Title: Here
Summary: MJ writes a letter to Peter after he leaves to stop crime in the city again. Set sometime after Spider-Man 2.
Rating: PG-13 for some details.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and I'm not making any money so don't sue me.

A/N: This is a response to a bit of writer's block I've been facing while trying to write another fic. I'm trying to break away from writing these inner-monologues and such, but apparently that's not happening. Please review, flames are welcomed, they keep me warm.



You just left again. Leaping out of the balcony like the superhero you are. You've left me here, sitting on your bed, alone with nothing but my thoughts. I know when I chose to go to your door and be with you that I was accepting that times like these would happen. I knew I'd be sharing you with the rest of New York City.

I've offered you everything I have, Peter. You had me in your embrace and you were kissing me, exploring me. We were so close and as I became intoxicated with you, but in the very back of my mind I prayed that no sirens would go off and no screams would come through the window. I prayed time would stop, I prayed that the city would be safe; I prayed that for one night it would be just the two of us.

My hands were in your hair, one of yours was rubbing my back, the other caressing my cheek and moving down. Our lips would meet in a whirl of passion and then your lips would move down to my neck and I pleaded with my eyes for you to take me. I saw it in your eyes that you wanted me as much as I wanted you.

And your lips met mine again, in a soft, passionate moment. And the sirens went off. At first, I thought they were in my head, I thought they were a figment of my imagination. I prayed that they were. But you stopped. Your icy-blue eyes fluttered open and I saw your expression. I've grown accustomed to the apologetic stare.

"M.J. I'm--" you began, but I pressed a finger to your lips and you got off the bed and took off your clothing to reveal the familiar blue and red costume. You put on the mask that hides your beautiful blue eyes, those caring eyes that have suffered in silence for too long. Once your mask was fit securely on, you left, without a look back.

After you left I grabbed your notebook and began writing in it, unsure of what to say, unsure of my thoughts. I don't know what to think, I don't know what to do. I do know one thing for certain though.

I love you, Peter Parker. The Peter Parker that used to be my next door neighbor. The Peter Parker that always had a smile for me after I had an argument with my father. The Peter Parker that said I was wonderful in all the school plays. The Peter Parker that believes in me and told me I'd light up Broadway. The Peter Parker that sees the real me, the real Mary Jane Watson.

I love you, Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. But even as I write that, I think to myself, Peter Parker is Spider-Man. Spider-Man is Peter Parker. So do I love you both? Spider-Man and Peter Parker are two separate identities but the same person. But it seems that Spider-Man's want and needs always over power Peter Parker's, and I don't know what to think about that. Peter Parker loves me, but does Spider-Man love me or the city? What am I saying? Of course Spider-Man loves me because Spider-Man is Peter Parker. Does that make any sense, Peter? I don't even know if it makes sense to me.

I don't know what I'm trying to say. My thoughts are jumbled and even when I write them they don't make any sense. You were the one with a way with words; I'm just able to act with them. But with you, I can't act. You see right through any fa├žade I try to present. You know me better then I know myself. I still don't know what I'm trying to tell you.

I love you and if you are Spider-Man, it makes no difference. I still love you.

When you come back, Peter, I will be here. I'll always be here, Peter, my love. As long as you promise to return, I will be here, waiting for you.

I love you,
Mary Jane Watson