TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy
Author's Notes
Σ'αγαπω (pronounced "S'agapo") means "I love you," in Greek. See http/www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php/topic.307.0.html.
The U.S.S. Intrepid is a World-War II-era aircraft carrier that now serves as the centerpiece of a maritime museum in New York Harbor.
In the federal court system and most state court systems in the United States, the highest court is referred to as the supreme court and the intermediate courts are referred to as the courts of appeal. In New York State, however, the appeals courts are referred to as the "Appellate Divisions of the Supreme Court." See http/www.nycourts.gov/courts/structure.shtml.
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.
XIX
LOVE LOST AND FOUND
The gleaming glass and steel skyscraper dominated the port city of Piraeus, towering over the ancient harbor like a latter-day Colossus of Rhodes. It was the nerve center of a multinational conglomerate whose net worth exceeded the gross domestic product of over a hundred countries. Although cargo shipping was its forte, this modern Greek empire had transcended geographic and commercial borders, acquiring interests in manufacturing, electronics, and numerous other industries around the world. With its two percent stake in Lorelei, it even had a toehold in telecommunications and media.
In spite of the tragic loss of its patriarch, the conglomerate hummed on, its far-flung operations running smoothly in the capable hands of trusted subordinates whose loyalty to the founding family spanned generations. The executive suite, which comprised the entire top floor of the global firm's headquarters, had been closed on orders from the company's new chairman, the founder's sole surviving heiress and majority shareholder. It would remain empty, a shrine to a fisherman with an eighth grade education who rose from humble beginnings to become one of the world's richest men.
The chairman's first act upon arrival had been to move her office forty miles east, to her family's villa outside of Legrena. Surrounded by high stone walls that blended naturally into the cliffs upon which it was built, the compound was an impregnable fortress that overlooked the shimmering blue Aegean Sea. In days of old, it might have been used by Agamemnon's army to defend the entire coastline. Within sight of the veranda atop the family quarters lay the ruins of the once magnificent Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion.
It was here, to her ancestral home, that Elektra Natchios returned after her miraculous recovery. Although born in America and raised around the world, Elektra's heart was at one with this ancient land and its storied history. She loved the dry brown earth, the olive trees, and the sounds of the sea lapping at the base of the cliff.
Despite growing up in a rarified atmosphere of immense wealth and privilege, Elektra refused to live the life of a pampered heiress. Since childhood, she had been intensely goal-oriented and had a tremendous desire to accomplish something worthwhile on her own. She even shunned Princeton, that venerable Ivy League institution, in favor of the less prestigious, but still well-regarded Rutgers University, a few miles to the northeast. She insisted on working her way through school, teaching martial arts while earning merit scholarships. Having studied with a different sensai every year since she was five, she could draw upon a vast knowledge of techniques and philosophies, weaving together self-defense routines that were both exotic and practical at the same time.
The discipline and hard work yielded dividends. Elektra had graduated summa cum laude with a double-major in economics and classics, landing the highly coveted Henry Rutgers Prize for Scholarship. She had also won a gold medal in Judo for Greece at the 1992 Barcelona games, beating a heavily favored contender from South Korea. Following graduation, she went to work for an investment banking house with ties to Natchios Ltd. It was the only door she ever let her father open for her. Once inside that door, however, she made it her mission to prove to her superiors that she deserved to be there. She rose quickly through the ranks, becoming the firm's top arbitrager by the time she reached twenty six.
It was about this time that Nikolas asked Elektra to come work for the company in its New York Office as his principal advisor. Desiring to groom his successor, the old man wanted his daughter to be ready to assume command once he retired or passed on. Tragically, Elektra's moment in the sun would come far sooner than either she or her father would have liked.
Nikolas Natchios had been a man of extraordinary complexities and contradictions. Early in his career, he went after what he wanted with a passion that far too often crossed the line into ruthlessness. Yet he was magnanimous in victory, holding out an olive branch to his vanquished rivals and welcoming them back to the table with substantial stakes in the firm or other rewards for what he termed, "principled stands." In Wilson Fisk, he had found a soul mate, an extremely shrewd businessman with a taste for opulence. Together, they had built a twin-pillared business empire that made the awesome Japanese Keritsu look like small-town mom and pop outfits. For many years, Natchios had heard rumors about his partner's darker side, but chose to ignore them out of his steadfast belief in their friendship, trust, and mutual interdependence.
It was not until a few months before his death, however, that Nikolas finally realized the extent to which Fiskcorp was floating on a sea of blood. Anxious to protect his legacy, he hastily put together an offer for Fiskcorp to buy out all of its joint holdings with Natchios Ltd., at an enormous profit. Nikolas knew he would suffer a loss on this deal, but he wanted to make sure that his daughter would never be tainted by his association with the Kingpin. Unfortunately, Nikolas's generous proposition did not sit well with Fisk, who viewed it as an act of betrayal. Notwithstanding their close friendship, notwithstanding that he had once dangled little Elektra on his enormous knee, Fisk had ordered Nikolas's assassination and hers as well. Had Elektra been eliminated, Natchios Ltd. would have fallen into the Kingpin's hands, giving him limitless resources to fuel his criminal enterprises. But fate, in the person of Spider-Man, had miraculously intervened.
Upon her arrival at the villa, Elektra was greeted with hugs and expressions of deep sympathy from the household staff, many of whom she had known since she was a little girl. Their grief at the death of Nikolas Natchios was genuine and heartfelt. The late patriarch had always treated his servants with kindness and respect. He had been like a father to many of them, and a kindly old grandfather to their offspring, often surprising the younger ones with little cakes of baklava. The void left in their lives by his passing would be impossible to fill. They pleaded with Elektra to have Nikolas and Christina brought back to Greece for a proper burial in the family tomb. Elektra herself felt that way as well, but Nikolas had always aspired to be American, holding dual citizenship at the time of his death. He was adamant about being buried next to his wife on Long Island when the time came. Elektra regretfully informed her loyal family retainers that she had no choice but to abide by her father's wishes.
She herself had little time for mourning. Her first order of business was to restore the company's reputation, which had been badly tarnished by revelations that her father's former partner had been the absolute ruler of the largest and most powerful crime syndicate in America, and perhaps the world. The fact that most of Nikolas's friends and business associates stayed away from his funeral spoke volumes about the work that lay ahead of her. She was extremely fortunate that the State of New York did not freeze any of Natchios Ltd.'s assets. That had been a distinct possibility until the District Attorney had presented a mountain of exculpatory evidence, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fisk had ordered his subordinates to set up a paper trail implicating Nikolas Natchios as the notorious Kingpin in order to deflect the authorities' attention from himself. It was typical of the way Fisk operated. All charm and smiles in his outward appearance, he would never be satisfied with anything less than the complete and total destruction of his enemies.
Although Elektra had refused to appear at the trial, she did agree to have her deposition taken via conference call. She took comfort in knowing that her testimony had helped to bring about Fisk's conviction and subsequent death sentence. And, as far as she was aware, that subhuman creature who had carried out Fisk's execution order, the one who called himself Bullseye, had been taken out, presumably by the police. Justice had been served.
Elektra methodically set about the task of rehabilitating the good name of Natchios Ltd. Armed with facts gleaned from trial transcripts and court documents, she was on the road for weeks at a time, reassuring her company's nervous suppliers, customers, partners, and employees that it had completely severed all of its connections to Fiskcorp. Her immense effort had paid off. Those who had done business with the father were willing to take a wait-and-see attitude with the daughter and give her a chance to prove her mettle, which was all she was asking for.
Their faith had been justified. In the seven months since she returned to Greece, Elektra had managed to get the conglomerate back on its feet, restoring Natchios Ltd. to its place of glory among the world's top global enterprises. But the stresses of the business had exacted a heavy toll, and by the beginning of the New Year, Elektra had given up traveling altogether. Like Harry Osborn, she preferred to run her empire while remaining safely ensconced in her family fortress. She had settled into an automatic routine, rising before the sun and spending two to three hours every single day in intense martial arts training, especially with the sai. Hundreds of times, she would throw the absurdly long candelabra-shaped daggers at stationary and moving targets, hurling them ten extra times for every miss. After a quick shower and a light breakfast of fruits and Greek cheeses, she would work at a laptop computer for twelve to fourteen hours or more, intensely scrutinizing her company's worldwide operations, making calls, offering and receiving advice, and refereeing disputes when necessary. Her favorite place to work was the veranda, from which she could enjoy magnificent views of the sparkling azure sea and the ruins off in the distance.
But she rarely ventured outside of the villa. When she did, it was always in the company of heavily armed bodyguards. In spite of all her success, wealth, and power, Elektra Natchios was, at heart, a very lonely woman, an orphan who was left deeply scarred by the murders of her parents and her own near-demise. More than anything, she longed for someone with whom she could share the rich bounties of her life, especially a certain blind lawyer from a New York neighborhood called Hell's Kitchen. For reasons she could not even begin to fathom, Matthew Murdock was the only man who had been able to break through her protective granite walls and offer comfort to the sad and frightened little girl hiding behind them. Nikolas himself had smiled in approval when he saw them together at the Black and White Ball. All the old man ever wanted for Elektra was for her to be happy. But the gods, with their bizarre sense of humor, had snatched that happiness away from her without so much as leaving word on whether her lover was dead or alive.
As soon as Elektra was discharged from Columbia hospital, she had a cartouche made with her name inscribed in Braille and left it on the old water tower near Matt's brownstone in the hope that he might remember the promise she had once made to him . . . I'll find you. She had just about given up that hope when news flashes began to pour in about a thwarted terrorist attack on New York City. Her eyes widened in amazement when she realized that Matt was not only still alive, but that he and the man who saved her life, this Spider-Man, had waged a spectacular battle against over one hundred Al Qaeda operatives all by themselves, winning a decisive victory in the war against global terrorism.
Elektra's first instinct had been to hop a plane to New York, find Matt, and rush into his arms. But that reflex had been trumped by overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt at having wrongfully accused him of murdering her father. The mere thought of having to face Matt and tell him why she had stabbed him when he was trying to save her life was more than she could bear. Promise or no, she couldn't imagine that Matt would even want her back. "Σ'αγαπω, Matt Murdock," she whispered in the midst of a muffled sob as she gazed westward towards the distant horizon.
The chirping of her cell phone brought her out of her mournful reverie. She quickly composed herself, welcoming anything that would take her mind off the subject of Matthew Murdock.
"Hello Theo," she said in a crisp but pleasant Athenian dialect to her company's chief executive officer. "What do you have for me today?"
For the next few minutes she listened, carefully and intently, as a business proposition was presented to her. Uncharacteristically though, she did not ask any questions. And all she said at the end of the conversation was, "by all means, go ahead and give them whatever they need."
XXXXXXXXXX
Matt Murdock had arrived at his law office at six o'clock on Thursday morning, an hour earlier than usual and long before the U Wash Doggy pet grooming shop opened next door. He was operating on only three hours of sleep, but the potent combination of adrenaline, caffeine, and percoset kept him alert and focused on the task at hand. He slowly brushed his fingers over pages and pages of dot-covered papers, legal documents written in Braille, pertaining to the case of Korlon v. State of New York, the first of three death penalty appeals for which he would be engaging the services of his new expert witness, Peter Parker. Peter's extensive knowledge of DNA and sharp analytical skills would be needed to help Matt and Franklin Nelson convince the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court to set aside Joseph Korlon's murder conviction and free him from death row.
Based upon DNA evidence taken from the crime scene, an arrest warrant had been issued for Mr. Korlon, a longtime thief from the South Bronx with a rap sheet as long as the U.S.S. Intrepid. The case looked pretty bleak, but Matt knew that the man was innocent the minute he opened his mouth, even as his partner was rolling his eyes in exasperation at having to handle yet another pro bono criminal matter. Matt had already deposed the arresting officers and the police lab techs on whose trial testimony his client's conviction rested. Unlike the public defenders who originally represented Korlon, he and Foggy were able to blow holes in those witnesses' stories big enough to drive a truck through. Peter's deposition would be the final nail in the coffin, establishing once and for all that the DNA sample taken from Korlon simply did not match the DNA found on the victim's body.
But Foggy had not been too pleased by the decision to bring Peter on board. Although he had given the young man high marks for his performance at the Aziz hearing, he strongly felt that a capital case was not the proper avenue for helping an inexperienced greenhorn cut his teeth, regardless of how brilliant he was. Foggy argued vigorously that sophisticated forensic DNA analysis was best left to credentialed, highly seasoned experts. In Manhattan alone, there were over four hundred consultants to choose from, all of them armed with Ph.D.'s and years of experience.
"That's true," Matt pointed out. "But every single one of them charges no less than fifteen grand per case, and none is available on short notice."
Foggy then tried a different tack, suggesting that they file a motion for a continuance so that they could have enough time to line somebody up. After all, a man's life was hanging in the balance. But Matt insisted on going with Peter, and since he had never been wrong in matters of this magnitude, Foggy relented.
Time was of the essence, however. Peter would have to review the lab reports on Monday and have his deposition taken on Tuesday, so that he could be cross-examined and his statement filed with the appeals court by Thursday morning. Oral argument had been scheduled for Thursday afternoon.
Matt did not worry about things to the extent his partner did. He was absolutely confident of victory, certain that, in Peter, he had picked the right man for the job. The best they could hope for was for the appellate judge to throw out the case completely. But even if she sent it back for a new trial, the eventual outcome would be the same. One way or another, Joe Korlon would be a free man.
At precisely seven o'clock, Matt's cell phone went off. He had it set to vibrate, since the chimes really did a number on his hypersensitive ears. But even on that setting, he could hear the phone as loudly as if it were ringing. "Good morning Peter," he said, able to identify the caller by his powerful heartbeat. "I take it that you've completed your exams?" Normally, Peter would never have called anyone that early in the day, but Matt had given him explicit instructions to do so.
"Sure have," Peter whispered enthusiastically, obviously taking care not to wake up Mary Jane. Matt could hear her sleeping next to Peter as clearly as if she were on the sofa in his office. "When will you need me?"
"Monday morning at seven sharp," Matt informed him. "I'll have the case file back from the lab and a consulting contract drawn up. You'll be working with Mr. Nelson to prepare for your deposition on Tuesday. We've got a court date a week from today. I realize that I'm not giving you much time, but I'm sure that you can appreciate that tight deadlines are a way of life around here."
"I understand," Peter replied reassuringly. "And don't worry. I pick up this kind of stuff very quickly."
"I figured as much," Matt responded, listening intently as Peter's breathing suddenly became rapid and shallow, a tell tale sign that their conversation was not yet over. "Anything else?"
"Actually, there is," Peter replied, wondering in spite of himself whether there was some sort of psychic component to Matt Murdock's abilities. "Eddie Brock's been stalking Mary Jane." He quickly told Matt about what had transpired in J. Jonah Jameson's office two days earlier.
Matt's response did not give Peter much cause for celebration. "I don't think that Mr. Brock's actions thus far could be considered stalking." Matt said dispassionately. "Realistically, no court of law would view Mr. Brock as doing anything other than pursuing a legitimate news story. As long as he keeps a respectful distance from Mary Jane, he is well within his rights under the First Amendment."
Peter's sigh registered his disappointment and frustration. "There has to be something we can do, Matt. What about all those celebrities who get restraining orders taken out against scandal rag photographers?"
"Those situations involved physical trespass," Matt responded, although not without sympathy. After all, he would have those same concerns if he had a girlfriend. But the law was well settled, and unfortunately, there was not much wiggle room. "In one case, the photographer had placed a listening device on the private property of the actress he was targeting," he explained. "And in another, the defendant had been caught on the grounds of the plaintiff's child's school. Do you want me to keep on going?"
"Okay, I get it," Peter said, trying not to sound dejected. "I guess this means M.J. and I are on our own. We won't be able to see each other in public, and we'll have to keep our blinds shut all the time . . ."
"Take it easy Peter,"Matt smiled even as he sensed his new collaborator's building anxiety, amazed as the sometimes serendipitous ways in which a problem finds a solution. "It isn't quite that dire. I mentioned to Mary Jane after the show last night that she should consider moving up to the Kitchen. Although the neighborhood's gotten civilized, it doesn't exactly welcome snooping tabloid journalists with open arms. The sooner she gets here, the quicker she'll drop off Mr. Brock's radar screen."
"Are there any vacancies?"
"It just so happens that I have as a client, a landlady who's been in the market for a new tenant for quite a long time. She's got a two-bedroom apartment available at 52nd Street and Ninth Avenue, right on that corner." Matt dictated a name, address, and telephone number, which Peter hastily scrawled on a post-it note. "Have Mary Jane give this lady a call and tell her to use me as a reference."
"Okay," Peter responded. "Thanks . . . Hey . . .cut it out, M.J. Matt's on the phone. He'll hear you!"
"Hi Matt," came Mary Jane's soft musical giggle, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of underwear being removed.
"Sorry Matt . . . I'm under attack here . . . Owwww." Peter's filtered voice betrayed simultaneous feelings of excitement and embarrassment as Mary Jane pressed her lips against his shoulder and bit down softly, intent on giving him a hickey.
Matt Murdock was grateful that the background noise from his cell phone was blunting the impact of two thundering heartbeats on his ears. He was beginning to feel a bit like a voyeur. "I'm afraid I can't help you there, Peter," Matt said, wishing that his hypersensitive hearing was not so intrusive. "Tend to your affairs and I'll see you Monday morning."
He quickly closed the phone, but was unable to return to his work. His inadvertent eavesdropping on Peter's private life had triggered the memory of another beautiful young woman whose image flashed through his mind. Fighting back tears, he reached into his pocket and tenderly held the cartouche inscribed with her name, savoring every one of the dots that formed its letters.
Finding female companionship was never a problem for Matthew Murdock. Finding a meaningful relationship after Elektra would be next to impossible. He felt close to her from the moment he first spotted her in Mickey's Coffee Shop. They were two of a kind, scions of the warrior class. He never felt with anyone else the magic that he had with Elektra, before or since. When he found her necklace with the Braille inscription of her name, his heart exploded with joy, fueling his hope for the miracle of her return. But as the months passed, that hope began to fade. His ivy-league lawyer's mind grudgingly accepted the perfectly rational explanation that she had the cartouche made before her father was killed, and that she had lost it during the battle with Bullseye. After all, he was holding Elektra in his arms when he heard her heart give out. Her bodyguards must have spirited her body away before the police arrived.
Resigned to the fact that Elektra wasn't coming back, Matt wearily opened his little Braille book and caressed its pages in search of a date for Friday night.
XXXXXXXXXX
It was the most glorious morning that Peter had ever woken up to. He had the love of his life in his arms and three new jobs in his pocket. The last one, a freelance photography gig with the New York Times, had fallen into his lap courtesy of Ben Urich, who had arranged for an interview during their regular Wednesday lunch together. The Times editor had been so impressed with Peter that he offered him the gig right on the spot, with a guarantee to pay him at twice the Daily Bugle's rate.
But at that moment, work was the furthest thing from Peter's mind. No sooner had he hung up the phone when Mary Jane was on top of him, every erogenous zone on her gorgeous body near the peak of arousal.
As usual, Peter tried to play it cool. "Uh . . . how are you feeling, M.J?" he asked in his inimitably low-key fashion while she nibbled on his ear.
"Head over heels in love . . . and horny as hell," she replied, playfully tousling his hair. "In case you didn't remember, Mr. Parker, this was the week I was supposed to be on my honeymoon."
"I see." Peter wasted no time exploiting the opening she had left for him. "But what if your husband comes back and finds us in bed together?"
Whaaaack! Mary Jane's pillow struck him full in the face. He saw it coming, but didn't even try to avoid it. "Your wiseguy attitude isn't gonna get you out of this one, Spider-Man," M.J. said with a wicked, seductive laugh as her fingertips lightly brushed his rock-hard pecs. "You're all mine!" She crushed her lips against his, prying open his eagerly accepting mouth and extending her tongue past his teeth. Then she pushed his hand downward, moaning in joyous ecstacy as tiny jolts of electricity surged through her hairy, swollen mons veneris. Her moans turned to screams when the burning object of her most ardent desires entered her body, triggering one incredible orgasm after another.
After a climactic eternity that lasted well over five minutes, Mary Jane heard a tiny gasp escape Peter's lips as he withdrew. A few seconds later, she felt a warm spray tickle her midriff as lightly as a soft spring rain. Cooing like a dove, she laid her head against his chest and gently stroked what she now regarded as her own personal plaything. "Spider-Stud, Spider-Stud," she sang between giggles, "Makes those other guys look like crud."
"Mary Jane Watson, you have such a dirty mind," a mildly embarrassed Peter mockingly scolded, his face turning as red as his still-erect organ.
"I'm such a bad girl, aren't I, Tiger?" Mary Jane laughed, quite pleased with her X-rated rendition of the now famous street ditty. "But hey, at least I got it to rhyme."
M.J.had correctly surmised that her lover had inherited a certain amount of prudishness about all matters sensual from his aunt and uncle, a trait that she found wonderfully endearing. But she took immense pride in being privy to the best-kept secret on the planet: that behind Peter Parker's facade of modesty hid an enormously skillful, passionate, and well-endowed tiger who knew instinctively how to bring a woman to the height of emotional and sexual fulfillment. No, she thought slyly, not a tiger . . . a BULL.
She kept gazing at him, doe-eyed, as she continued her intimate massage. And yet, she reflected, all those women who want to get into his pants wouldn't give him the time of day if they saw him without his costume. Not her. She was madly in love with Peter Parker, the shy, sensitive boy next door, not his hotshot superhuman alter-ego. She had given up everything to be with him, putting her career, her reputation, and maybe even her life in jeopardy. As far as Mary Jane was concerned, she was the only one who had earned the right to see him in a state of nature, share a bed with him, and touch his body in special places.
"Would you like to take a shower with me?" she whispered.
"Is that a request, M.J?" Peter teased.
She gently squeezed his sack of jewels. "No."
Two hours later, their passions spent, their bodies still tingling from intense lovemaking, they sat down to breakfast at Chez Emzhay.
"Do you always eat so fast?" Mary Jane wondered aloud as she watched Peter devour the pancakes she had set in front of him. She had barely made a dent in her own stack.
"For me, this is slow," he replied between bites. "These are really good, M.J. Maybe we should put you on Food Network, right between Emeril and Wolfgang Puck."
"Peter, it's only a mix." she pointed out, grateful nonetheless that he appreciated her culinary efforts. As she watched him finish his last mouthful of syrup-soaked flapjacks, she caught a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
"Peter Parker, just what are you thinking about?" she queried.
"How real Spiders eat," he answered with his wry, nonchalant smile, "want me to show you?"
Mary Jane shrugged her shoulders. "Sure."
Peter suddenly got up from his chair and advanced on her. "First they paralyze their victims with their venom, like this" he grinned wickedly, as if he were baring fangs. "Then they cocoon them and suck out their juices while they're still alive . . ." Raising his arms like he was going to spin a web, he grabbed Mary Jane, who pretended to be cowering. With no effort at all, he lifted his beautiful girlfriend off her feet and pulled her in close for yet another prolonged, passionate kiss.
"Mmmm, maple syrup," she grinned as she tasted his lips. "Some venom."
Peter insisted on cleaning up afterward. "Watch this," he said excitedly. In less than two minutes, he had rinsed the dishes, put them in the dishwasher, and wiped down the table.
"And who says men aren't useful around the house," Mary Jane observed merrily. "The job's yours, love."
"What job?"
"Busboy," she laughed as she glided back into his arms. "You can wash my dishes any time." Their lips were about to merge again when the telephone rang. Mary Jane frowned when she saw the name that appeared on her caller ID. It was the agent from the rental office, reminding her for the fourth time to vacate her apartment so that it could be made ready for the new tenants.
"I understand, Phyllis," M.J. replied, rolling her eyes in annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted. "I'll be out on time." Exasperated, she hung up the phone.
"Is there a problem, M.J.? Peter asked, concerned.
"Oh, nothing," she replied with a little bit of uncharacteristic edginess in her voice. "Other than the fact that in a little over a week, I'll have no place to live."
"Why don't we check out the apartment that Matt recommended?" Peter suggested. "If you like it, you could sign the lease and we can have you all moved in by tomorrow."
It did not escape Mary Jane's notice that Peter had left himself out of that equation. But she decided not to broach the subject of moving in together until they actually saw the place for themselves. "Great idea," she responded, heading back into the bedroom to get dressed. Gesturing toward the kitchen, she called out, "Would you get a couple of subway tokens out of that cookie jar?"
But Peter had other ideas. "We won't need those, M.J." he grinned as he retrieved his costume from her dryer. "I thought you might want to take the express."
Mary Jane's face lit up. "Would I ever!" she said excitedly, eagerly anticipating a fabulous flight from Greenwich Village to Hell's Kitchen.
She would not be disappointed.