A Family Affair, Part One:
Back In Business
A Spiderman Film Fanfiction by Ang D.

If you thought it was over,
You're way off track...
You made a blunder,
And you put me back -
Back in business ...
~ Madonna, "Back in Business"

Among many cultures, water has always been associated with time. Rivers flow and years pass, oceans turn their tides and eons die and are born.

When water drips, however, time becomes eternity.

The first thing he sensed upon gaining consciousness was the sound of that eternity, falling somewhere near - or far, it was difficult to tell. It was a good thing, since the dripping served as a metronome as he gathered himself, everything. Taking stock was easy enough at first, just as simple as waking from a long, deep night's sleep. Lying down. Somewhat hard - no, very hard surface. Slightly cold, yet only a thin sheet up to his waist. Shirtless. Dark. And there was a dull, persistent ache in his chest.....

Wait.
Wait, just a moment here.
I'm supposed to be dead... aren't I ....

Of course not. You only thought you were. But look who's pulled you through.

... You're still here?

Well, naturally.

What ... what happened?

You should be worrying more about what to DO, I should think, Normy.

Right. I don't suppose you'd know.

I'd assume. Use your wit. It'll get rusty otherwise.

The Goblin was right... as usual. Norman Osborn bit his lip in the darkness and considered. When you're dead, you normally end up in a morgue, and judging by the cold, the hard surface, the dark, and the lack of clothing, it was a very safe bet that that was exactly where he was. Dear God. I've been filed. I'm in one of those cabinet things ... Norman tried to gulp, finding his throat extremely dry. When that method of mustering up courage failed, he clenched one hand into a tight fist, then gathered his strength and kicked out in front of him. The door rattled slightly, but failed to give. This time, he kicked with both feet. A third kick, and the door swung open slowly.

Wincing at the light that poured in from the tiny opening, Norman allowed his eyes to adjust, then slid out of the space he'd been holed in. A shiver went through his body as his feet hit the cold linoleum floor of the morgue, and he managed to grab the sheet in his hands and tie it around his waist before it could drop.

Slowly, cautiously, Norman took stock of his surroundings. The morgue was rather large, and very still. A line of small windows towards the ceiling on one wall advertised that it was quite dark outside. At the end of the windows, a simple clock ticked away quietly, displaying the hour of three in the morning. Either shifts were just changing, or ...

You'd better get us out of here. Unless you want to answer questions.

If there was one thing Norman Osborn didn't want to do, it was answer questions.

Quickly, he scanned the room until he found a long, tattered old trenchcoat that someone had left in the prep area. He would have chalked it up to luck, had he not known that whenever the Green Goblin was present in his mind, good things always happened. The best of those things, definately, was that he was still alive. Norman wasn't sure he wanted to remember exactly what happened just yet - he just wanted to get out of the morgue. He threw the coat over his shoulders, then buttoned and tied it, checking his reflection in the surface of a steel table to make sure he didn't look too disheveled. Don't want people thinking I'm an escaped mental patient, he thought, allowing himself a small chuckle at the irony. As he turned to leave, the empty morgue drawer caught his eye, and he frowned. Being alive meant questions would, indeed, have to be answered. Something had to be done about that, quickly. Norman strode out of the morgue and found the nearest exit, making his way out into a back street near the hospital.

I'll take it from here.

...Be my guest.

Judging by the quality of the buildings, it wouldn't be long until the Goblin found what he wanted. Sure enough, slumped down at the end of the alleyway, covered in raggedy clothes with a half-empty bottle of something in his hand. Perfect. Too bad he's out for the count ... that's no fun. But he'll serve our purpose, right, Norman?

Just do it already. We need to get out of here.

With swift precision, the Green Goblin knelt down beside the drunkard and snapped his neck. If they already autopsied us, Normy, they won't think twice... and after what happened to you, I'm pretty damn sure Harry asked for closed casket.

What .... happened? ... Tell me.

Shut up, Osborn, the Goblin chided. Didn't you say we needed to get out of here? Slinging the dead body over his shoulder, he made his way back toward the hospital, smiling merrily as he sang quietly, "All dressed up with nowhere to go, walkin' with a dead man over my shoulder..." Entering the morgue again, he slid open the shelf from the empty drawer and began to undress the body, humming the rest of the tune to himself. After he was done, he reached under the trenchcoat and removed the sheet from his waist, draping it over the body with a smile. "Got to consider the aesthetics of this whole thing," he muttered, making sure that the drape was equal on either side and folded just so, yanking open another drawer to compare. "Hm," he sighed mockingly as he slid the other drawer back into place, "only the good die young. ... Too bad. Pretty."

"I didn't know my other half was into ogling corpses."

"I'm into everything you aren't, Osborn, now shut up. I'm trying to think. ... Ah." With a flourish, the Green Goblin rearranged the drunk corpse's hair and then slid him back into the drawer. "Ta-daaaa. C'mon, Normy. Let's get us outta here."

"I'm not leaving without decent clothes," Norman asserted, leaving the morgue once more and turning down another hallway. Sure enough, just outside stood a length of thin, tall lockers, each emblazoned with a doctor's name. One was unlocked, and Norman opened it to reveal a pair of jeans and a sweater folded up on the top shelf. Smiling, he tucked them under his arm and went into the small bathroom next to the lockers. Within five minutes, Norman Osborn had left the morgue - and the old, tattered trenchcoat - behind and was strolling down the streets of New York again.

"Now will you tell me what happened?" He muttered, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the jeans in order to keep them up - they were a bit loose, and the sweater was baggy as well.

"Oh, don't you remember? The fight? The ordeal with the Glider?" The Goblin adapted a mocking tone. "And who can forget your supposed last words ... 'Don't tell Harry' ... Pathetic."

Norman flinched as the memories slammed their way back into his mind. Being impaled by his own vehicle hadn't been fun, by any means of the word ... and ... "Harry," he realized. "Harry ... we can't let him know I'm back. He's been through enough by now, thinking I'm dead. Better to let him go to the funeral and wait."

"Wait for what? It's not like he'll be any use to us at any time... you can start over, Norman. You can make things even better than they were. We can screw Oscorp over for good this time. Even get it back. "

"You mean I can," Norman smiled. ".... Once more, you're right. I had that little place in the suburbs for sale a month or so ago ... maybe I could go there. I wasn't told of any potential buyers, and it would be comfortable enough." He paused, thinking. "But ... I still have a feeling that, someday, I'm going to need Harry's help." Padding his way down the sidewalk, Norman couldn't help but feel a certain amount of regret for what he was leaving behind - not his old life so much as his only son. Harry, he thought, ignoring the Goblin's silent taunts at his sensitivity, I'll come back and get you some day. And then we'll be the way we were supposed to be - a father-and-son team. Perfect.

The hallway outside the lawyer's office was chilly, and dimly lit. Peter Parker leant just outside the frosted glass door, his arms folded over his chest to conserve his body heat. From within, he could hear the muffled voices of the lawyer, and occasionally his friend Harry. He'd come along for moral support - despite their distances, Harry was taking his father's death rather badly - but he'd been denied a seat at the reading of the will, since he was neither related nor in the will. So, there was nothing Peter could really do but sit back and wait - something which, he had decided half an hour ago, was very uncomfortable.

Finally, the door creaked open and Harry Osborn stumbled out, a thick legal envelope and a brown paper-wrapped package in his hands. "...Hey, Pete."

"Harry.." Peter frowned and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah ... yeah, I guess ... Dad left me a ton. But ... it's really odd. A lot of his stuff's been left in either holding accounts, or trusts, or given to places. I mean, I still have the house, and a lot of his money, but ... " He shook his head. "I don't understand. I didn't think Dad knew that many people, or was that much of a ... " His voice trailed off slowly as he looked at the package in his hands. "And I'm supposed to mail this. There was a note in it ... it was in Dad's handwriting, but it was messy. Kinda like he wrote it when he was tired or something."

"What is it?" Peter asked.

"I don't know. The lawyer said I'm not supposed to open it if it wasn't left to me. Just to mail it."

"Well, I guess we have to go to the post office then," Peter shrugged. "Tell you what, let's stop by the Moondance first, and we can see MJ and I'll treat you to a burger. I'm hungry."

"Okay, Peter. Hey, can you hold this for me for a second?" Harry asked, handing him the package. "My shoe's coming untied..."

As Peter took the package in his hands, he couldn't help but notice that something about touching it made the hair stand on the back of his neck. My Spider-sense, he frowned. .... Norman .... what did you put in this ... ?

Before he could try and divulge anything about the package's contents, Harry whisked it away and tucked it under his arm with a half-hearted smile. "Okay, Peter ... let's go ..."

The Osborns' summer home had been abandoned for almost twenty years... yet it had only gone on the market a few months ago. Its facade was still clean and well-kept, as was the inside - due to the fact that the abandonment only existed in the fact that it had stopped becoming a home, and was just a plain, old, house. There was no real warmth in the rooms, or the atmosphere - at least, not at first glance. Yet it still had charm - a small, cream-colored house out in the thick of New York suburbia, flanked by a simple wooden split-rail fence. There were hedgerows along the sides of the house and the front lawn, but they had begun to grow somewhat haphazardly since the property had gone on sale. A few green strands of ivy crept up one side of the house, accentuating the front door and growing to snake around the small balcony on the second floor.

Standing on the sidewalk just before sunrise, Norman Osborn had to wonder if he'd be able to call it home again.

Sure you will. Just darken the place up a little. I like the ivy... but change the siding. Too bright.

Norman frowned. It isn't mine.

It hasn't been sold yet. You didn't get any letters or calls. It's still our damn house. Walk right on in. The Goblin smirked, striding up to the front door and prising it open. "Honey, I'm home," he chuckled, making his way toward the stairs just inside the door. However, he paused as he caught sight of a few magazines strewn on a coffee table in the living room. "Oh, Normy, someone's been sitting in my chair...." Sneering slightly, he strode across the short hallway into the kitchen. An empty coffee mug sat on the counter. "Someone's been eating in my kitchen, Normy."

Please... can't we just go...

"Our house, Normy. You weren't TOLD. It's still your house. You're a businessman. You know that."

Norman stopped to think about that for a moment. ... "Yeah." Setting his jaw, he headed for the stairs and made his way toward the second floor. In the hall, he turned his steps automatically toward the end of the hall, to the room that had once been his. Cautiously, he pushed the half-open door ajar just enough to slip through.

There, in the queen-sized bed, tucked under a dark red comforter, slept someone, something with black hair. Norman's throat went dry. It's like coming home from a long night at the office to a ghost, he swallowed. Emily ...?

"Norrrrmmyyyy," The Goblin whispered. "Someone's been sleeping in my bed ... and there she is."

"So," Peter sighed, finishing up the last of his cereal, "what exactly are you going to do about the house?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. I mean, I can't sell it. But it's too big to live in right now. I'll probably rent it out."

"Rent it?" Peter whistled, dumping the extra milk in the sink. "Are you kidding? You'll have to charge a fortune."

"There're people out there who'll pay," Harry Osborn insisted. "I know there are. Even half the people in Dad's old country club have enough money in their couch cushions to rent that house for a week." He kicked back in his chair, folding his arms over his black turtleneck. "Ask Jonah Jameson.... he'd know."

"I'll talk to him next time I go in to the Bugle," Peter decided. "Maybe he'll know someone who's looking for a place to rent."

An awkward silence settled over the kitchenette of their apartment. "... Peter ... " Harry said at last, quietly, "I don't like you going out and taking pictures of Spiderman."

Peter managed a chuckle. "What are you, my long-lost uncle, Harry? ... I'm fine. Spiderman's cool with it."

"So you've talked to him?" Harry's eyes flashed. "Did he tell you why he killed my father?"

Peter's jaw hinged open and closed several times before he cast his eyes down to the floor. "Harry, I really ... I didn't think to ask," he lied.

"Well, the next time you see him, go ahead and think. Because I'd really, really like to know." Harry's tone was biting and cold as he rose from the table and went to stand by the window, leaning his elbows on the sill.

The young photographer winced, taking a deep breath before beginning to clear off the rest of the table. ".... I'll try."

"Don't just try, Peter, DO IT!" Harry snapped, banging a fist down on the windowsill. "I... I ... I have to know why..." He turned around to see his best friend and roommate biting his lip, his eyes lined with concern. "... I'm sorry, Pete. I didn't mean to yell at you, but ..."

"He was your father ... and he's gone." Peter supplied quietly. "I know, Harry ... and I'm sorry." And I know Spiderman's sorry too. But I can't tell you what really happened. Only one man can, and he's going to be six feet underground soon. "... But... I will ease up on the pictures... if you want."

"I don't think anyone I know is safe around him," Harry seethed. "You, MJ, Dad...." He clenched a fist. "And yet he's still out there SAVING people. The city needs to know what he's REALLY done. I think Jameson's on the right track. Spiderman's a menace."
"I ... really don't know what to tell you, Harry. I've seen the good through my camera lens, I really have ... and I'm glad I wasn't there to see the bad. But ..."

"I know." Harry looked out the window and down over the city with a scowl. "Nobody knows what to say to me these days."

Peter Parker frowned as he turned and headed for the stairs. I know what to say, Harry. .... But I can't say it.

Penelope Jamirez usually enjoyed waking up early in the morning. She woke up, without fail, as the first rays of sun came in through the open blinds, then swung her legs out of bed and slid on her blue silk robe, slipping her feet into matching slippers as she pushed her long, black bangs out of her eyes. Then she padded down the hallway and down the stairs, still getting used to the layout of the home she'd rented just a few days ago. With a yawn, she rubbed at her eyes as she turned left into the kitchen at the foot of the stairs. Mm, she thought, keeping her eyes closed for a moment and feeling the sun from the wide bay window over the kitchen table soak into her eyelids, cup of vanilla pecan coffee's going to perfect with my morning paper ... She nodded, then opened her eyes as she strode towards the counter. Turning, she went to open the kitchen cupboard - and promptly screamed.

"Well, good morning to you too, sunshine," the stranger at her kitchen table said genially.

Penelope grabbed the first weapon she could think of - one of her slippers - and hurled it at him. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?" She screeched, moving to grab a knife from the kitchen drawer as the intruder recovered from her ingenious slipper attack.

He scowled slightly, wrinkling his nose as he held up the slipper, dangling from one finger distastefully. "You ever heard of Dr. Scholl's? They make these great odor-eaters ..."

She blinked. "..... I thought I just asked you who the hell you were," she repeated numbly, now clutching a rather imposing butcher knife.

"Oh. Quite sorry. Norman Osborn," he shrugged, setting the slipper back down on the floor and kicking it to her across the linoleum. It was at that point that she noticed he wasn't wearing any shoes. "I thought I'd drop by for some breakfast and conversation, since, after all, this is my summer home."

"Norman Osborn the first, or second?" Penelope asked, tilting her head as she took a step forward with the butcher knife. "Cuz, see, last I knew, Norman Osborn II was two things: not a lunatic, and dead."

"The second," he blinked, with a hint of indignance. "Norman Osborn the first was my grandfather, and quite long gone."

"....Then, d'you mind explaining yourself?" Penelope snapped.

"Well," Norman shrugged matter-of-factly, "the whole death thing was quite a case of mistaken identity. As for the insanity ... Quite unfounded. After all, at the time of my apparent 'death', I was unaware that anyone had bought or rented this property, and still assumed it to be mine. So, therefore, I wouldn't call that insanity, exactly." He paused, then frowned. "I'm quite sorry, I completely forgot my manners ... and you are?"

"..... Penelope Jamirez," she mumbled. "I don't mean to doubt you, Mr.... Osborn .... but I'm going to need to see some identification."

"... That's a bit of a problem," he frowned. "My wallet was stolen on the street in a robbery, you see, and I'm afraid to contact anyone because I'm supposed to be, you know."

"Dead. Yeah." Penelope raised one eyebrow at him. ".... Hold on juuuust a second. I think I know how I could tell." She scurried into the living room, then returned with a laptop computer, hooking the phone line up to the jack in the wall and booting it up. The desktop immediately displayed the Oscorp logo, and she slid the laptop across the table towards him. "Get me into that."

".... You mean hack."

"You supposedly developed the network procedure. You should be able to do it."

Approximately twelve keystrokes later, the Oscorp mainframe appeared on the screen, and Norman leant back in his chair, gesturing to the monitor plainly. "Like that?"

"..... Yeah, exactly ... since only one man was supposed to know how to get in without standard passwords."

"Of course. And there was no way anyone would be able to get that information from me ..." Norman shrugged. "So, Penelope, how do you like the house?"

Penelope blinked, closing out the computer and turning it off. "What? .... Uh, it's ... very nice."

"Glad you like it. You won't mind my using the spare bedroom, of course."

She coughed, unplugging the modem line for the laptop. "Excuse me? Uh, don't you want to let people know you aren't dead?"

"Not really. I was running into some rough water at Oscorp - what with all the board members being killed by the Green Goblin ... I was afraid I was next."

"Ohhhhh," Penelope realized slowly. "So you staged your own death to prevent it?"

"You might say that," Osborn smiled. "Since the Bugle has been running a lot of negative ads about Spiderman, I contacted him through some inside sources and had him stage the death.... for a considerable fee, of course."

"Nice," she nodded. "So you want to stay here until it blows over, is that right?"

"Not only that, but ... " He shrugged. "Oscorp was starting to look a little shabby after that grant went awry. I want to start a new company... under an alias. Maybe even make it a little better."

"I'm an Oscorp employee," Penelope reminded him. "How do you know I won't be confidential about this?"

"Oh," he said quietly, looking her straight in the eye, "I'm fairly sure you will, Miss Jamirez."

Something about the look in his eyes made her decide to nod.

The Daily Bugle was chaotic as Peter Parker made his way through the sea of interns, copy boys, and secretaries towards John Jonah Jameson's office. He bumped into at least thirty people while walking a total of twenty feet, and got two and a half cups of coffee spilled down his new shirt. Well, he grimaced, at least it's a tan shirt....

"Parker," the secretary hailed him, "What th' hell are you doing here?"

"Came to see Jameson," he smiled.

".... Peter. It's the friggin' lunch hour."

"That's why I know I'll get office time," he winked, making the final push and getting the frosted glass door to Jameson's office open with a strong tug. "..... Mr. Jameson."

".... Parker," JJ Jameson looked up, unfazed, mouth half full of a roast beef hoagie, his ever-present cigar dangling from his other hand. "... Siddown." Peter did so while Jameson digested his mouthful of meat. "I am nowhere near pleased with the damn low number of Spiderman pictures we got this week. And where th' hell is the Goddamn Green Goblin?"

"That's what I wanted to show you," Peter reached into his portfolio and pulled out a sole 8x10 black-and-white of the Green Goblin ... most certainly deceased, slumped on the ground. For the sake of printable publicity, he'd moved the Glider before taking the shot. ".... I managed to get that before Spiderman sent me away."

"He sent you away," Jameson echoed, wiping mustard off his moustache and clamping the cigar back between his teeth. "I don't get it, Parker."

"He doesn't want me taking pictures anymore ... that's probably the main reason why my Aunt May got attacked last week ... " Peter hashed. "And besides, I..."

"I don't give a good God damn about your family, Parker, I want my publicity. I want to hear more about why the Green Goblin's drawing flies.... talk."

"I really don't know much."

"Bullshit, you were there."

"The hostage situation from the bridge ... it happened after that." Peter said reluctantly. "And there was a fight."

"Got any pictures of that?"

"No sir ... there was an explosion at one point ... this was one of the few pictures from the roll that survived. That's why you didn't get so many," Peter explained. This was, of course, a blatant lie - he'd exposed the roll himself. "As for the Green Goblin himself...."

"Do we know who he is?"

"No."

"Well why not? In the interest of public journalism, Parker, you could have at least taken off the mask!" Jameson blundered, ash from his cigar flopping down to land neatly on the deli pickle beside his sandwich.

"Sir....?" Peter pointed toward the side dish timidly.

"I hate pickles. Now, about that mask!!"

"Spiderman made me leave," Peter said helplessly.

Jameson pounded a fist on the desk. "Goddammit, Parker! We could have had a front-page story! Having the Green Goblin dead without knowing who he is isn't worth BULL! ... For all we know he could be Norman friggin' Osborn. Guy turned up dead in his room the other night ... son said Spiderman did it."

Peter let his face go blank. ".... I know, sir ... Harry Osborn's a close fr--"

"Look, Peter, see that bus out there? That's the busload of people that apparently cares about your personal life. I, Jonah John Jameson, am not on that bus. Shut up." So saying, he wedged his cigar back between his fingers and took a generous bite out of his hoagie.
"....Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Jameson. But there wasn't really anything I could do."

"Fine, then what are you doing here taking up my lunch hour?" Jameson snapped, setting his sandwich down with enough force to knock half the tomatoes loose. "... GO! I won't let you back in this office until you have more dirt on the Goblin and Spiderman!"

Peter nodded, turning toward the door. "Right, sir. Enjoy your sandwich."

"Parker?"

"Yes sir?"

"Stop trying to kiss my ass, it won't work."

"Yes sir."

"Get me those damned photos."

"Yes sir."

"DON'T JUST STAND THERE SAYING YES SIR, PARKER! DO IT!"

"Ye--- ... Right."

J.J Jameson rolled his eyes as he went back to his hoagie. ".... Damn newbies," he muttered.

Norman leant back in the recliner in the corner of the living room, his arms crossed behind his neck, cradling his head. It felt so heavy, all of a sudden.

Big surprise. Go ahead, tell me what's on your mind. Now that Slipper Girl's gone to work....

I'm freeloading off someone - begging room and board. I don't have any money right now, I don't - can't have an identity ... except forr ...

Me. Problem number one solved. Banks close at five. NEXT!

.... Uh. The costume...?

The doorbell rang. Hair tousled, stolen sweater and jeans rumpled, feet bare and red, Norman Osborn got to his feet and shuffled to answer it, reflexively. "Yes?"

"Mr. Louis Denver?"

Say yes, Normy.

"Yes....?"

"Sign here, please," the courier smiled, handing out a clipboard with the FedEx logo emblazoned across the top. "... Some kid sent this next-day delivery ... must be important, huh?"

"Yes. I've been expecting it. Thank you." The Goblin took the large package in his hands and shoved the clipboard back.

"Take care, sir."

"Oh, I will."

As soon as the courier was gone, Norman slumped back onto the closed door, setting the box on the carpet. "What was that all about?" He asked the empty room.

Open it.

Norman nodded, chipping up a corner of the clear packing tape with his fingernail, then ripping it off the brown paper. The paper itself was coarse, and as he tore into the package, it sliced into his palm. Ignoring the pain, Norman wrenched the top flaps of the box open. A glint of morning sunlight from the front door caught on something green and metallic.

Finally, the voice was visible again.

Norrrrrrmyyyy.... I'm home.

But how?

Oh, you've been asking me that FAR too much lately, Osborn! Don't you remember the OTHER thing Stromm developed our formula for? The other reason .... come on, THINK. You do still have a brain, right?

Norman frowned, running his hands over the green suit that lay within the box. "...... hyper-advanced healing genetics," he muttered, his eyes widening slightly.

"Bingo. You didn't think they'd take that OUT if they were going to test it for the military? So yeah. To answer your next question... I planned on letting Spiderman kick our ass. ... And so far you've come up with my plan without much help. Rebuild. Bigger, faster, better, isn't that the mantra of the American Dream?" The Goblin's mental tone oozed sarcasm.

"Yes ... And you know," Norman chastised, "it isn't just YOU doing this. I want better things, too. .... I always have..."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. You can still have free will - in your dreams. I thought you accepted me, Normy. I'm crushed," the Goblin mocked him.

"Hmph," Norman scoffed. "At any rate ... the false name, what was that all about ..."

"Think about it, Mr. Collegiate. Know any good foreign languages?"

"Louis Denver ..." Norman said slowly. "I don't ... " Frowning, he mulled it over in his mind several times. Finally .... "Ohhhh...." A wicked smirk spread over his features. "I see....!"

"Yeah. Ain't we so schmaht, Norman. Now go catch a catnap. We'll want our strength when Miss Manners gets back from Oscorp..."

The air conditioner was on the fritz again. Employees staggered by, cradling clear plastic cups of rapidly warming Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and Frappuccinos, or bottles of Snapple and soda. Some of them had been prepared for the dilemma and set miniature fans up in their cubicles, while the others sat sweating it out over their computers and filing cabinets. Penelope, however, had come more than prepared, and was sitting in her cubicle with two fans and the largest iced vanilla coffee that Gloria Jean's could serve up. However, her mind wasn't on work - though she was staring intently at the computer monitor.

"Norman Osborn," she murmured, picking up the clipping she'd made of his obituary and shredding it between well-manicured fingernails. "Whaddayaknow..."

The blue Pfaltzcraft china, the curtains over the sink, the wind chimes just outside in the breeze ... the little kitchen was the perfect atmosphere to relax in. Peter Parker had seen countless articles about the merits of what the new-wave people were calling "comfort food" ... at that moment, with the last remnants of a very thick pastrami sandwich sitting in front of him, he wanted to call up those people and tell them that Aunt May had put the patent on the idea long before any of them had started gumming teething rings.

"Mm, famks Mmt Mmy."

"You're welcome, dear," she smiled gently, setting down a glass of homemade lemonade beside his plate. "Now, you know the routine and so do I. Tell me what's wrong."

"Well ... Harry's worried about my photography job, about how safe I'll be after what he saw .... what he saw when he found Norman."

"Ah yes, Mr. Osborn." Aunt May sighed. "I did iron your black trousers for tomorrow morning... they're up on your old bed."
"Thanks," he nodded slowly. "But ... I don't know. I don't want to upset Harry, especially after this, but I need to keep my job with Mr. Jameson. And he wants pictures soon."

"Dear," Aunt May shook her head with a faint smile. "I know I always taught you to be a good, honest boy. But there are some little white lies that would never hurt anyone. If Harry doesn't know you're taking the pictures, he won't worry about you, and there'll be less on his mind."

"Well ..." I'm already hiding far too much from Harry, and ... "I just know how I felt when Harry didn't tell me about MJ."

"Oh." She brushed a wisp of her white hair back behind her ear. "It's ultimately your choice, Peter. We've all got things we don't necessarily care to speak of. And as much as Harry may need our support right now, you do have to remember to take care of yourself once in a while. After all," she smiled, a twinkle in her eye, "one man may do great things and be a wonderful person, but no one can singlehandedly save the world. I say you just take today for yourself and relax. Under this roof, for twenty-four hours, you are under no obligation to do anything." Picking up the wooden spoon she'd used to stir the lemonade, she tapped him on the head lightly. "Be free."

"....Thanks, Aunt May," Peter said at last, getting up to give her a hug before heading out to the backyard. He hopped up onto the rail of the fence in the backyard and sat there, feeling very much like Tom Sawyer. As he sat looking up at the wispy summer clouds, he heard a crash from the house next door, and shook himself from his reverie. If I'm Tom, then there's Becky. Sure enough, Mary Jane Watson stumbled out the back door into her own small yard, clutching a garbage bag and wincing.

"Hey, MJ," he called out quietly.

".... Peter." She set the garbage bag down by the cans and made her way over to the fence. "How are you?"

"I think I should be asking you that," he frowned. "I was so worried about you when you disappeared ... and then I, well, heard about the bridge."

".... I don't want to think about that right now," Mary Jane sniffed. "Dad ... well, let's just say he doesn't believe me and thinks I was somewhere else."

"Be free". Peter smiled slowly. "Then let's go think about something else, it's too nice of a day for anything else. I'll buy you an ice cream and we can ... I don't know. Go to the park and watch all the crazy old bag ladies."

"Okay," she nodded reluctantly. "I should go get cleaned u -- " Before she could finish, Peter jumped off the fence and landed in her backyard with a grin. "Peter?"

"Let's go, then! C'mon."

".... Thank you," she smiled, as he led the way out of the yard and down the street to the Baskin-Robbins. "Hmm, it's a good day for ice cream."

"Rocky Road," Peter said decisively.

"No, no. Vanilla chocolate dip." Mary Jane shook her head.

"Hey, you eat your ice cream and I'll eat mine. I don't like it when people are discriminating about their desserts," Peter smiled, stepping up to the counter and placing their orders.

"Okay. I'm sorry. When your Rocky Road gets here, tell it I apologize." She giggled. ".... You know, if Harry wanted to take me out for ice cream it would have been Godiva or something."

"Well, nothing against Harry, but sometimes less is a lot more," Peter shrugged, as the server at the counter handed them their cones. "Here ya go, plain ol' vanilla for not-so-plain Mary Jane."

She grinned, then grabbed a fistful of napkins. "Thank you. This is gonna be soooo messy..."

Like a lot of other things. ... No, this is my day. Peter shook his head as they made their way toward the park, starting to make a dent in his ice cream cone as it dripped around the edges. "That's what makes it good. Food isn't good 'less it's messy, am I right?"

"Yes." She paused, looking over the treeline of the small park. "Peter, are you going to the funeral tomorrow?"

".... Well, yes. Harry's my best friend, and I think I need to be there."

"I'm going to go, too. For Harry, though. Not for his father." She frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I know that no one deserves to lose a father, and I should feel awful about saying this now ... but I really ... something about him rubbed me totally the wrong way. And it wasn't just what he said about me, either. He weirded me out."

With good reason. If there were only one person I could tell... Peter wiped a streak of chocolate ice cream off his cheek, then sighed. "Well, I really can't say much. I'd seen Mr. Osborn have his moments on both sides. I remember when we graduated, he said that if I ever needed anything, just to ask."

"... That really doesn't sound like the same man I met at Thanksgiving dinner."

"Well, MJ," Peter shrugged, "I don't know. It probably ... wasn't."

The dream had laid it all out perfectly. Norman was even quite sure it would tell him how it would all end out.

Or at least, it probably would have if Penelope hadn't stormed into the summer home, throwing her bag down onto the kitchen counter and streaming Spanish epithets.

He jolted awake, rubbing at his eyes as she continued to rant, pulling a three-ringed binder out of her tote bag and ripping out a page. "... Rough day?" He asked blearily.

"LOOK at this," she hissed, stomping into the living room and shoving the paper mere inches from his face. "Just LOOK!" Another string of Spanish.

".....Was understanding that last part crucial?" He blinked, still in the process of waking up. "I never took --"

"LOOK! There, ENGLISH, is that good enough for you? LOOK."

Norman took the paper from her hands and moved it a reasonable distance away from his nose. ".... This looks like a pay stub."

"Read the date."

"1997."

"Right. Now read this one." Penelope hissed, shoving a second stub into his hands.

"2002."

"Note the salary."

".... Same." Norman nodded. "... Five years at Oscorp. You should be getting your raise soon, then ..."

"I should have gotten it a month ago," Penelope snarled. "The company is going to the dogs. I've sat in that damned cubicle for five years and they aren't giving me shit."

"Well," Norman began. "I suppose that ..."

"It's that hijo de puta Fargas. Ever since he took over the board ... ooh. Payroll's been down and so has production. He and that mula Donovan at Quest Aerodynamics ... I swear, they're buying each other little love presents or something. It's disgusting. The whole thing is a joke. ... It doesn't surprise me, I guess, after all - it's government production. The government - ha." Penelope snatched the pay stubs from Osborn and tossed them into the air. "I swear. Oscorp was decent when you were there, Mr. Osborn."

"When I was there," he echoed.

"Yes. ... I swear, when I heard that you had left, I said to myself, now there goes the damned neighborhood. You were - are - brilliant, Mr. Osborn. .... " She paused, wrinkling her nose. "It doesn't excuse the fact that you've turned into a freeloading zurramato and broke into my house and scared the shit out of me. But you are brilliant."

"Glad to hear that you think so," Norman blinked, inwardly trying to figure out just what the hell a "zurramato" was. Probably not good. No shit, genius. But look ... look. This can work for us. The plan could be spotless. I'll see what I can do. Leaning forward in the chair, Norman rested his arms on his knees and gazed up at Penelope levelly. "Miss Jamirez. ... What would you say if ... if I had a way to show Oscorp not to mess with two of its finest?"

"Hm." She looked down her nose at him skeptically. "I'd ask you what the catch was, what I was going to have to do with it, and how much I'd get from it."

He crooked a finger, beckoning her towards him, and the Green Goblin whispered in her ear. Minutes passed. Penelope shuddered, chuckled, and smirked repeatedly, occasionally voicing her approval for certain aspects of the plan.

Finally, Norman leant back into the chair, steepling his fingers as he cocked his head slightly to the side. Smiling, he raised one eyebrow, as if to say, Well?

Penelope bit her lip, chuckling. "Count me in. Now ... let me find a black dress."

Harry Osborn sighed as he went through the crate of mail that had been delivered to the apartment. A good deal of it had been addressed to his father, but never received. One was a notice from a realtor about their old summer home being rented out to some woman named Jamirez - Harry took the first rent check and put it in the pile he'd mentally labeled 'confusing financial crap'. Junk mail, too ... he found it absolutely staggering how much junk mail his father had gotten. There'd been some flyer from an elite chemical supplier - something about reordering CX blah blah blah. Harry threw that in the 'confusing scientific crap for Peter to look at' pile. Wincing, he sat back in his chair, surveying the kitchen table. With a frown, he realized that all his piles had the words 'confusing crap' in them. Why should this be such a pain in the ass? He wondered.

I'll tell you why, he answered himself. It's because you flunked out of all those business prep schools and just managed to skate through high school. How many times have you asked Peter for help on your homework assignments? They don't have tutors at Oscorp. You're going to get your ass kicked for sheer stupidity.

Harry clapped a hand over his eyes. "Dad," he said quietly. "Dad, how'd you manage this ... " If you were here right now, you'd show me. You'd help me. Of course, he rationalized, as the tiniest smile of remembrance crossed his face, you'd tell me I was dumb as shit first. The sighs deepened as he remembered his father's tough love.

"Be a man.
"Be an Osborn.
"Straighten up... you've got to shape up or you'll never be anywhere.
"I want you to go somewhere, Harry. It's in your blood. You're destined to be great - but only if you work at it.
"No one ever got anything they wanted without work, Harry.
"If you aren't willing to work for something, you'll never get it."

A tear slipped down Harry's cheek and splattered on a business envelope at the top of the pile. ".... I do have to work at it. ... And I will. I just ... I need to know where to start, Dad."

He could almost hear his father chiding him ... "For one, stop sniveling. Finish what you're doing. Then just THINK."

The thinking part had always been imperative. Harry had always been asked what he was thinking, ordered to think, or questioned as to whether he could think at all. At the moment, thinking wasn't entering into it as he reached out and picked up the letter that his tear had fallen upon. As he reached out to brush the drop away, he noted the return address ... Mr. Louis Denver, New York, New York. Zip code, nothing more. Strange.

Even stranger, the letter was addressed to him ...

This, Harry decided with a smile, isn't going in any of the crap piles. Eagerly, he slit the envelope open with his fingers, not bothering to use the jade-handled letter opener he'd found in one of his father's boxes of possessions. The envelope's paper was of a coarse press, and as a result, a thick, deep papercut slashed its way across Harry's index finger.

"Ssshhhhit," he hissed, popping his finger into his mouth, his mouth filling with the copper-penny, cold-coffee taste of blood. As he sucked at his wound, his free hand reached in and plucked out the letter. Scanning the lines, Harry's grey-blue eyes slowly widened.

"Mr. Osborn," he whispered aloud, "I am sorry to hear about the death of your father. We were close, very close once upon a time. If there is anything at all you wish to discuss or know, I am at your disposal, your confidante and ready guide. However, it would please me most if you would correspond with me through post - I am a busy man and have little time for meetings - yet much time for mail. My regrets.... " He folded the letter and placed it in the front pocket of his class binder for safe-keeping. "Yeah, mine too..." With a shake of his head, Harry cleared the piles back into the milky plastic postal crate and shoved it under the kitchen table. Pushing his chair back out from the table, he headed for the stairs, gazing out the window of the apartment at the night sky before climbing up to his bedroom. Despite everything else on his mind, the most random thought floated to the forefront as he set out his suit for the next morning.

Wonder if he'll be there?

The Green Goblin perched quietly and unobtrusively in the trees, smirking behind the mask. Oh, how I do love camoflage. Siting crosslegged on a particularly thick branch, he rested his chin in his hands, gazing down at the proceedings below. It took all of his restraint to keep from humming a jaunty funeral dirge, or cackling at the look of sheer pain on Peter Parker's face.

Well, Normy. The movies always say that going to your own funeral is a mixed bag. What do you think?

This is absolutely morbid.

And?

I .... I love it. Look at Parker! It's priceless. I do believe his guilt's eating him alive. Keeps looking over at Harry.

And of course, that slut LJ or DJ or whatever her damned name was.

Something like that. Yes. The mask was merely disguise now. For an hour's time, the mask and the man behind it were one, and there was little to no distinction between the man's two voices. Norman couldn't help but admire Harry's choices of casket, stone, flowers ... and there was a certain irony in the fact that his gravestone was more resplendant than Emily's. True, he was richer now - or had been, at least - than he was at the time of her passing. But he, Norman Osborn, the Green Goblin, the invincible, still lived. Life had killed Emily - but death had made him feel more alive than he had been in quite some time.

Leaning back against the tree trunk, he suppressed a laugh as the priest read the rites, and some of the mourners placed flowers down upon his casket. Little do they know, they're mourning for some drunk... Some drunk, who's probably getting more attention now than he ever got in his whole sad, inebriated life. ... Ah, such an entertaining morning. ... Now, where the devil is that woman...?

A smile crossed his lips as the service ended and he watched his son shuffle off towards the waiting Rolls Royce despondently. Just as his hand touched the door handle, Harry turned his head, being called by some feminine voice.

Perfect, Penelope.

She handed him the envelope, patted his shoulder consolingly - nice touch - and strode back towards her Jetta. There it was, it was over. He was officially dead.

Say hello to Louis Denver, Parker. He's gonna take up my old job of making your life hell. Play nice.

End Part One

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