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“Welcome home,” Harry hears, but it’s not home, hasn’t been home for years.
His fingers tremble when Norman reaches for him, telling him about our disease, the Osborn curse, skin cold, the drive colder as he presses it into Harry’s hand. With everything that could save his life resting against his palm, Harry feels every bit the scared little boy he’d never let himself be.
“Sir, there’s a Peter Parker here to see you,” Harry hears, and everything else fades to static around him.
“Peter Parker,” he breathes, disbelieving. “It’s like seeing a ghost,” and Peter smiles, voice soft as he murmurs, “Hey, Harry.”
It’s been too long, and Harry doesn’t know what to say, how to act, watches Peter start to climb the stairs toward him and he can’t, he can’t. “I’m with some people. I’m— I’m in a meeting,” and Peter hesitates but doesn’t back away yet, offers Harry all the words of comfort he needs to hear, doesn’t deserve.
“Thank you,” he says, but it comes out choked, closed-off, and Harry can’t meet his eyes, even as Peter starts to back away, giving in. “It’s good to see you, man. It’s good to see you,” and he’s almost at the door when Harry takes a breath, steps forward, dives in.
The good-natured teasing comes easily, more easily than he’d expected, and when Peter grins it’s like sunshine, like everything he hadn’t let himself miss. “There he is. There he is!” And he’s right, feels a genuine smile break across his face for the first time in— too long, recalling a point when not every move was calculated.
It seems a lifetime ago, but then Peter dashes up the stairs, pulls him into a hug, and this, he thinks: this is what coming home feels like.
“I saw you,” Harry hears, and he can’t deny the thrill that passes through him at the words. He hates the paparazzi, he does, but the thought of Peter keeping an eye out for him, even once they’d stopped writing— it’s exciting, maybe a bit terrifying.
Peter slides down the banister and Harry follows suit without stopping to think, and it’s only when his feet are back on solid ground that he notices. It’s like old times, when he’d follow Peter’s lead anywhere, into anything, and more often than not he’d face the brunt of the consequences. (Peter would always edge his way in, smile sheepishly, trying to take the blame, but Norman wouldn’t hear a word of it.)
He’s shaken by how easily he slips back into old habits, so he returns to more familiar territory, though if Peter looks too close he’ll realize exactly how uncertain the terrain is beneath Harry’s feet. “Dude, that whole model thing is so exhausting,” and Peter laughs, shoots back, “Oh, I know.”
“You got a lady?” Harry asks, because how can he not, even if he’s not sure he wants to know the answer. Peter wavers for a moment, two, and Harry feels a twinge of hope, though he shoves it down as Peter climbs over the railing, all nervous energy, half-considered impulses. The barrier clears Harry’s head, as though all he’d needed was a physical manifestation of the distance between them, as though the last eight years weren’t enough (to chase Peter from his mind, to chase desire from his heart). “It’s complicated,” Peter says, and, oh, “Yeah, I don’t do complicated.” He asks who she is, Gwen Stacy, and the name leaves a bad taste in his mouth, leaves him wondering if she’s worth the complications she presents.
“I try not to think about it,” Harry hears, and there’s something in that, he thinks. “How’s that working out for you?” he asks, and Peter’s reply is bitter, broken. “Perfectly.”
If only he had the luxury of not thinking, the time for “eventually.” Peter looks up at that last, looks concerned, but he doesn’t ask and Harry doesn’t offer— neither of them is quite sure where the boundary lies anymore, what’s fair game and what’s too far, so they stay silent, skip rocks and stick to what’s easy, uncomplicated for as long as they can.
(They go out that night. They drink too much and stumble back to the mansion, unsteady on their feet, grinning too wide and laughing too loud. Peter drapes himself over Harry, clumsy and careless, and they’re barely inside the door when Harry leans in to press his mouth to Peter’s.
He pulls back immediately, because too far, because he didn’t mean to— to show all his cards, to let Peter know. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” but Peter’s already recovered, already leaning in to kiss him once more, and wait, what?
Peter’s hands are warm on Harry’s skin as he crowds him against the door, fingers on his neck, kissing him like he’s drowning, like he can’t get enough. Harry’s lips open under Peter’s and he pulls him in, slotting their hips together and hoping like hell that if this is a dream, he’ll never wake up. Peter’s groan vibrates against his lips, down his spine, and Harry drags himself away just long enough to tug Peter up the stairs to his room.
“Are you sure,” he starts, stops, but Peter’s still kissing him, still tugging the vest from his shoulders, the tie from around his neck, and Harry’s powerless to resist. He kisses back, starts to strip Peter down to nothing— “Why are you wearing so many layers?” “You’re one to talk!”— and for a moment it’s the most uncomplicated thing in the world, to let Peter press him into his childhood bed and take what Harry’s always hoped he would.
“Complicated” comes the next morning, because it’s Peter, because complicated is his middle name, because with daylight and sobriety comes a clarity neither of them was willing to acknowledge under the cover of darkness.
He tries to soften the blow, dancing around the topic until he can’t avoid it any longer, until, “I love Gwen,” and Harry expected nothing less but still, still it hurts like hell. He tugs the sheets around his body, feeling exposed, feeling vulnerable in a way he hasn’t let himself in years.
“I love you,” he doesn’t say. “I love you, I’ve loved you since we were kids, I tried to forget you but then here you were—”
He doesn’t say a word, lets Peter walk out the door, and Harry hears the echo of everything he’s ever let go in Peter’s footsteps.)
“You alright?” Harry hears the next time he hears Peter’s voice, because of course he gave in, called too soon, desperate for his help, because Spider-Man is his last hope, because he doesn’t know where else to turn. He puts his heart, his life on the line, and Peter’s reluctance is like a punch to the gut.
Still he agrees to help, but it’s with an uncertainty Harry hadn’t anticipated. They don’t say a word about the night before— Harry doesn’t ask and Peter doesn’t offer, because that’s become their pattern, but Harry hugs him with trembling hands and he can feel the distance between them. (Had that night been a step too far? Would that be enough for Peter to deny him one last chance at hope?)
(He meets Gwen in the elevator, and suddenly everything makes sense.)
“I thought you two had broken up,” he mentions, casual, careful, and suddenly she grows shy. “Oh…yeah. Yes. We had, and it’s—”
“It’s complicated,” he fills in for her. “It’s Peter. Everything’s always complicated with Peter,” and she laughs, won’t quite meet his gaze. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Such a pleasure, Gwen,” he murmurs as she exits, and he locks his jaw, looks after her, looks everywhere but into himself.
“Look up,” Harry hears, hungover, half-awake. He obeys, and—
“I cannot believe my eyes. Spider-Man. Just the man I wanted to see.” He pours himself a drink, fingers trembling on the glass, shakes his head in disbelief and takes a sip because Peter came through, because maybe he does give people hope, after all.
Then the Spider starts to speak, and Harry feels his blood run cold, doubt creeping in along the edge of each word. “I don’t want your money,” he says, and the glass in Harry’s hand threatens to shatter. “Come on, everybody wants my money!”
“I don’t,” Spider-Man insists. “I’m trying to protect you right now,” and maybe he sounds a bit broken, a bit unsure, but all Harry hears is no.
The glass explodes against the wall, shards slicing into his skin, desperation as plain as the blood that trickles down his cheek, and all the webslinger can do is whisper, “I’m sorry.”
He disappears into the cold light of day and Harry stares out the window, helpless. More glass spills across the floor, shattering violently, but it brings no relief. He throws himself down on the couch with a sob, curling his fingers (trembling fingers, reminding him you’re going to die, reminding him you have nothing left) into fists and imagining them tight around the Spider’s throat, because if he can’t save himself at least he can bring the wall-crawler down with him.
“You alright?” Harry hears, but this time it’s not Peter, not anyone he would have expected, even hoped to care. He tells Felicia to go home, take the day off, pours himself one too many drinks and tries not to look too closely at how self-destructive he’s become in the process of saving his own skin.
Instead she tells him about the spiders, about the venom, and for a moment he feels something resembling hope. There’s not enough time (never enough time) before Menken’s marching into his office, accusing him of unspeakable cruelties, relishing every moment as he tells Harry, “You’ve been— how do I put this gently— fired,” and Harry feels his skin spark with rage.
“You are not going to bury me too,” but you’re halfway in the ground already, you’re going to die a horrible death, like your father; the difference is…
…no one is going to miss you.
That’s when he loses it, men in suits holding him back, but Menken’s voice cuts through the haze of fury one last time. “Get him out.”
“I know my way out,” he whispers, a smirk playing over his lips, because he has nothing left to lose. His inheritance, his heart, his life— gone in the blink of an eye. All that remains is a chance to be remembered, and he clings to what little hope there is in that, because he may not be his father but he’s still his father’s son.
(He thinks of Peter. Tries like hell not to, but he thinks of Peter, thinks of that night, thinks of how it felt to have everything he’d wanted for years within his grasp. Thinks of Peter’s lips on his neck, fingers at the base of his spine, breathless laughter hot upon his skin; Peter’s hands in his hair, mouth against his own, whispering, “Harry,” whispering, “Yes.”
All the wealth in the world, and all he’d ever wanted was the touch of the shy, geeky boy from Queens who’d never cared about his money, about his name. That, and Daddy’s love, even if he’d never admit it, even if any hope for approval had vanished years earlier.
“I know what it’s like to be thrown away,” he tells Max, panicked, begging for one last chance, one last shred of hope. Thrown away by his father, his best friend, the city’s hero and the company that was supposed to be his own, with nothing to show for it but a body that’s disintegrating by the day and a desperation verging on insanity.
“Please, I need you, I need you,” he screams even as he’s dragged away; they’re words he hoped he’d never have to say again, but then Max is standing before him, raw power, growling, “Let’s go catch a spider,” and he thinks maybe this time he’s chosen wisely.)
“My oh my, how the tables have turned,” Harry says, and the destruction’s almost worth it for the look of terror on Menken’s face. They’ve got the power now, the upper hand, and the cure he’s been seeking is finally, finally within reach.
(It’s no cure, he realizes too late.)
(He falls to his knees, tearing the shirt from his skin— skin that’s no longer his own, and he can feel his teeth sharpen, nails lengthen as he crawls to the armor, to his last hope, agony every step of the way.
“Healing protocol activated,” and the parts of his mind that aren’t on fire register this with a rush of relief. His hands no longer shake, a surge of strength accompanying the metal down his spine, the armor across his chest. His body is alive, but his eyes glow green, and the words at what cost don’t cross the mind of the creature he’s become.)
The lights come back on and he knows Max has failed; is almost glad for it, snarling, cackling as he glides in, hungry for blood. He looks between the Spider and the girl, back again, and somewhere in the depths of his twisted mind, the realization clicks.
“Peter,” he hisses, and it’s almost fitting, his name the first word that escapes the Goblin’s mangled lips. The betrayal only fuels his rage, teeth bared in a perpetual grin, and he imagines the look on Peter’s face under that mask as he realizes exactly what he’s about to lose. “You don’t give people hope. You take it away. Well, I’m gonna take away yours.”
He grabs Gwen, hearing Peter below, begging him to put her down, telling him this is not you, but maybe this is who he was always meant to be.
She says his name and he snaps back, growling, “Harry’s dead,” and lets her go, swooping after the webslinger instead. Every instinct he didn’t know he had kicks into gear as they battle toe-to-toe, vicious, but where Peter’s holding back Harry has no such qualms.
Then the web tightens around his neck, the gears disintegrate around them— and Gwen falls.
“It comes and goes,” Harry says, arms across his chest, locked behind steel doors in a tiny room he never thought he’d call home. It’s like Norman had said, all those months before: lying awake, he can feel it coming, hiding under his skin, waiting to show itself. “To show you who you really are,” he’d murmured, one foot in the grave already, and Harry no longer has any doubts that this is who he truly is.
The city will never be the same, and oh, “I’m counting on that,” because even in this room, half-sane and stitched in place, he’s got enough power, enough influence to keep things going exactly as he’d planned. He’s still an Osborn, biding his time, hidden away behind Ravencroft’s bars until he’s needed to set the plan in motion.
Spider-Man has disappeared, though the rage still threatens to break through every time he thinks of Peter, of his betrayal, of everything he’d wanted and everything he’d become instead. (That night lingers in the back of his mind, and he hopes that when Peter thinks of Gwen he feels the same, broken and bitter, a singular chance at happiness torn away in an instant.)
He’s lost his home and his mind but he gazes in the mirror, feels the rush of unprecedented strength through his veins, savors the promise of eventually—
And his hands are still.