hard to come by these days." He smiled sleepily up at her.
Mary Jane smiled back. "Nothing but the best for you, honey," She slipped back into bed with him and wrapped her arms around his chest, her limpid emerald eyes once again gazing into his sapphire ones as she tried to fathom what might have gotten him so worked up.
"That must have been some dream," she whispered sympathetically.
Peter gulped down some more tea and put the mug on her night stand. "Yeah," he responded soberly, laying back. "It was."
"Do you remember any of it?" she asked, hoping for a clue as to what might be troubling him.
"Some . . ." he replied as he stared at her ceiling fan, somewhat reluctant to discuss it.
M.J. propped her head up on her elbow and lightly brushed her fingertips across his cheek. "You know, Peter," she said softly, "you might feel better if you talk about whatever's bothering you . . . get it off your chest."
Peter turned to face her. "You sure want to hear this?" he asked cautiously. By nature, he was an intensely private person, habitually reluctant to lay bare his feelings, even to those close to him. "It isn't very pretty."
"I'm sure," Mary Jane reiterated emphatically. "I'm just afraid that if you don't deal with it, you might jump out that window again and wind up exposing yourself . . ." Her eyes widened and her face reddened as she realized that what she said was not quite what she meant. "Your identity . . . I mean," she hastily corrected herself.
Peter cracked a smile at her verbal miscue, thinking how adorable Mary Jane was whenever she inadvertently wound up saying something with sexual connotations. But he knew she was right. What kind of relationship could they have if the things he was hiding from her while awake exploded while he slept? He could really hurt her without meaning to, indeed, without even remembering. Better to open up sooner than later.
"Well, I . . ." he began haltingly, holding her a bit tighter as he struggled to recall the details of his nightmare before they faded from memory. "I was in some sort of ticker-tape parade, you know, riding in an open car down Broadway. Thousands of people were lining the streets, cheering, throwing flowers, holding up Spider-Man banners. I'm really taking it in, thinking that I'm finally getting my due. Suddenly this kid, maybe two or three years old, starts running alongside the car. I think he was yelling for help. . . but I said, 'not now, I'm busy,' or words to that effect. "The next thing I know, the car, the parade, and the people are all gone, and I'm standing on a deserted street, alone, except for that same kid, who's crying. I try to pick him up to comfort him, when he blurts out, 'you didn't save me, did you?' . . ." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. ". . . and bursts into flame. . . like some kind of . . . human torch . . . and . . ."
"And?" M.J. prompted, gently caressing his cheek. "Go on."
"And . . ." Suddenly, he could no longer look at Mary Jane directly. A sharp, intense mental pang warned him not to reveal the rest of it . . . Mary Jane singing on stage . . . she's so beautiful . . . radiant . . . motorcycle bearing down . . . the gunshot . . . she's falling backwards . . . clutching her throat . . . eyes rolled up inside her head . . .He turned his face away from her, staring at the clock radio on her nightstand. "Um . . . there was more. . . but . . . I can't remember," he fibbed, hoping to quickly forget the part of his awful dream that, he now realized, had driven him into his somnambulistic frenzy.
Thinking that she fully understood what had prompted her lover's anxiety attack, M.J. wrapped her arms around him and let her head rest on his hard chest. "You have nothing to feel guilty about, Tiger," she said compassionately, "three of the kids you pulled out of that fire are still alive."
Peter stared at her for a moment, an expression of horror on his face. He abruptly pulled himself out of her embrace and bolted up. "What do you mean, three?"
Mary Jane's eyes went wide with shock as she realized what she had done. "Sorry, I meant four," she said reflexively, hoping that she could put that awful genie back in its bottle.
But it was too late. Peter grasped her shoulders and looked straight at her, his eyes boring into her like blue lasers. "What did you hear? Tell me the truth!" He was not angry; he was desperate — desperate not to hear that he had failed to prevent yet another fatality.
Tragically, his hopes would be dashed. "I'm so sorry, Peter" Mary Jane squeaked, twisting her hands nervously. "It was in the news. I swear to God, I thought you knew." If she could have given herself a swift kick in the ass, she would have. How could you be so goddamn stupid! she raged silently at herself. Instead of helping him through his trauma, she was only making it worse.
For the second time that night, Peter Parker jumped out of his lover's bed. He strode through the doorway, turned on the light in the living room and snatched up the Village Voice. Its front page reported dispassionately that one of the children that Spider-Man had rescued from a burning tenement, a three-year-old boy, had later died from smoke inhalation at Columbia University Hospital. Terribly upset, Peter dropped the paper on the floor, sat down on the sofa, and hunched forward, burying his face in his hands. "S-s-son of a bitch," he muttered despondently, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened. "What the hell went wrong? I got them all out. They were all conscious . . . breathing . . . How could I have blown it so badly. . . ?"
Mary Jane quickly joined him on the couch, intent on undoing the damage she had inadvertently caused. She had thought she understood the depth of his compassion, but until that night, she hadn't really seen it first hand. It was unbelievable to her that, despite everything Peter had accomplished that week, despite his incredible heroics, the death of one child could negate all of that and leave him so distraught. She began to suspect that her enigmatic boyfriend was hiding a much deeper mystery than she had thus far grasped.
"Peter, look at me," Mary Jane said gently as she wrapped her arms around her grieving fiancé's shoulders and turning his stricken face towards her. "No one in the world could have done anymore than you did to rescue that little boy," she declared, inwardly resolving not to let him punish himself for things beyond his control. "But sometimes, things like this happen, and there's nothing we can do about it. And in case you've forgotten, let me repeat; three other kids are still alive because of you, not to mention thousands who might otherwise be suffering from radiation poisoning if you hadn't stopped those crazies."
Peter blinked, but remained silent. Mary Jane wasn't certain if she had gotten through. "Come here, you . . ." she said softly as she nuzzled against him and lightly caressed his chest. "Maybe you don't hear this enough, but you really are a hero. You put your life on the line every single day, far beyond what anyone else would do." She hesitated, wondering if he was finally getting worn down after two years of unrelenting attacks from the editorial page of the Daily Bugle. "I hope you're not taking Jameson seriously. That man's a delusional idiot. Believe me, he'll get his someday."
"It isn't just Jameson," Peter sighed, wishing that it were that simple. Mary Jane obviously meant well, but she did not understand. No one could, except possibly Matt Murdock, and he wasn't even sure about that. He turned toward M.J. and squared his shoulders. "The last thing Uncle Ben told me before he died was, 'with great power comes great responsibility.' "
This new revelation intrigued Mary Jane. "Did he know?" she asked.
"I don't think so," Peter answered as he sadly recalled the details of his final conversation with Ben Parker. "He'd heard about my fight with Flash and thought it was just part of growing up. But I don't think he ever really knew the whole story." He quickly returned to his train of thought. "Do you know what that means?" He inquired.
"Um . . .I think so," she replied tentatively, not really sure of what Peter was driving at.
He illuminated her. "Well . . . in my case, with my unusual powers, it means that I'm expected to do things that for an ordinary person would be, 'heroic.' " Peter explained, raising his forefinger in the air to emphasize the point. "The flip side of having these abilities is that I don't have any excuses for not acting, for being too slow, whatever. Maybe if I hadn't stopped to talk with your ex-boyfriend, I might've gotten to that fire in time to get the little kid out . . . or if I had moved a little faster, that cop might still be alive."
Mary Jane had heard on the news that a police officer had been killed in a shootout with the terrorists. Oh lord, she groaned inwardly, he's blaming himself for that, too. She would put a stop to that bullshit, one way or another. "Peter Parker, that's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard in my life," M.J. said with a loving firmness. "Even you can't save everybody, no one can. You've got to stop holding yourself to unattainable standards." She paused, becoming more animated as she pressed her point. "You really ought to listen to yourself sometime. What kind of a doctor are you going to be if you go into a funk every time you lose a patient? You should be damn proud of what you did this week."
Her fervent, passionate defense of him began to stir his heart and melt away his anguish. "You really think so?" he asked, suddenly very conscious of the warmth of her body. He became entranced with watching those gorgeous green eyes light up whenever she looked at him.
"Absolutely!" M.J. said excitedly. "Did you know that CNN International carried the terrorist story as it was breaking? The whole world knows what a hero Spider-Man is — except maybe J. Jonah Jerkoff."
"Shhhh," Peter gently chided her, barely suppressing a laugh. "It's not polite to speak ill of the dead."
Mary Jane giggled softly at the little zinger he hurled at is former boss, glad that he seemed to be feeling better. "So do yourself, and me, a favor, won't you?" she continued.
"And what is that?"
"Stop listening to those demons of yours," she said insistently. "They're making your life miserable."
Peter gave her a puzzled look, wrinkling his brow in his inimitable, adorably boyish expression. "What demons?"
"Those two little twerps standing on your shoulder, carrying pitchforks, whispering all those terrible things into your ear." She gave him a small, whimsical smile as she touched his right shoulder lightly with her forefinger. "See? They're standing right there."
Peter felt a rush of affection as he pondered his fiancée's little joke. "Do they look like miniature versions of me?" he asked, going along with her playful conceit.
Mary Jane closed one eye and opened the other very wide, pretending to be peering through a magnifying glass. "Well, if you really want to know, one looks like Jameson and he's wearing this little football jersey that says, 'guilt.' "
"And the other?" Peter quipped.
"He looks like Eddie Brock. His jersey says, 'fear.' "
"Why don't you get rid of them?" he laughed.
M.J. inhaled deeply and blew on his shoulder as hard as she could. In her mind, she pictured those two little demons squeaking angrily in high-pitched voices as her breath carried them out the window. "Okay Tiger," she giggled. "They're gone."
"Thank you . . . Mary Ja . . . Maria . . . Giovanna . . . Parker," Peter said, his heart filled with gratitude as he wrapped his muscular arm around her and pulled her in close, marveling at her wisdom as much as her beauty.
Mary Jane gently stroked his face, flashing her fabulous grin, lifting her delectable lips toward his. "Now kiss me you gorgeous hunk," she ordered softly.
He lifted his head off the pillow to comply, and then paused. "But I'm sick, remember?" he pointed out, only half-seriously.
"I'll take my chances," M.J. whispered huskily. But no sooner did their lips fuse together when a siren wailed outside. Reflexively, Peter started to get up. This time, though, Mary Jane stuck her hand against his chest and forcefully shoved him back down again, shaking her head.
"Tiger, you are not going anywhere," she admonished him in a gentle, but firm voice. "You still need to rest. Let the police handle it this time. That's what they get paid for."
"But what if they can't?" Peter fretted anxiously.
"Then let Matt Murdock take care of it," she replied, gazing steadily into his azure eyes. "He's probably on it right now."
Peter's eyebrows went up sharply. "You know Matt?"
Mary Jane smiled enigmatically. "Also known as Daredevil."
Peter could hardly believe his ears. "You mean, he told you?" he asked incredulously. He had great difficulty accepting that a man who guarded his secrets so fiercely would suddenly open up to a perfect stranger.
"Uh huh," Mary Jane confirmed with a nod. "Who do you think warned me about Brock?" She smiled broadly at the endearingly befuddled expression on Peter's face.
"Why would he . . .do . . . that?" Peter inquired slowly, still completely perplexed.
She took him by the shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. "Maybe because he trusts you," she replied earnestly, "enough to trust me."
Peter didn't say anything for several seconds. He felt humbled by his new partner's confidence in him. "He is ultra-cool, M.J.," he said admiringly. "But I'm curious. What do you think of him?"
Mary Jane didn't hesitate to share her thoughts. "In many ways, he's an older version of you," she said meditatively, "I think he's suffered a lot, too."
Peter grimaced. "You're quite right. His father and girlfriend were murdered by the Kingpin . . . better known as Wilson Fisk."
Mary Jane shuddered, remembering how shocked she was when she heard that the nice African-American businessman who donated all that money to Midtown was the biggest mobster in the country, literally as well as figuratively. "Maybe the two of you are long-lost brothers," she kidded lightly in an attempt to change the subject.
"Maybe," Peter smiled at her, and then paused. "You know, M.J., he's a lawyer. He could help us."
"I know that. I met him right after the show. His partner's dating Liz Allen. Remember her?"
"How could I forget Liz Allen?" he quipped. He could still hear Liz growling, don't even think about it, as he had tried to sit next to her on that school bus that carried him to his appointment with destiny.
As they lay in bed together, curled up in each other's arms, Peter's eyelids were getting heavy once again. "M.J." he murmured as the world around him grew dimmer.
"Yes, darling?" she whispered.
"When Matt and I were racing through the city trying to shut down those bombs, I was so scared that we wouldn't make it. But you know what?"
"What?" she asked softly, her magnificent green eyes holding him captive.
"When I swung by your billboard and saw your image, I stopped worrying." Peter ran his fingers through her soft, silky red tresses. "I guess what I'm trying to say, Mary Jane, is that . . . I can't survive without you either."
A moment later, he felt her warm teardrops spilling onto his bare chest. "You really know how to make a girl cry, don't you, Tiger," she said, her voice breaking slightly. Carried along by a wave of the most intense passion she'd ever felt in her young life, Mary Jane covered Peter's lips with a kiss that sent fifty thousand volts of electricity surging through their bodies.
"You just better be here when I wake up tomorrow," she playfully warned him as their kiss ended.
"And . . . if I'm not?" he asked teasingly.
She grabbed a chunk of his hair and tugged ever so lightly on it. "I know where you live."