Title: Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me
Rating: will be M for language and some sexual content, though we are not there yet
Pairing: Harry Osborn/Peter Parker
Disclaimer: These characters and their film incarnations are the sole property of Stan Lee, Steve Ditko, Marvel Entertainment, and Sony Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended, no disrespect is meant, and no profit will ever be made.
Summary: One-shot; movie-verse; AU. Spoilers for SM3. In the tragic aftermath, two broken lives and two lonely beds have somehow become one.
Archive?: Only with permission.

Author's Note: Un-betaed, so all mistakes and lapses in creativity are mine alone. This is the short opening segment of a 2600-word (and counting) story, embellished with copious amounts of angst and emotion -- typical of me you might say! -- so be warned as to what's coming. This is not what one would call a healthy relationship, so if that's not your cup of tea then no hard feelings if you choose to give it a pass. My first AU in this fandom, not to mention my first foray into writing these boys in first-person. Let me know if this holds your attention, and if you feel it's worth finishing. And thank you for reading!

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Prologue

I went by the old house this morning, just before dawn. It's getting harder and harder these days to stay under the radar in the city, what with all the videos that circulated on the Internet after my battle with the Sandman, so I keep odd hours and try to stay close to home so as not to draw attention to myself. It's not easy living this kind of double-life, especially when every stranger that passes me by might be the next undercover psycho looking to write my epitaph. But I'm trying.

Today would have been our anniversary, if things had worked out between MJ and me. But a walk down memory lane wasn't the reason behind my visit.

I just wanted to see if the Watson place was still standing.

It was. Still the same rusting chain-link fence; still the same roll-up shades in the dirty front windows. On the outside, the little gray house remained pretty-much unchanged. It was eerie. In fact, the time-warp effect was so perfect that I half-expected to see MJ herself come bounding out from behind the front door, red hair flying, throwing her arms around me and dragging me away for a Nathan's hot dog and some off-off-Broadway matinee.

God, how I miss her.

Why is it that time stands still for some, yet moves so fast for others? That's one of those nonsensical paradoxes my psychiatrist says I should work through.

She also says I should confront my inner demons head-on. But that would mean marching up those slate steps and ringing the doorbell, and I just can't do it. Everyone knows MJ's father still blames me for her death -- hell, the old drunk practically throttled me at her funeral -- so I doubt he'd appreciate my showing up on his doorstep unless I was looking for a fight. Not to mention the fact that if it did come to blows, I'd probably break every bone in his body before he even knew what was happening. Serve the bastard right for ever laying a hand on her.

No. Today is not a good day to let the darkness out. Best for everyone involved if I just keep my distance.

I linger a little longer, my eyes skipping from the alleyway to the front yard then back again, watching for signs of life, the dreary November sky taking a slow turn from gray to white. There was a time when I couldn't do even this; couldn't bear to walk down this very street again without the agony of my compounded grief doubling me over. But I can now. I'm glad for that, of course -- but victories like these don't need celebrating. Not when the only monuments I ever build are those for the dead.

He should have saved her, damn it. Her, and not me. My life was forefit from the day I took up this mantle. I understood the risks. I was ready to die.

But he couldn't. And in the end, there just wasn't enough time. The inhuman monster that once called itself Eddie Brock made sure of that.

I know that deep down, he still hates me for surviving, even if he never comes right out and says it. It's one of the last secrets we have left between us, and he won't let go of it so easily. Not that I want him to. Touching that still-raw pain lights a fire in him when nothing else will. And if he needs that to keep on going, then who am I to argue?

I can still feel the pressure of her head where it lay in my lap, her watching both of us with those sad green eyes as her life ran out in rivers on that freshly-poured concrete floor. "My heroes," she murmured, and with the last of her strength placed his hand squarely in mine. "Take care of each other...please..." And she was gone.

Love alone wasn't strong enough to keep her safe. It wasn't supposed to. That was our job. And we failed.

I don't ever want to be forgiven for that.

The sonic boom from a low-flying plane thunders above my head, and a lick of old fear chases down my spine, snapping me out of my thoughts. I look up, expecting the worst, but it's a false alarm. Just vapor trails and heavy clouds, blocking the daylight from touching my face...

Daylight? What time is it?

A quick check of my watch proves it. I had stayed too long. My city was awake, and soon the streets would be choked with people. Unnerved, I pull my jacket collar higher around my neck and head for the subway, hoping to disappear in the noise and the shadows of another underground commute.

With any luck, I'll make it back before he realizes I was gone.

(to be continued)