Disclaimer: All Spider-Man characters are property of Marvel. Phantom themes are courtesy of LeRoux.

Author's Note: C'mon… you didn't seriously think I was just going to end it there, did you?

Musique de la Nuit

Epilogue – Free

The city had breathed a collective sigh of relief upon waking the next day to find that they were now free of another super-villain. Even better, they had proof that Doctor Octopus wasn't coming back to haunt them; his body had been found. This wasn't like the mysterious disappearance of the Green Goblin, who some still feared would put in an appearance. The tentacled menace was dead. Details of his death were splashed across the front pages of every newspaper, with photos of burnt-out husk of the warehouse where the doctor had made his last stand. Most of them were rambling narratives about the 'multi-armed menace' and his 'reign of terror' that was now at an end. Entire paragraphs were devoted to his abduction of his former wife, who it was said had been taken against her will. Never mind the bond of love they had shared before the accident; the papers all portrayed Rosie as a victim of his madness.

There were some in the city, however, who saw through the paper's lies. High above the buildings, swinging through the deep glass-and-metal canyons on a slender, fragile filament, New York's vigilante was lost in thought. The reaction of the city sickened and appalled him, though it was no less than what he expected. They saw only the monster, not the man that Dr. Octavius had been. With that in mind, Peter Parker had put aside his camera and tried his hand at writing. He'd spent the entire night, Mary Jane at his side, composing a eulogy worthy of Octavius. It had been the most heartfelt piece of prose he'd ever written, and had even moved Mary Jane to tears. That morning, he'd taken it to the Globe, and left it for the editor. He'd refused to give his name, or take any money. The editor had promised it would be in the evening edition of the paper; the Globe had always been far more interested in presenting both sides of the story than the Bugle.

Another web snapped out; Spider-Man flowed forward, body arced upward, and then he released the end of the web. For a moment, he was in freefall, and gravity tugged at his body, fighting the momentum that kept him moving forward and upward. Up here, away from the fearful citizens beneath, he had the time to think clearly, with no distractions unless his spider-sense picked up on something. Now, out of sight of the Bugle, the frightened citizens, Mary Jane, he laughed, long and loud, mixed with whoops and howls of delight. His cries carried to the people below, and several scurried away, wondering what had driven their vigilante mad…

Several blocks away, in the wealthier district, people dressed in sober black garments filled Michael Stanton's penthouse, wearing identical expressions of false pity and sorrow. They hadn't been his sister's friends; most of them saw this as an opportunity to ingratiate themselves to a wealthy businessman. The only people attending who were truly saddened by Rosie's death were his wife and daughter, and his two sons, who had arrived that morning for Rosie's wake. The answering machine was filled with messages from other relatives, expressing their regret at not being able to make it to the wake, though many would attend the upcoming funeral.

As for his brother-in-law… The guests were oh, so careful not to mention him. They tiptoed around the subject, as though only one had died in the fire, not two. Michael skirted the advances of two of his business partners, ducking into his den and locking the door behind him. He didn't turn on the light, instead letting his eyes adjust to the dimness before making his way to the bar and pouring a strong drink. He wandered over to one of the windows, opening the blinds and staring out at the gloomy gray city below. He leaned an arm against the glass, pressing his forehead to the pane and looking outward. The day was cloudy, overcast, the ideal atmosphere for such a sober occasion. And yet, despite it all, Michael couldn't repress a grin. He took a sip from his glass, then raised it as if to toast the red-and-blue blur that shot past…

In an equally dim den, this one less lushly appointed, Curt Connors sat at his desk, staring off at nothing. A drink sat warming at his elbow, untouched and forgotten. A copy of the morning's Daily Bugle lay beneath a stack of papers detailing Curt's latest research into reptile limb regeneration. There was a sound at the door, and Martha came in. She said nothing, but walked to his side, seating herself on the arm of his chair and wrapping her arms around his neck. There were no words; they would only spoil the moment.

It was for the best; were Curt to speak, he may have inadvertently revealed that it wasn't sorrow that had driven him to his den…

And beyond the city's limits, a van was parked in a rest stop along the coast. A woman with short blond hair and dark eyes stared out at the ocean, taking it in for the final time. The water was a stormy gray, a mirror of the sky above, and waves crashed against the shoreline in a violent serenade. A long distance away, the jutting fingers of skyscrapers were visible, but New York had become diminished, and it wasn't just because of the miles between her and the city. The woman squeezed her eyes shut, listening to the arrhythmic tempo. Behind her, there was the sound of snapping cloth, and the woman turned from the city and ocean to face the man approaching her with hesitant steps. He had wavy black hair and a thick beard set against mocha-colored skin, and wore a long, cream-colored trenchcoat, which flared around him as the wind caught the ends. In one hand, he held a bundle of sticks that could be rapidly formed into a white cane, but he was determinedly making his way towards her without its assistance. When he was close enough, she took his hand in hers and drew him close, leaning her head against his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart.

The man reciprocated by wrapping his arms around her, resting his chin on her head. He was tense, half-expecting to hear the sound of sirens bearing down upon him and destroying their fragile peace, but none came. The paranoia would take time to fade completely, but in time, he would accept that he was no longer a fugitive of the law, that he no longer needed hide himself away.

While the city celebrated the death of Dr. Otto Octavius, AKA Dr. Octopus, Otto and Rosie Octavius celebrated life. A life free of pain, of hatred, of the constant threat of being torn apart forever.

"Please, can't you understand? Let me go to him, Michael. Please. If you love me, then let me go." It had been that heartbreaking plea that had finally made Michael realize what he was doing to his sister by keeping her away from her husband. He'd watched her pick up the pieces of her broken music box, his expression a confused mixture of anger, concern, and love. He'd knelt beside her, helping her sift the porcelain shards from the carpet, and had said finally, "Rosie, as long as he lives, you'll never be free."

This hadn't been a protest, as she'd first thought, but the beginnings of a plan. As long as Dr. Octopus remained a very real threat, he'd never be left alone. He'd be hunted until, inevitably, he was found and incarcerated – or worse. It was Michael who had first suggested they fake their death.

Thus had begun the elaborate ruse, the bare bones of which had been outlined in the letter Rosie had left for Otto and fleshed out over the following week. Rosie and Michael had agreed that not even their family must know, and had staged the argument and subsequent sulks so that, when questioned, Lucy and Eve could give the same story. The body guards were hired the following day, after Otto was sure to get Rosie's note, to further the deception. As they'd elaborated on the plan, it had grown to include others. Curt Connors had been useful in procuring cadavers to use as body doubles for Otto and Rosie, as well as finding the chemicals for Otto to stash in the warehouse chosen. And, after much internal debate, Otto had decided to bring Peter Parker in on it. Knowing the risk he ran, he'd contacted the youth through a puzzled Curt Connors, and the youth had agreed to a meeting between them. He'd been shocked when Parker had shown up, in his Spider-Man guise, and even more stunned when the vigilante agreed to listen to him, and, more importantly, to help. It warmed Otto to know that there were others in the city who still believed that there was a good man buried within Otto's monstrous exterior… He'd agreed to help manipulate the police to being in the right place at the right time, and had even helped pick out the location for Otto's last stand – ideal for its sub-level that had an outlet to lead to the river, an ideal escape route if one could create a trapdoor for quick access. They'd worked together to set up the pyrotechnics and choreograph the last battle, in a chemical-fueled fire hot enough to incinerate bodies past recognition. It had been a simple matter to fit some of the spare actuator components Otto had stored away to the male corpse, threading the interior with wiring that would melt in the flame. No one would ever know the mock-up actuators had never been functional.

There'd been one hitch; they hadn't expected the heroic SWAT member to grab Rosie, but it had worked out, perhaps better than anyone had expected. That it was Rosie's choice to 'die' with him made it all the more tragic.

They'd spent the night cramped in the narrow river outlet, waiting for the excitement to die down before making their escape at the break of dawn. Peter had met them in a lonely parking lot, wearing his costume sans mask, next to the slightly battered van and holding a suitcase and a cardboard box from Michael. He hadn't even flinched at Otto's revealed features, nor had he tried to conceal his identity from Rosie, a measure of trust that finally put the last of Otto's suspicion to rest. The suitcase had contained money, enough for Otto and Rosie to live off, and directions to a house that Michael had purchased for them out west, miles from their nearest neighbor. Their possessions would be waiting for them; Rosie's packed belongings had been picked up by movers, but they weren't headed towards Rebecca's home in California. And, before leaving the city, the movers had made another stop, collecting the items Otto had relocated from the lab.

The cardboard box had contained an unexpected item: Michael had taken it upon himself to replace the music box he'd accidentally broken during their fight, and now Christine and the Phantom stood unbroken on the van's stable floor, the tune it produced now sweet and pure.

"Your brother wishes you the best of luck, and he says he loves you," Peter had said to Rosie. Then he'd grinned crookedly. "He also says you have one hell of a right hook." Rosie had hugged the younger man, and Otto had shaken his hand. Tears had gleamed on his seamed cheeks, but Peter had respectfully not commented on them. "Dr. Connors says farewell, and to contact him when you reach Colorado. And… I want to apologize for giving the Bugle your photo; I know I'm partly responsible for all this." The younger man's cocky grin widened. "Stay away from New York, you two; I'd hate to have to defeat you again." And with that parting shot, he'd pulled the mask over his still-grinning face and, with a dramatic feat of acrobatics, launched himself into the air and swung out of sight.

Still fearful of a betrayal, they'd stayed only long enough to apply their disguises, then had spent the morning driving out of the city, bringing them to the deserted rest stop on the lonely road, the first such that they would hit on their way to their new home. Otto reluctantly pulled from the embrace; only the knowledge that it was just the first of many more to come gave him the strength to part. Though he couldn't see Rosie, he could sense her gaze upon him. She'd turned her back on the city, her home, just to be with him. There was no regret; she would have given up more just to be with him. She would have given up her life to be with him in death, rather than spend another day without him. And now they would never part again.

"We did it, Rosie," Otto whispered, hardly daring to believe it. "We're free."

The End

It's over. For real, this time. I can't believe it… I never intended to write this story, but I was talked into it, and I'm glad that I did. The reason the last chapter went by so fast, with so little detail, was because if I had delved too deeply into their thoughts, the deception would have been revealed because so many people were in on it. I needed to make their death look 'real' – thus toying with all of your emotions. Heh. Had it not ended this way, the last chapter would have been truly heartbreaking. Did Michael redeem himself to you all? Anyway, it's over, and this is exactly what I've been planning to do since the beginning. It was, like I said, a satisfying ending, in my opinion. I hope you enjoyed the ride. Thanks, all of you, for sticking with this fic. I'm emotionally attached to it, and I'm glad you all enjoyed it. Stay tuned for Shot in the Dark, the next fic that I intend to work on now that this is over.