osborn.

A MASTER AT ADMIRING HINDSIGHT’S LANDSCAPE ,       Peter wonders how much of this could have been avoided had he just told Harry the moment the other showed up in his apartment. Planning out grand schemes of where they would have found themselves if he pushed harder, if he had told his friend the truth from the start. Would Harry have believed him then? Or had the poison Norman laced Harry with already taken hold, long before Peter could even realize just what his friend needed rescuing from? 

“     He died trying to release a toxin into the city.     ”     What had Norman always dealt in but fear, and greed, and power? Convenience, Gwen waiting for him at his apartment led Norman straight to the crippling blow. As with everything that night on the bridge, timing was everything, and Norman rarely swung without knowing he would connect.    “     And he killed her because he could.     ——-    Everything he did was out of greed, you know that.     ”

You know me hangs between them, though Peter knows he would not survive the impact should Harry move from his grasp of that particular battering ram. He doesn’t know what Harry seeks out of playing dress-up as his father, what he hopes to find that all of them hadn’t already known. Norman’s grip on Peter’s shoulder each time he asked about school or the latest project, the dismissal of Harry even when lost in grief or seeking the same validation. Norman didn’t deserve this redemption, but Peter finds himself reaching out to grip whatever part of Harry is trapped underneath the monument being built in his place. 

If you’re lying. If you get Mary Jane hurt. I’ll kill you. I’ll find a way. 

It’s years of training which keeps his voice quiet, even as he releases his grip from Harry’s to taking his face between his hands. Less a hold than it is a request. Look at me, you know me, you know all of me now.

“     I thought I was protecting you. I was scared what would happen to you, if you knew.     ”     The trouble with truth is the way in which it demands to be known. The trouble is, there’s no use hiding from it when it hangs so within reach of the both of them.     “      I always thought you were more mine, that we were more each other’s, even with all the secrets. But I know better now     ——-    I know you’ll find a way. I know you’re your father’s son, now.     ”     Peter’s grip shifts, hoping for one last hold before he needs to let Harry go, for good.     “     You need to decide what that means.     ”

there was no grand reason, no ultimate design behind the green goblin’s actions. he killed because he could; he did what he did out of greed. a hundred moments played out for harry alone in the manor of the osborn family, a hundred moments that seemed to conclude the same thing. and what did it amount to? harry clutched the flash drive tighter. no, no, he could not believe this. peter did not care for him either. if he had cared, he would have told him the truth; he would have treated harry as an equal. he would have loved him instead of --- whatever this was. 

but 

peter held harry in his hands, and it was gentle, even though harry could feel the goodbye in the touch. the tears he had so tried to avoid fell then --- to be so near to home and unable to find warmth in it, to be handled like something precious. harry cried, surrounded by strangers; harry cried, at an event he did not want to be a part of anymore. 

here was what he did not say: i just wanted to be yours. yours and mj’s. but you didn’t --- you didn’t care about me like i thought. you can’t protect someone like this, petey. you can’t protect someone like me. here was what he did not say: maybe i know you. maybe i know you, and that doesn’t just go away. maybe i know you still. but now you know the whole ugly truth of me too. here was what he did not say: i am so scared, peter. i am so tired of being angry. but where do i fit all this pain? 

harry didn’t move away. he couldn’t. he gripped the collar of peter’s suit, his fist tightening and loosening, like he could not decide whether to hold tighter or let him go. he stared at the familiar features, at the familiar man in front of him, at the familiar life they had built together. at where it had led them. at where they still had to go. 

( i know you’re your father’s son. )

“i always have been.” how could they belong to each other, when harry had never even belonged to himself? “you just didn’t see it.” 

harry needed to get out. he needed to look at the flash drive. he needed to leave. but he stayed where he was. he stayed, knowing this was the deepest kind of goodbye, knowing they could not be on the same side again. but the music changed around them, and the world ticked on. 

harry turned his head, his lips brushing against the palm of peter’s hand. “ --- song’s over.” 

Harry Osborn. How could he not know this man, the owner of Oscorp and son of the infamous Norman Osborn? Clark’s reporting had him sniffing out too many big names in the elite circles to not recognize him. The only thing was surprising about this encounter was that Harry seemed to be attempting to initiate contact himself. Clark decided to allow himself to be pleasantly surprised for the moment. “This whole evening is pretty interesting,” he smiled back, offering his hand to shake. “There’s a story just in who’s here and who isn’t.”

HE DOESN’T KNOW WHY       part of him is still apologizing for the bridge. As if his own blood staining metal and asphalt hadn’t offered retribution to a conversation he had put off. As if he would ever be able to control the way his stomach turned seeing that mask there.     (     He had thrown the first punch, but hadn’t the goblin set the stage for his demise once more?     )   

Peter feels as though he’s eighteen again, pressed against Harry with Norman Osborn hovering somewhere near, ready to snatch the other’s gaze away. They aren’t guarded by some locked door anymore, rather it’s Harry own gaze that flickers and fades into something eerily familiar. He’s leaned in close enough to make sure Peter sees as much. 

How do you want this to end, Peter?

He realizes he’s only been listening to Harry’s explanation, Harry’s invitation. He realizes, only now, this isn’t a matter of them holding on to each other. Peter’s grip loosens, the knit between his brows picking up the slack left off.  

“     ——-    I want it to end.     ”

(   Norman told him he couldn’t die, pitched between the shrill laughter of the Goblin. Peter hadn’t realized what he meant until he met a dead man’s gaze reflected in the son.   )     “     I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was.    ”     The glider had always been some show of technology, some deluded sense of what would better the world. As quietly,     “     I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who your father was.     ——-     He tried to kill me more times than I can count. And he     —-     he murdered Gwen, Har. Because he found out who I was.     ”     Norman certainly never deserved much from Peter, but Harry had earned the right to mourn the idea of a father he never had. An oversight, obviously. 

But what good is science without learning from past mistakes? 

“     Killing me isn’t gonna take.    ”     He finds something solid in his grasp on Harry once more. It’s a promise, even if it carves something out of him to muster the words,     “     And if you go after May or go after MJ, I will stop you.     ”     In an instant, he’s reached inside his jacket to offer something out. A flash drive   (   years of carefully cultivate research, documentation of confrontations and the Goblin’s particular brand of chaos : a warning or a road map?   )     placed in Harry’s palm, free hand pressed warmly behind his neck,     “     You know the truth about me, you deserve to know the truth about him too.     ” 

the truth about norman fell between them, and the dance stopped. ( he tried to kill me; he murdered gwen; he did not care about you; he did not care about anyone. norman osborn loved only power. ) there was a time harry had seen norman for what he was. there was a time he had clutched mj’s hands and promised they would be more than the legacies given to them. there was a time he shed his last name and ran from norman osborn with an ease he could no longer find. 

“i don’t believe you,” harry lied. it repeated, again and again, in his thoughts: gwen, peter, gwen, gwen, that bridge, the green goblin. “how am i supposed to believe you? you killed him. you killed him. i saw it.” his voice was rising, and his composure was slipping. not here, not here. harry took a deep breath, and he clung to peter like he’d always clung to peter. a lifeline. but everything had changed, and peter felt as far away now as he did in death. he took a step back, and the next questions came quiet, uncertain. “why would he do that? why would he kill gwen?” just because he found out spider-man’s identity? why her? she had been harry’s friend too, hadn’t she?

each question seemed to bring to harry a new sliver of hurt. was hurting an enemy more important to norman osborn than protecting his son? even in hatred, had norman osborn cared more for peter than harry? there were far more layers to this story than harry had ever imagined. 

if you go after may or go after mj --- harry became focused again. his eyes blazed, and he found truth in the care he had for them. ( even if mary jane hated him. even if she couldn’t look at him again. even if he couldn’t look at her. )

“mj and may are safe. i wouldn’t --- ” he felt heartbreak, sorrowful and sweet between his ribs. it crawled up through his bones, through his blood, resting just behind his eyes. "i could never hurt them.” ( there was a time when the same could said of peter, wasn’t there? ) “i won’t.”

he stared at the flash drive a long, long time before taking it. a choice. 

Wally wasn’t great at lying, but when push came to shove, he had a bit of a talent at acting, so the ginger took the offered incentive and shook the other man’s hand amiably, putting on a relieved but bashful smile.

“Wallace West. Paint, huh? I guess that definitely could go onto some world record book as being the most boring thing to drone on about…Even at a molecular level. I admit, that has me beat, at least.” 

Raising his glass in salute, the ginger takes a sip before tilting his head in an almost puppy-like curiosity. 

“Osborn….As in, Oscorp?”

wallace west --- not even the name was familiar. with the mention of oscorp, harry felt even more at a disadvantage, but he wore his grin easily. he matched the man’s handshake and tipped his head in return to the glass’s salute. if nothing else, at least wallace west had a sense of humor. 

“  a stagnant bog.  ”  eggshells crack beneath heels and she’s reminded to glance behind him,  over her own shoulder. agents were busy mingling in the crowd  (  where she should be too,  were it not harry’s insistence on accusing her of stalking so prematurely into this game  )  and the avengers on payroll out of earshot. the rest is noise.  “  it’s not past-tense,  it’s not reactionary or a result. it’s found in an action,  a conscious choice or ripple across the water to be better than the situation that sparked conversations of justice in the first place. not everyone can be just,  as not everyone is cruel or kind or humble or any number of depths. and what lies waiting under the surface is all … murk.  ”  

“  i think justice is often misconstrued for fairness,  eye for an eye mentality. we become disillusioned when we receive our pound of flesh and feel as though nothing changed.  ”  despite the gravity of her bleak envisioning,  there’s a faint smile perking up half her face. a wink that jessica accepted her reality long ago : she,  like so many in this room,  were NOT just nor would taste justice for themselves. their concepts too narrow,  too personal,  too different to allow that satisfaction. 

she pulls two drinks from a passing tray,  offering the second to harry.  “  these people are that : people. no matter the organizing,  the planning,  the training they will act as people do. we’re putting too much emphasis on control born from fear of our own mortality and not enough on instinct. every single one on that stage and in hiding bears the full weight of their decisions,  and every single one will always ask the same of themselves. but this is not justice. this is safety theater.  ”  and with a familiar clink of glass lip against glass she believes her impromptu speech over.  “  do you feel safe?  ”

he almost said: exactly! he almost said: justice is action, whatever action, any action at all! but she continued, and those protests, if they could be called protests, faded in his thoughts. she spoke of something more, and the murkiness she offered, the vibrant and stark image of its uncertainty, was the nearest thing to truth that harry osborn had felt in a long while. a stagnant bog: something murky, ongoing, unique. an opportunity, if he let it. 

“i don’t want to be just.” but she was not asking for him to be. she was reaching into him, into his experience, and pulling out the heart of it: and feel as though nothing changed. he remembered being a child, making his way down the long and cold halls of the osborn home and telling his father his blanket had fallen off his bed, a lie to avoid admitting he was afraid of the dark. he remembered hoping his father would tuck him into bed again. he remembered his father guiding harry out of his bedroom and locking the door, leaving the boy to make the trek back alone. nothing changed. he still felt alone in the dark. but jessica’s words, in all their sharp truth, handed harry something that was almost a candle. he chewed his lip, trying to understand what exactly he was saying. “but i want to be --- something, i think.” 

gladly, he accepted the drink she offered him. the evening was far from over, but he already felt thoroughly exhausted by it. 

“safe? here?” amongst the heroes. amongst the businessmen. amongst the changing world. did anyone really feel safe anymore? ( she was right: this was safety theater, and he was a part of it. ) “hardly. i’m not stupid. i might not understand the masked heroes, but i know this kind of event. half these people, luthor included, would sell me out if it furthered their agenda. so, no, i don’t feel safe. but it feels familiar. i recognize them. i am one of them, i guess.” 

he finished his drink off quickly, passing the empty glass off to the nearest tray that went by and grabbing a fresh one. with the taste of champagne still light on his tongue, a question he was not sure about welled to the surface. 

“  then what did you come to argue?  ”  she can’t help herself,  she really can’t. this would be the most entertainment jess could hope for that evening. from the demoralized stance of a man burned by a single vigilante and therefore looking for the ultimate hammer to bang them out of existence,  to the wild eyes of a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. again.

jess is a relic,  a dinosaur from the era of spy versus spy. hearing talks that hyperinflate the actual value of any politician made her wonder what other means of propaganda would pop up in the next few months to solidify a base like harry osborn.  “  it’s a frustrating feeling,  huh?  we can wear money like it’s a placeholder for power,  but when presented with something as uncontrollable as real physical power,  we panic and demand it tamed. for the betterment of everyone,  of course.  ”  

why does she care about luthor?  “  he’s a politician. a smart one,  granted,  but a politician. power for them is founded in stepping on necks. i just want to make sure my favorite doesn’t find himself under a boot while calling it … what was your word? right. justice.  ”

“ --- nothing! i didn’t come to argue with you at all.” and yet, here he was, standing in front of her with a clench in his jaw and no intention of walking away. he was the one who came over here, wasn’t he? he was the one who spoke first. so he let her speak now with his arms crossed. he let it make him angry, even as she said things that were almost familiar to him. things he had maybe once, maybe still, believed.  

( my favorite, she called him too. but luthor had invited him here and luthor had agreed to meet with him. luthor had done something, where others had not. where she had not --- right? ) 

“it is for the betterment of everyone,” he stubbornly insisted. “how much of a mess do these people have to leave behind before everyone understands that, unchecked, they’re a threat to us all?”

but the way she said justice, the way she threw it back at him, made him pause. it had been the thing he whispered to himself, when he was sure of nothing else; it had been the thing that brought him to the bridge, to peter. truth and justice, hand in hand. ( another person, spitting words at him angrily, violently, righteously: it was always vengeance. it was ugly, life for a life vengeance. ) he looked at jess, quiet and uncertain. when he closed his eyes, what did he imagine justice to look like? he didn’t know anymore. 

Wally had no idea how to act at these sort of stuffy things. He felt like a fish out of water as he stood aside; but not too far aside that he was a proverbial wallflower. He’d cleaned up pretty well (at least his nice old lady neighbor told him so), and he lazily nursed a drink one of the wait staff had offered as they walked by. 

Geez, how did people schmooze at these things?

He didn’t have to think on it long as someone paused and addressed him, his eyebrows shooting up for a moment mid-drink before he quickly composed himself with a mischievous smile and waved his glass, “I’m here for the drinks, of course.” He winced at his own joke, quietly more amused at the fact that his metabolism would burn through the alcohol too fast to get any sort of buzz. “Sorry- that…..That was lame.”

his quick glance turned into a much longer look. ( maybe the other man was new money; new money so rarely knew how to act at these things. but then again, maybe the man was the brains behind some operation --- although he looked far too nice in his suit to be just the brains. ) there was the truth of events like this: you never knew who someone might be. harry had been mistaken, more than once, as someone inconsequential. he wouldn’t underestimate another in the same way. 

“it’s not the lamest thing i’ve heard this evening,” he returned truthfully. besides, it was good wine. for as large of a show this was, it had better be. “i think that honor would have to go to the good dr. van adder --- he tried to talk to me about paint. not paintings. actual paint. i think i blacked out after the first ten seconds.”

                   She knew that Harry Osborn was a popular guy but she didn’t expect it was hard to have a conversation with him in. All Cassandra wanted was to catch up with him but apparently, she had to go through many people to get through him and she was pretty sure, elbowing her way to him will get a stamp of disapproval  from Farid,

                    At that moment, all that Cassandra could do stand a couple of meters away from him, trying to catch his eyes before giving him a tiny wave in greeting.

closed starter for @osborninc

it wasn’t fair of him --- he knew he shouldn’t have been avoiding cass, but it was far easier to avoid her than to let her see him here amongst his shark-toothed fellows. ( he was a businessman here; he was an osborn. and, for not the last time that evening, he felt a trickle of shame at the thought. ) yet cassandra cain-wayne was nothing if not resourceful, and she caught up with him soon enough, giving a small wave in his direction that he could not ignore. he waved back, slipping through the crowd until he made his way to her. 

WHAT ONCE FAILED HIM NOW IS FELT IN EVERY SHIFT       of an old friend from across the crowd. Even the most minuscule changes in the environment around him could trigger what has been affectionately coined as Spidey-Sense; the shift in wind or a scent carried through it alerting him of another arrival, the call to move before the gun could be cocked. Technically speaking it is through electrical impulses that are picked up by antenna-like hairs on Peter’s arm and sent through the nerve endings at the root of the hair follicle. The electrical impulse is fired to the brain where Peter instinctively responds with either a fight or flight response, often before he is consciously aware of the danger or even his own physical actions. To describe it would be to describe pain, the premonition of threat on a body’s instinct to jerk away. A toll for the ability as instinct depletes. 

The electricity which pulses through him now is nearly unbearable. 

Peter sees him out of the corner of his eyes, open stare chanced only when others focus their attention toward the parade of sanctioned heroes. Whatever they are remains overlooked, separated but seeing each other clearly for the first time. 

Even with the hair on the back of his neck standing at full attention, Peter allows the approach. Nothing pierces through him now, but a hand does extend to him. Familiar as ever, though Peter wouldn’t be Spider-man if he didn’t also sense the turmoil evident in the pulse of the other.     (   It makes him unpredictable, it makes taking his hand a mistake. But Peter isn’t off that bridge yet, mistakes are sometimes worth repeating.    )     Synapses firing, he still doesn’t flinch as they move towards the dance floor.

The absence of lies between them does not hold the catharsis he might have once fantasized about. Even pressed close to Harry, he awaits to be pierced through, wonders what it says about him that he would allow it to happen again. For a moment, Peter tucks himself close, finding shelter in a familiar scent without acknowledging his eyes left unreadable. It’s not enough to allow it to linger, he wouldn’t have really been himself if he tried.     “     Gotta say, I’m pretty surprised that no one seems to know I’m dead.    ”     Weeks tucked away in fear, he’d rather face the inevitability head-on.     “     You haven’t told Luthor yet?    ”

per his father’s instructions, harry had learned to dance when he was young, enjoying the classical forms about as much as one would expect. but he had taken this thing his father had forced him into and made it his own; he had slipped into classes his father would never allow ( hip hop, jazz, even tap at one point ) and, when he grew bored with those, began crafting his own dances with acquaintances. the point being --- harry osborn was a good dancer, but he did not lead peter in a form that was recognizable. 

harry could not look away from peter. they were closer now than they had been in a long while, and harry felt intoxicated with the nearness, trying to memorize every bit that he could, knowing it would not last, knowing it could not last. they moved across the floor together, and harry tried to imagine the spider-man mask slipping over peter’s face. they spun together, and harry tried to remember the sight of blood against the body he held. his grip on peter tightened. their dance had a frenzy to it. it was sharp. 

you haven’t told luthor yet?  ( of course that was what peter thought of him. how could he think anything else? )

“i thought about it,” harry returned softly. he would dangle the information in front of luthor, hint at it, dance around the subject --- but he knew now, at a fundraising event for the man, that he could not give the secret away yet. it belonged to harry. “i thought about what it would mean for the world to see you as you really are. and i kept thinking about that moment on the bridge --- how you said my name. how you said please.” 

was it for harry to save peter or to let him go? 

there were worse things to be dragged towards than privacy for a conversation she had only MARGINALLY anticipated coming that evening. (  though harry spotting jessica in a crowd as pressed with bodies as the one on their right seems comical,  was he TRYING to find her? interesting.  )  her only real annoyance food - motivated as she watched a fallen appetizer meet its untimely end by polished shoe.

if jessica WERE to follow the young osborn … he’d never know,  simple as that. and he gave it the old college effort for a while there.

clear green eyes burned into his own with little interest nor reason to answer the question forthright.  “  alexander luthor. that’s an interesting choice of candidate for the new oscorp to peddle some investments toward. makes you wonder what kickbacks are offered from donations,  doesn’t it?  ”  and all at once,  a switch is flipped as jess resumes her most common appearance : that of the PASSIVE observer.  “  you’ve been busy.  “

the sudden topic of conversation ( although sudden was unfair of him, given their current location ) caught him off guard. “alexander luthor is going to become the most powerful man in the world.” harry was certain of this --- there was no one to oppose him, no one worth mentioning, and few things brought a nation together like a common enemy. and masked heroes, he knew, were exactly that. “he’s the only one who cared about accountability. who cared about holding spider-man, and those like him, to justice.” 

somehow, knowing what he did now, the words did not feel as righteous as they once did. they fell flat; they fell sadly between them. since when had his anger turned to this? he straightened where he stood, fidgeting with his cufflinks. 

harry was a firm believer in ghosts --- what were ghosts if not our guilts, our fears, made tangible? what were ghosts if not our own pain? after his father’s death, he had been haunted, a haunting that only had begun to lessen with spider-man’s fall. ( even now, even here, he was afraid of saying peter parker’s name. ) but he should have known that the past would not stay there, that one ghost would only lead to the creation of another. an exchange. harry osborn should have known that he would see his friend again. 

peter parker. spider-man. peter parker. standing in the fundraiser, wearing the most expensive suit that harry had ever seen him in. alive. alive. there. 

( harry ignores the fact that his breath comes easier in his lungs at the sight of peter. he ignores the fact that he must be in a dream and that he will wake up soon. but for now, let him sleep. let him sleep. ) 

he did not know how long he stood there, watching the man. one song faded into the next faded into the next. something was growing in him --- that familiar anger, that familiar pain, but something else too, something old and something new. you’ll separate your grief from your father’s rage, a voice whispered, and he wanted to slap it away, to tell it that it was wrong. he felt young and old, all at once; he felt terrified and thrilled. 

did he run through the crowd, or did he slip through it, trying not to attract attention? he could not say which he chose. he only knew that he made his way to peter, that he would have followed the man to the ends of the earth in that moment. for good or for ill. 

and there they were. over the past weeks, harry had been careful to master his mask. he was alone now, the most alone he had ever been. ( no friends, no family. only his name. only his shadow. ) if he did not guard himself, he would die, and it was the only thing that kept him sane then, the only thing that protected him. put away the shock, the sadness, the love, the hate. put it all away. 

his hand was the only thing that gave him away as he held it out to peter parker, shaking slightly. 

i killed you, he wanted to say. haunt me. please. 

of all the people he could have run into, of all the people he could have stumbled across in the crowd --- did it have to be her? did it have to be now? after their conversation, he had spent too much time ( and far too many company resources ) attempting to find out more information about the woman calling herself jessica drew. when that did not work, he had tried putting her entirely out his mind. when even that did not work, he had felt himself slipping into a deep paranoia, the same paranoia that had once come with the mention of spider-man --- distrust, fear, suspicion, suspicion, suspicion. eventually, that too had faded, and he did not know which was worse: the brief certainty that she was there to doom him or the current uncertainty that she might actually be trying to help. 

either way, he did not want to see her here. he did not want her to see him like this, like an osborn. ( and that was not fair of him, was it? why should he care what she thinks of him? ) he pulled her to the side of the crowd, eyes scanning the surrounding area for any others who might be watching them. 

harry weaved in and out of the crowd, speaking to both those he recognized and those he did not. he had always found these events tiresome but necessary; rarely had he found them as dangerous as this one. ( he needed to find the man of the hour, he needed to find lex luthor. ) he stopped near a young man that he did not recognize, giving him a quick glance. “which part of the event are you here for?”