In a Quiet Lagoon, Devils Dwell
“Perhaps, though, I can still offer some words of advice before you leave.”
The footsteps hammering against the floor ceased to sound, coming to a stop all at once.
Norman watched, half inattentively, as Tony froze at the entrance of his office. The man hadn’t departed yet; only a brief glance showed him that much. His back faced Norman but his feet rooted in place — signifying, at the very least, curiosity to whatever was to follow.
Each second he wasted buttoning the cusps to his sleeves was a second he savored.
“Protect your investments, Stark,” Norman simply said, looking up just as Tony craned his head over his shoulder. Their eyes met. “Never know...I might decide you’re undeserving of them.”
A moment of silence dragged out.
As Tony’s eyes flickered up and down, Norman’s stayed unwavering on him. Boring a hole in the chest where he knew there used to be, quite literally, a hole.
“You know...you don’t look so hot, Normie. A little gaunt.” Tony reached for the doorknob, his grip so hard it rattled the structure of the wood it was attached to. “Maybe you should consider opening those shades. Get some sun on your face.”
No chance was given for a counter remark.
The door shut with purposeful force, slamming with an echo that sent a bolt of electricity through the sensitive nerves in Norman’s head.
He was adjusting his tie when the noise sounded.
“Dammit!” Norman hissed, his hands dropping from his emerald tie as eyes clenched tightly shut.
He all but ripped the tie off his neck, tugging it until it was loose and barely hung in place. Almost immediately, his fingers pressed hard into his temple, trembling along the way; as if the pressure he applied to his forehead could ward off the ever-growing migraine behind his eyes.
He knew it wouldn’t. But he forced pressure, nonetheless.
The office remained dark, and yet the small slivers of sunlight creeping in through the heavy curtains were too bright for his eyes. Norman grounded his teeth as the feel of his pulse throbbed against his fingertips, a beast of pain that swelled in his skull threatening to break loose.
With his other hand, he pressed a finger on the intercom of his phone. It didn’t make a sound; he muted that function a long time ago.
“Cynthia,” he started, the rasp in his throat coating his voice. “Cancel my remaining meetings for the day. And get Doctor Adler on the line — now, please.”
The shuffle of noise on the other end indicated uncertainty. Norman was too busy kneading at his temple to focus on it.
“Uh, sir…” the voice of his assistant was nearly drowned out by the ringing of her phone — multiple calls, each ringing off the hook. Loud enough that he could hear them through the closed door of his office. “You have an appointment with the D.O.D regarding the joint venture of OsCorp’s weapons department —”
“Reschedule it,” Norman firmly interrupted. His eyes shut even tighter as the pain at the base of his neck increased. “The lie doesn’t have to be white. Color it how you want, but I need my books cleared. Immediately.”
Norman treasured the small moment of stillness that followed — the phones were silenced, no doubt a panicked response of his tenured assistant. She knew him well. For a split second, he swore even the Manhattan traffic had fallen quiet. Leaving just the ache behind his eyes; a pressure that spoke its own noise within his head.
If he pressed any harder into his forehead, his skull would’ve cracked in two.
Cynthia noticeably cleared her throat before speaking again. “...the Secretary of State planned to be there, sir.”
Norman made a face as he looked to the intercom system of his phone.
“Ross will have to wait another day for his coveted goodies,” Norman said, flatly. “Connect me to Adler, and tell her its urgent. Thank you, Cynthia.”
There wasn’t a second wasted between his words and disconnecting the phone. Norman picked up the phone as soon as he hit the off button; the growing migraine being the only thing keeping him from slamming it back on its receiver.
It was six minutes and forty-two seconds before his phone rang again, with the caller ID displaying a name that prompted him to answer. Norman knew, all the way down to the millisecond of how much time had passed.
It was time he didn’t have to waste.
The searing burn that spread across his skin never got less painful.
He just got used to it.
“Host organism Symbiote cytoplasm results produce...another failure for organisms protoplasmic material in binding with subject.”
Doctor Frye’s voice barely penetrated through his ears, unheard as the liquid dripping off his hand thundered through the lab. Norman didn’t bother looking as the substance fell off his skin — he’d seen it run down the drain too many times to count.
Symbiote after symbiote.
Wasted.
He kept his eyes clenched shut, even as the voices around him kept on.
“The changes formulated to the cell structure from clinical trials…” Doctor Frye trailed off as he noticeably looked down at his chart, the frazzled appearance of his hair matching the frazzled sound of his voice. Overworked and exhausted. “Uh, trials 10.Z—Z, now, all appear to be unsuccessful.”
Norman clenched his jaw, uncaring as a nearby tech offered him a wet towel — saturated with a cooling gel for his burns; one of the many that littered his body in part of the symbiote trials.
He didn’t accept it.
Eventually, the tech sat it down on the nearest metal tray before walking away.
“This, uh…this is the last formulaic alteration generated via algorithm. There doesn’t appear to be anymore adjustments we can make to the symbiote’s formula,” Doctor Frye stammered into the screen of his tablet, his finger swiping along the device in a hasty, albeit concentrating way.
Eventually though, he came to a stop — with his finger mid-swipe, and his eyes locked on Norman’s.
“This is...this is it, sir. We...we simply can’t get the symbiote to bond without the DNA of the spider. We’ve...we’ve tried.”
The same hand that oozed with burning blisters slowly clenched into a fist. The skin near his wrist was pink and raw, and the black matter that dripped off his fingernails hit the waste drain beneath him with slow, steady drips. Nearly matching the thump of his pulse, throbbing beneath his eyes with a migraine that never ceased to burgeon. There when he woke up, and there when he went to sleep.
Just like the disease he couldn’t outrun.
“I won’t be the one to declare it, but…” Doctor Frye continued on, even as Norman refused to open his eyes. If anything, they clenched tighter together. Threatening to rip apart the aging skin that held his lids intact. “You’ve been at this for weeks. Nonstop. As of late, you’ve been...persistent in the trials. You’ve done all you can.”
The scoff that rose in his chest was scarcely held back by the lump that swelled his throat shut. Norman kept his jaw clenched to keep both emotions inaccessible.
Time wasn’t something he had the luxury of discussing. He been given just weeks to live. That was weeks ago.
Now, each day he bid for his time. For his life. It circled down the drain no differently than the black substance that trickled off the back of his hand.
“We just...we aren’t able to modify the symbiote bio-suit. It requires the mutated markers of that radioactive spider — no different than Oz, they were one in the same.” Doctor Frye cleared his throat. Once more after that, before finally speaking. “I think it’s time to call the Symbiote Project a failure.”
The feeling in his hand went away; his fingers went numb as the burn spread across his skin, and the pressure of his clenched fist stripped his knuckles of any color.
Weeks of trials — months of research — a year since his diagnosis. The word failure had never been uttered until now.
He wouldn’t have allowed it.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Norman didn’t hear the doctor’s apology. For once, though, it wasn’t due to the raging pain that had found permanent occupancy in his head. It wasn’t even in fault to the pain that coursed through his body, a disease beyond his control long since taking his flesh and bone hostage to its corruption.
“Get out,” Norman sneered, the words slipping through the cracks of his teeth — his jaw clenched so tight his molars were at risk of grinding to dust. “Now.”
Only a few footsteps sounded, his eyes clenched too tight to see their departure. It wasn’t enough, not for a lab filled to the brim with scientists. He could still feel the heat of their bodies surrounding him; one body in particular drawing closer, until a hand touched down on his arm.
“Perhaps we can try —”
“I said get out!” Norman shouted — his eyes ripping open, bugling with rage. No sooner did after he throw his arm out, gesturing wildly around him. “All of you! Out! Now!”
He was still yelling when the men and women scampered to the exit, all but pushing one another out of the way to clear the room. Their footsteps were like wild animals running in fear; prey that ran from their predator.
It left just Norman. Standing in the middle of the lab, center to his work. His chest heaving with the exhaustion of his anger — exhaustion of his failure.
And one lone scientist at his side; his hand no longer making contact, but still close enough that he could return the touch if desired.
He didn’t, of course. Norman didn’t need to protest the act of sympathy for him to know better.
“Norman…” Doctor Frye began to say. His voice got lost halfway into saying the man’s name, and he allowed the departure, letting silence take the place of anything he may have spoken.
For a long moment, neither said anything. Norman’s heavy breathing was the only thing to sound between them, with a strikingly noticeable wheeze inside each inhale from his lungs.
Finally, Doctor Frye returned his touch. “How long did Adler give you?”
It wasn’t a question asked with compassion. Barely any condolence laced the otherwise clinical tone of the scientist. And yet something migrated into his voice that Norman noticed. Something that had his jaw twisting to work through clenched muscles keeping his response at bay.
Something akin to pity.
Norman had to clear his throat before he answered.
“The cancer has migrated into every red blood cell of my body,” he said, taking the towel from beside him and smearing the cooling gel across his hand. “Treatments have been ineffective for weeks. Chemo and radiation were never on the table to begin with, not with how aggressively the cells mutate.”
From his peripheral vision, Norman could see Doctor Frye’s eyebrows practically touch the high ceilings of the laboratory.
“You have weeks, then?” he asked, barely stepping aside in time when Norman tossed the wet towel his way. It landed somewhere far off to the side, disregarded as Norman began to head for the exit.
“I had weeks, Doctor Frye.” Norman didn’t give the scientist so much a second glance on his way out. Each pounding step of his retreat bounced off the sleek floors with an echo that reached all four corners of the room, speaking the anger that he kept tightly concealed.
The glass doors had just slid open when a voice stopped him cold in his tracks.
“We restructured the formula.”
Norman froze, lingering for so long that the doors slid shut once more. Though he didn’t turn around, he did cock his head ever-so-slightly to the side. Giving his ear a better chance at hearing the man speak.
Doctor Frye took timid steps forward as he re-approached Norman.
“Doctor Murphy and I. We...we went back to formula,” he explained — cautiously. As if each word he spoke was a threat to his well being. “We stripped the Oz serum of its need for the spider DNA — completely restructured it without Arachnid Number 00.” Doctor Frye swallowed, hard, before saying, “It’s finished.”
A beat.
Followed by two more.
Norman turned around, twisting at his hip and spinning on the balls of his feet. His eyes found Doctor Frye’s and didn’t let up — and yet he didn’t say a word.
The expression on his face said enough.
“Adler didn’t want me telling you.” Doctor Frye stopped walking towards him, suddenly, leaving enough length that it took time for his words to reach Norman.
When they did, Norman wasn’t hesitant on breaking that distance with three large strides.
“Doctor Adler strictly told me that the Oz formula was my last chance,” he reiterated, each line engraved in his face deepening with the same aggression that coated his tone.
For every step he took forward, Doctor Frye took one back.
“She insists…” Doctor Frye stumbled on his own tongue, and tripped over his own feet. “She insists it’s not suitable for trial.”
Norman came to a halt — and just in time. If Doctor Frye had taken any more steps back, he’d have collided with the wall behind him.
For a second that stretched on into many, the only sound between them was the blast of the air conditioning from above. The vents were high up in the ceiling, but low enough that the blast of cold air ruffled the frazzled hair on-top of Doctor Frye’s head.
“This isn’t a trial, Doctor Frye…” Norman started to say. His chin tilted low and his eyes narrowed, staring intently at the man in front of him. “This is my life.”
Doctor Frye’s only response was a swallow that shook his throat. Hard enough to quiver the nodule in the middle.
Norman tilted his head to the side. “You agree with her?”
It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement. A realization.
Doctor Frye didn’t let himself blink, barely taking in a breath of air when it was needed. The tension in the lab only grew without a direct answer to the question.
“The initial trials weren’t...the most promising, sir,” Doctor Frye sounded hesitant to explain, slow to talk, with each word being carefully chosen. “Without using the birth host of Arachnid Number 00, you were beginning to show onset signs of schizophrenia, of – of dissociative identity disorder. Split personalities.”
Norman kept his gaze; his shoulders pulling back tautly and his chest puffing out slightly. Underneath the harsh laboratory lights, the impression of aging skin looked all the more crude.
And a face that normally held little to no emotion suddenly grew thick with building, simmering animus.
Doctor Frye took the moment of silence as permission to continue speaking.
“The formula…” he cleared his throat, multiple times, until coming to terms with the fact that the words would need to be forced out. “The formula, as it stands...could very well come at the cost of your sanity.”
If Norman was the least bit bothered by the disclosure, he didn’t let it show.
“You have the qualitative reports?” he was quick to ask.
Doctor Frye gave one short, sharp nod.
Norman arched an eyebrow. “The tentative analysis?”
Again — one nod, concise.
Norman arched his other eyebrow. “The quantitative data, the conditional studies?”
Doctor Frye hesitated. But nodded, nonetheless.
Norman paused.
“You have the formula.”
Doctor Frye took those final steps back, colliding into the wall behind him and pressing himself there as if it could hide him away. His hands, pocketed deep in his lab coat, dug deeper — any further and his fingers would’ve touched the floor.
“Norman, listen,” Doctor Frye began, forcing his voice to stay firm. “I’m inclined to believe her —”
Norman closed the distance between them. “And yet you taunt a dying man with his means to live.”
The fabric of Doctor Frye’s lab coat pulled tightly as he sunk his hands deep inside the pockets, noticeably clenching the white material on his left side.
Norman immediately shot his head down towards it, eyeing the hand hidden inside the pocket, clenched so tightly into a fist it began to tremble. The longer Norman stared, the more he swore he could see the tight lines around the man’s knuckles, surely the same color as the lab coat he wore.
With his head still low, Norman peered his eyes up.
“You wouldn’t bring the formula here if you didn’t have an inkling of a notion to passing it off,” he stated, the animosity in his tone gone — colored instead with something vivacious in its nature. “Why?”
Doctor Frye didn’t let the change in Norman’s voice have any effect on his expression. But his hand did squeeze tighter, threatening the structure of the lab coat pocket and risking every seam that had been sowed neatly together.
“It’ll do what it’s intended to do,” Doctor Frye evaded a direct response for a more clinical approach. “In all trials, damaged cells were repaired to incredible strength. Mimicking the original super-soldier serum created by Abraham Erskine, almost identical to its properties.”
The excitement in his answer, as slender as it was, didn’t get far with Norman.
“Where’s your hesitations stem from, Frye?”
The question was as tight as the scientists grip inside his pocket.
A second turned into a minute. And for a moment, both men wondered if the conversation had any fuel to keep going. The only thing colder than Norman’s stare was the A.C that blasted from above.
Doctor Frye’s minuscule hope that the topic would be dropped was destroyed with the time that passed — and the growing expression on Norman’s face. Morphing his otherwise detached, emotionless, controlled features into something completely unrecognizable.
Desperation.
“Your cells are beyond mutation from the cancer, sir,” he tried to explain. Norman’s stare didn’t let up, and he looked elsewhere in an attempt to get away from the choleric gaze. “It could repair them. Or it could…”
Doctor Frye didn’t just swallow — he gulped.
Norman grounded his teeth, accompanied by two more steps forward. Easily, and seamlessly, breaching any personal space the doctor may have had.
“I’m listening.”
There was an unspoken behind his words. Doctor Frye had been working alongside him long enough to hear what he didn’t outright say. It wasn’t just that his ears were willing to take on the information. It was that he demanded to be told.
And if there was one thing they knew about the man — all of them. From the scientists down to the janitorial staff — it was that when Norman Osborn wanted something, he got his way.
“Rats with cancer used in the clinical trials turned into...into mutated creatures.” Doctor Frye returned his gaze to Norman, and locked on hard. “They turned into beasts.”
If it were at all possible, Doctor Frye’s emphasis on his final word took over even the blast of A.C from the ceiling vents. It was the only word he spoke that had any firmness to it, steady and stiff with every syllable that crossed his lips.
There was just barely a flicker of uncertainty that crossed Norman’s face. Gone no sooner than it passed by.
“You’re telling me…” he slowly started, a frown deepening the line between his brows. “That your hesitation for...for possibly the cure to any mortal illness,” Norman let that linger for a second, “all has roots in a few sick rats and an overly cautious oncologist?”
A grimace pulled harshly at Doctor Frye’s mouth, twisting his lips into a mess that couldn’t be undone. There wasn’t any space for him to get away from Norman, not with him inches to where the man stood. He could smell the cologne on him no different than the smell of lidocaine gel coating the burns on his hand.
“Adler’s right,” Doctor Frye insisted. “Between the initial signs of schizophrenia shown before your cancer progressed, and what the trials showed us with cancerous rats and their mutated cells turning them into...into…”
Doctor Frye shook his head — just once, but hard enough to rattle his vision.
“It could do the exact same to you.”
The cold air from above poured down on them both in heavy drafts, but it did nothing to take the hot air away from the breath that parted through Norman’s lips. Each puff struck directly against Doctor Frye’s face; the moisture it left behind was just added to the dampness of sweat that started to layer ontop of his skin.
Norman paid it no mind. His eyes fixated staunchly on the arm that Doctor Frye pocketed away — and the clenched fist concealed inside the pocket.
“My life is not in your hands, doctor.” Norman outstretched his arm, open palmed — ready to take what was given to him. “It’s in my own.”
The air conditioning from above shut off, leaving the laboratory to bathe in utter silence.
Slowly, Doctor Frye unclenched his fist.
The fireplace crackled with flames that nearly reached high up to the mantel, kept restrained only by the steel screen in front of him. Wooden logs simmered underneath the embers that twirled in the air, lambent with each orange glow pouring off the burning wood.
The smell of soot filled the living room. Norman could scarcely hear each wheeze tethered to his every inhale, breathing in the ash and kindling with such a close proximity to the bed of tinder.
The screen kept the embers from reaching him, but he leaned over far enough that their flickering flare reflected back in his eyes. A bright, blazing yellow of fire painted over his deep blue irises. Coating his eyes with the flames of green.
Narrowing those eyes, Norman leaned forward — further forward, until his back hunched over and his elbows left dents against his thighs. Slowly, he tracked the movements of a small dot that crossed the length of the steel screen, weaving in and out through the intricate design of the metal.
If Norman hadn’t been watching, he would have never seen it to begin with. Too small to notice, too insignificant to bother with. The size of his pinky finger, at best. And yet it made fast movements traveling up the fireplace, the heat from behind the screen failing to hinder its speed.
He watched, studiously, as the eight legged creature crawled its way up the fireplace mantel. Against the snow white paint, its black figure was all the more discernible. Norman didn’t realize he was leaning even further forward until he saw two of the many eyes on its head; little black dots that stared right back at him.
A wooden log split into two and Norman’s sneer was concealed under the sound.
Reaching inside his blazer, he searched for his breast pocket until his hand slipped inside and his fingers latched a grip. Keeping his movements slow as he withdrew his arm, he clenched the item tightly in-between his fingers and thumb. Retrieving it from where it’d been concealed.
Norman took the vial and slowly, diligently, set it on top of the spider. Only once there did he press down hard, twisting and spinning the glass jar until the bug was smashed into a messy, crushed paste.
The green glow of the vial was all the sharper when lit to life by the flames. Catching light from the fireplace and staining his fingers with a deep, septic emerald.
“Dad?” The voice came from the hallway. “You in here?”
Norman barely peered his eyes over his shoulder, not even twitching the muscles in his neck to look at the entry way. Only once the footsteps drew closer did he lean back in his chair, bringing the green vial with him and pocketing it back inside his suit jacket.
“Hey...” Harry quietly greeted, his voice almost swallowed whole by the sizzling of the fireplace. “You wanted to see me?”
Though the entrance was behind him, Norman didn’t twist around to see who stood at the doorway. He kept his eyes ahead, watching with no intent as the fire crackled and sizzled inside.
“Take a seat, Harrison.”
The Portuguese rug muted every step Harry took inside the living room, keeping his presence discrete until he found a spot on the sofa across from the wingback chair Norman sat in. There was enough space between them that the small lamp — the only lamp lit in the room — barely gave sight to one another. The fireplace illuminated what the desk lamp didn’t.
“Is everything...okay?” Harry sat down slowly on the sofa, sitting closely to the very edge. His palms pressed firmly against the cushions, as if he were ready to bolt and run at a moments notice.
Norman didn’t pay it any attention. His hand was still in his blazer pocket when he spoke; his fingers still grazing the object hidden away.
“I’m going to need you to put a halt on your internship with OsCorp. And any other further activities on your agenda — indefinitely,” Norman told him, his tone strictly unvarying along each word he spoke. He worked his jaw before continuing. “We’re going to restructure your schedule, focus on getting you into a fast course for your GED. I want you graduated by next semester.”
Harry tipped forward on the sofa — what little space there was without the risk of falling on the floor. His eyebrows furrowed tight enough together that they practically became one.
“I...I don’t understand.” Harry gave his father room to explain. It didn’t take long to realize there were no plans to do so. “Why would you — I’m excelling in the marketing department, why pull me out —?”
“Spencer Smythe will be your guidance counselor on everything. I’ve already had Cynthia program his number to your contacts and arrange a one-on-one for Monday. You’ll report to him from here on out,” Norman interrupted, all while removing his empty hand from inside his blazer. He smoothed out the wrinkles before setting both hands in his lap. “He’s a smart man. Been running on the board of directors with OsCorp for decades. Utilize him as a mentor, and he’ll get you far.”
No later did he finish speaking and a wooden log split in two, sending a harsh cluster of smoldering chars to burst against the fireplace screen.
Harry’s palms pressed harder against the sofa cushions, right until he could feel the metal springs from beneath the padding.
“Dad…” he started, drawing in a shallow breath that barely lifted his chest. “What’s going on?”
The same hand that had been inside his suit pocket ran over his mouth, and Norman lowered his head to the floor; his eyes locked intently on the shine to his high-end loafers. He kept his gaze there, even as he spoke.
“The disease has progressed worse than I initially let on.” Norman cleared his throat, leaning back until the plush material of the wingback chair pressed into his shoulders. He let his head rest on the cushion, and didn’t look anywhere but straight ahead.
“You said you were in remission,” Harry tried saying — his voice choked somewhere in the middle.
Norman simply nodded.
“And I was.”
It was a feat Harry heard his father speak at all. His voice was quiet to begin with, and swallowed by the flames of the fireplace. Those same flames highlighted the lines on his face more than any other light in the room.
Harry noticed as much, his eyes fixed on Norman without so much a flicker breaking his stare.
“And now?” Harry’s question came with a tight furrow of his brows; aging him from the sixteen-year-old teenager he was into something far more troubled.
If Norman happened to notice, it was one of the many things he failed to pay attention to.
“It’s beyond remission,” he stated, followed by a deep breath in. He exhaled on his words. “It’s in my blood.”
“What...what do the doctors say?” Harry was practically off the couch at this point.
The only thing that cracked more than Harry’s voice was the fireplace in front of Norman. He sat close enough that the toes of his loafers were just inches from the steel screen; and as he went to cross one leg over the other, those same leather toes tapped against the metal gate in a way that briefly sounded over the fire.
“If Smythe says you’re doing well in the fast course classes, we’ll be making an official press release statement with OsCorp by December,” Norman went on to say. “All goes well and he can have you ready for successorship by spring.”
Harry shot up from the couch.
“Dad!” he yelled, the animosity in his tone stolen by the emotion he couldn’t bottle away. “I don’t get a shit about OsCorp! What the fuck is going on!?”
Harry’s shout bounced off the walls of the living room, the many objects and décor around them failing to stifle the sound.
The sudden noise didn’t startle Norman. His eyes clenched shut, but the line that formed between his forehead displayed aggravation opposed to distress. A single finger pressed firmly against his temple, pushing against his skin until color returned to his otherwise pale features.
“You’re a smart boy, Harrison,” Norman murmured. “Feel free to put the two and two together.”
It grew quiet. Even the flames of the fireplace began to die down, the wooden logs stacked inside simmering with a lingering heat; flames that licked steadily at each log.
The distance split between Harry and Norman was great enough that the shadows of the room stole sight of their expressions — though Harry wouldn’t be able to say for sure if his father even had an expression to be distinguished. He stared on at the fireplace without a bother to the conversation at play; even as Harry scoffed and turned away, even as he pulled at the crown of his head and tugged relentlessly on his hair, Norman’s expression remained neutral.
Harry wasn’t sure how much time passed before he spoke again. All he knew was that the fireplace had calmed down — in much need of more kindling — and his pulse had placated to something that no longer endangered the bones of his ribcage.
“So that’s...that’s it, then?” Harry finally managed, turning fast on his heels to face Norman. The man still didn’t look at him. “You’re going to die, just like mom. Only your concern is whoever takes over this stupid fucking company of yours and not the fact I’ll be left an orphan —”
Norman’s lips pressed thin. “Harrison —”
“Screw you, dad,” Harry spit out. His arm gestured wildly at nothing, and everything at the same time. “I never wanted your company, I never wanted this life. Mom never wanted this life.”
Norman’s head shot over to Harry faster than either of their eyes could keep up with. The blur for Norman stemmed from the speed of whiplash; the blur for Harry, the liquid that pooled in his eyes.
With a hard sniff, Norman stood from the wingback chair, using the armrest to steady himself upon standing on his feet.
“You don’t have the privilege of saying what your mother did, or did not want. Speak ill of her name again, and I promise that you will regret it.” Norman tilted his chin low, until his eyebrows caught the shadows of the room and hid his eyes from the flames of the fireplace. “It’s far past time for you to grow up, Harrison, and realize that as adults — we don’t always get what we want.”
It was hard to tell who clenched their jaw harder — Norman, with the anger that grounded his teeth harshly against one another. Or Harry, who fought to control the quiver of his chin with the tight clamp to his mouth.
A single blink spilt the brimming tears in his eyes. Harry managed to brush away the liquid before it could get past his cheekbones, swiping frantically at his eyes until his skin was dry, and his composure had returned.
“I just wanted a dad,” Harry forced out, giving Norman a hard once-over with a grimace that followed. “Instead I got...I got a boss.”
A few knocks on the front door sounded all the way into the living room, each beat firm in its tap but short in its repetition — three or four, but neither Harry or Norman listened closely after the first two.
The crackles from the fireplace died down until the fire inside was more red than orange, and barely anything more than embers that didn't need taken care of. Norman walked away from it, already passing Harry as he made his way out of the living room.
“Do as your told, Harrison,” he all but muttered, stripping his suit jacket and laying it over his forearm as he departed for his bedroom down the hall. “And please, tell your guests to return at another time.”
Harry didn’t have much say in the matter. At the same time one door opened, so did another. Both could be heard simultaneously — though only one closed shut. The sound echoed from down the hall, and Harry knew immediately it belonged his father’s bedroom.
He stayed standing in the living room, blinking furiously to rid the liquid in his eyes, burning as hot as the ebbing fireplace. It wasn’t until a voice sounded from far away that he finally unrooted his feet.
“Harry?” It came from the foyer. “You, uh...you around?”
Harry cleared his throat as he scampered into the hallway, following the echo of a voice to the entryway of the house — and coming to a sudden halt when seeing who stood in the foyer.
“Pete?” Harry furrowed his brows, looking behind him before looking back to Peter. And then after that, unpocketing his phone and swiping across the screen. His fingers moved faster than his trembling hand could keep up with. “Did — did I invite you over? I must’ve forgot —”
“No, no, you didn’t —” Peter stammered right over-top Harry, his hand still gripping the doorknob of the large foyer door, still partially open from his entrance inside the house. “You didn’t invite me, I’m sorry, I — I know I shouldn’t have just shown up here. It was rude, I —”
“Where the hell have you been?” Harry’s question came as abruptly as Peter’s presence. His expression twisted his face up tight, both shock and confusion lacing his every feature. “You went, like...MIA for almost three weeks, dude.”
Slowly — and nervously — Peter closed the front door behind him, putting in every effort to ensure it didn’t make any noise when clicking shut. He kept his eyes on Harry the entire time.
“I know, I —”
“Nobody heard from you,” Harry didn’t hesitate to trample over him. “Not even Ned knew where you were at.” While Harry took a few steps further into the foyer, Peter stayed close to the door. His hand stayed the doorknob, even with the door closed shut. “I was worried, man.”
A soft crack sounded from the doorknob, just as Peter hastily withdrew his grip — letting go as if it’d caught on fire.
While Harry almost swore the brass knob had a fracture to it that didn’t exist a minute prior, it was also too dim in the entryway to get a good look. Only the hallway lights from behind Harry lit the space between them, with the porch lights from outside shining through the sidelights of the front door.
“I, uh…” Peter tried to get his voice working. It was nearly as quiet as the house he entered — no idle television playing, no people talking. A few pop and crackles could be heard far away, sounding from a fireplace that had little timber left to stay alive. Even that was quiet. “I was sick. And I, uh...I couldn’t really talk to anyone.”
Harry opened his mouth to say something, only for his eyes to catch the sidelight window next to the door. He was walking to the glass no sooner than it grabbed his attention.
“Holy hell…” Harry breathed out, pressing one palm against the glass of the sidelight as he looked out into the driveway. “That’s some rig out there.”
Peter shot his head around, looking out the other sidelight opposite of Harry. The windows were crystal clear with a few wavy designs etched into the glass, but beneath the patterns he could see clear as day the bright orange Audi parked right outside. The headlights were on low beams, giving enough light to the front yard and surrounding area. And unfortunately, bringing it to attention.
“Yeah, it is — can we…” Peter turned away from the window, facing Harry head on. “Can we talk?”
Harry wasn’t as eager to look away.
“Is that Wanda’s car?” he asked, so close to the window that his nose was practically up against the glass. “Jesus, that’s one hell of a ride!”
Peter rubbed at the back of his neck with enough force to change the color of his skin. Any harder and he’d disconnect his head from his shoulders.
“Uh, no, it’s not — it’s not Wanda, she didn’t drive me here.” Peter swallowed, hard. “Someone else did.”
Suddenly, Harry looked away from the window. He arched an eyebrow at Peter — arched it high.
“Someone else?” he echoed.
Peter nodded, each bounce of his head somehow more nervous than the last. The way Harry was looking at him didn’t make things any easier.
“I won’t stay long, I promise. We, uh…” Peter gestured his head in the direction of the front door. “We just flew back and, uhm...we gotta get home.”
The lack of any background noise made the silence between them all the more cutting. Harry pulled away from the glass sidelight, his hand dropping to his side and his eyebrows dancing in a bunch before settling on a deep furrow.
“Flew back…” Harry repeated. He tried to aim for a smirk, but failed halfway there. “What, you go to Paris again?”
Maybe it was the way Harry’s voice sounded, maybe it was the way he looked — like something was off, like something was just...wrong.
Whatever it was, Peter noticed it.
“Are you okay, Harry?”
The foyer wasn’t lit, and the hallway lights came from far away — closer to the living room than they were to the entryway. But Peter didn’t need anything more than the porch lights from outside to see the liquid in Harry’s eyes, or the red cracks that fissured along the way.
Despite it, Harry forced a smile.
“Yeah, uh — yeah, I’m fine,” he curtly responded, pointing a thumb over his shoulder as he did. “Listen, pal, my dad’s home and he doesn’t want anyone here —”
“I’m leaving,” Peter hastily interrupted. So quick that Harry threw him a look, a little surprised and a little shocked at the very sudden answer. “I’m leaving, I promise. I won’t stay.”
For someone who randomly appeared at his doorstep in the middle of the night, Peter sounded and looked like he wanted to hightail it out of there faster than the fancy car outside could drive him away.
Harry titled his head to the side, not bothering to hide his confusion. “You could’ve just texted me.”
Peter nodded.
“I know.” And then he shook his head. “I didn’t want to say this over text.”
Peter fell quiet. Whatever he wanted to say didn’t make its way out of his mouth, and his lips sealed tight enough that they practically became nonexistent on his face.
Harry frowned as the silence stretched on.
“Say…what?” he drawled out, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. He tucked his hands inside both his khaki pockets, slumping his shoulders inward and making him seem far shorter than the six-foot tall boy he’d grown to be.
“Something's come up and...uh, I can’t, uhm…” The way Peter swallowed, again and again, shook his throat more than once. Each gulp was harder than the last, his mouth visibly running dry with each attempt he made to speak. “I don't really know how to — there's this thing — I...can't really explain it. But, uh...I can’t keep...I can't be friends with you, right now...Harry.”
Harry blinked. And then again, his eyes displaying each cog in his head; making attempts at processing the information thrown his way. There was no sign of recognition anywhere to be found.
“You can’t?” he echoed, quickly folding his arms over his chest and squeezing himself tight. “Okay…wanna...tell me why?”
The silence between them had a sound to it — a ring, distant and faint, barely punctured by the dwindling fireplace down the hallway. Even the light wind that blew through the surrounding trees outside failed to be heard; the rustle of leaves hitting the windows drowned out by the shrill buzz of their building tension.
“If this is about…” Harry finally spoke up, though his voice had grown far smaller than before. “You know, me ghosting you a few years ago —”
“It’s not,” Peter insisted, the furrow of his brows deepening with each shake of his head. “I promise, it’s not.”
“I mean, I get it,” Harry kept talking despite what Peter said. “I bailed on you after Ben died —”
“Harry, I swear,” Peter’s voice cracked a bit towards the end. They both noticed. “It’s not. It’s not about that. It’s just…”
There was the ring again. Somehow sharper than before. Louder, at that.
Harry noticeably bit his lower lip. “What, then?”
No amount of practice in the last few years had bettered Peter’s lying skills. It should’ve—good lord it should’ve. But when Peter Parker told a lie, not even the most oblivious moron would buy it. He knew it, Harry knew it — a lie on his face showed like the lights in Times Square. The whole world could see it.
So when Peter kept his mouth shut — lips sealed and jaw clenched tight — they both knew it was to shelf a lie that neither of them would entertain as the truth.
A look of disappointment crossed Harry’s face. It was the most torn he’d ever seen the guy — the same friend he had back in kindergarten through eighth grade, the same friend who slept over at May’s for weeks after his parents had died. His friendship with Harry was a huge part of his childhood. Omitting the truth felt like disrespecting that part of his life.
Peter knew it was disrespecting Harry.
He really needed to get better at lying.
“I wish I could tell you.” Peter took a breath in. It trembled on the way out. “But I can’t.”
The look of disappointment on Harry’s face quickly morphed into something else, skewing his features into something far more indignant.
“I get it.” Harry nodded, his lips pressing thin. “I mean, I can tell Ned doesn’t like me anymore — he doesn’t hide it. And if you feel the same way—”
“I don’t, Harry,” Peter was trying. Damn it, he was really trying. “It’s not like that, I swear, it’s just…”
It always ended there. The truth sat right on the tip of his tongue, and yet each time he opened his mouth, the words never came out. He wanted them to, Peter wanted nothing more than to word-vomit everything and anything and then some.
Unfortunately, he just knew better.
The apology on his face did nothing to mollify Harry.
“Then why are you at my dads place, at —” Quickly, Harry reached into his pocket, whipping out his phone and swiping at the screen. “At nine thirty-six at night, telling me — telling me to my face — that you don’t want to be my friend? For no reason, other than because. Why, Pete? What the hell did I do to you — that's the least you could tell me.”
The anger in his tone was undeniable, even with the tremble that shook each word.
The ringing between them persisted, and yet somehow, Peter’s silence was the loudest thing they’d heard so far.
As Harry gripped his phone, Peter gripped the doorknob. Slowly, but surely, twisting it open.
“You’re a really good guy, Harry,” Peter said, almost too quiet to be heard over the opening of the front door. It made a small creak as he pulled on it. “I hope you’re able to get into environmental law. Like you want.”
Peter turned away, stepping one foot out the door just as a strong breeze of autumn wind struck against his face. At the same time, Harry let out a scoff; louder than any noise between them so far.
“That’s fine. That’s totally fine, that’s just —” Harry gestured wildly to Peter, all as he walked backward down the hall — nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. “Just go ahead and leave me. Everyone else in my life has, what’s the fucking difference if one more person does.”
The doorknob audibly cracked. Peter didn’t let go this time, not as Harry’s pounding steps down the hall concealed the noise.
“Harry…” Peter turned around, just slightly — twisting his head but keeping his feet in place. It was enough to give Harry pause. "Please...just...don’t get caught up in whatever your dad’s doing. You don’t...you don’t have to be like him.”
With the front door open, the noise of chirping crickets replaced any ringing that once delineated their silence. The wind picked up, the chill nights air wafting through into the house and rustling the jacket Peter wore.
He swore, though, that his own breath — shaking and heavy on each inhale — was louder than the wind.
Harry shook his head as he let his feet guide him backward down the hall.
“Enjoy your ride in that rig, Pete,” he forced out, his voice hardening at the end. “And...enjoy your life, too, I guess. See you never.”
The hallway was too dark to see Harry’s departure beyond the foyer. His footsteps dwindled away bit by bit, until not even that could be heard over the chirping crickets.
“I’m sorry, Harry,” Peter whispered.
Harry was already gone by the time he spoke.
Peter made sure to close the door as quietly as possible on his way out.
For every part of him that wanted to leave the Osborn’s place faster than he could free fall down from the Empire State Building, there was an equal part of him that hated closing the front door. Peter stood with his back flushed against it for an amount of time that he lost track of.
Something about leaving Harry on those terms didn’t feel right.
Something about all of that encounter didn’t feel right.
Peter didn’t know how to feel about that.
With a sigh that dropped his shoulders down to his feet, Peter made his way to the parked Audi, careful not to drag his sneakers through the wet dirt on the ground. The smell of rain from earlier in the day was still fresh against the front yard — Peter remembered May telling him it stormed heavy over the last few days, and the saturated ground was testament to her story.
“We’re doing a strip search on you when we get back to the compound.”
The open windows of the sports car allowed him to hear Tony’s voice long before even approaching the vehicle.
“He wasn’t there,” Peter relaid, straight-faced and serious as he reached for the handle of the passenger door. “I only talked to Harry, I stayed by the front door. I didn’t touch anything or anyone — just like I promised. I swear. No Mr. Osborn.”
Tony craned his head over to look at him, with his one hand resting lazily on the steering wheel.
“Still doing the strip search.”
Peter rolled his eyes as he opened the passenger door. “You’re so extra, Mr. Stark.”
The dingdingding briefly sounded from the car as Peter slid inside, muted enough in its noise that neither were particularly bothered by it.
“You good, kid?” Tony’s voice was quiet as Peter sat down in the passenger side, careful to knock his shoes against the edge of the car before settling in. It was out of habit — Mr. Stark’s cars were pretty crazy.
And expensive.
And far, far from the Rolls Royce Happy drove, or the rented Honda Civics Tony would use to avoid unwanted attention when he took Peter anywhere.
Luckily for them both, it was the middle of the night in what Tony referred to as ‘bum-fuck nowhere New York.’ Osborn’s boonies house didn’t have so much as a gas station in a ten mile radius. Attention didn’t come for them, but the mud sticking to Peter’s tennis shoes sure did.
He bent down to brush the loose leaves away from the very expensive floor-mats.
“Yeah, I’m…” Peter trailed off, pulling the door shut and bringing down the seat-belt until the buckle made a click in place. “I’m okay.”
With the door closed, the interior lights of the car dimmed until they shut off completely, and the hushed yet audible dinging of the seat-belt reminder came to a stop as Peter got the buckle latched in place. It left things quiet — the engine may as well have not existed with how subdued it was, and for once Mr. Stark didn’t have any music playing.
The LEDs of the dashboard display lit up Tony’s face as he turned to look at Peter.
“How many times am I supposed to let that one pass?” he asked, an arched eyebrow speaking what he didn’t.
Peter held back a sigh, looking out the passenger side window with a crease noticeably deepening the lines on his forehead. Trees blocked the view of the Osborn’s home, keeping him from seeing anything outside of a few lights cutting through the foliage of the driveway. But didn’t matter that he couldn’t see the house in full view. He knew full well what was inside.
Harry and him may not have been friends for a while, but they were — at one point. Close friends. Peter absolutely hated the thought of leaving somebody who looked like they needed help. Any help, of any kind. And Harry gave him off that impression that Peter couldn’t seem to shake.
Turning away from the window, Peter saw Tony looking at him — really looking at him, the blue LEDs of the dashboard highlighting every stress line etched across his face. The concern that painted his expression didn’t go unnoticed.
It sucked leaving Harry like that. But it sucked even more making Mr. Stark worry the way he was.
“I’m good,” Peter insisted, a nod following suit. “Really, I’ll be okay.”
There was enough truth to his words that Peter didn’t feel like he was lying. He was being honest, after all. As much as he wanted to rebuild a friendship with Harry, Mr. Stark was right — the Avengers were right.
It was too dangerous.
He did what he had to do.
Didn’t mean it didn’t suck, though.
Tony’s eyebrow twitched, just by a centimeter; the smallest movement saying hundreds of words without vocalizing any of them. A look of disbelief and doubt.
Peter let himself relax, his smile warming at the edges.
“Pinky promise?” Peter outstretched his arm, every finger but his pinky curled into his palm, the smallest digit offered Tony’s way without hesitation. “It’s law binding, you know.”
Though Tony didn’t lose his expression of leeriness, like Peter, it softened at the edges. He rolled his eyes hard enough to join the wet leaves on the floor-mats of the car.
Yet even with the eye-roll, Tony offered Peter his pinky finger, clasping it in a firm hold until Peter’s smile became a bit more genuine. Only then did he return his hands to the steering wheel.
“Come on,” Tony said, one hand shifting the car into gear as the other flipped on the high-beams to the headlights. “Let’s head back upstate. Pick up some Szechuan Bean Curd on the way, what do you say?”
Peter watched as they drove past lines of trees hiding the equally-as-expensive home behind them. The headlights of the car flooded the driveway with bright lights, and the sound of gravel could be heard in the absence of any music that normally played through the stereo.
The way the wheels rolled over pebbles and stones could’ve been mini rocket explosions — the quiet felt weird, but welcomed. Comfortable.
“Actually…” Peter started to say, breaking away from the window to look at Tony. “Can we...can we make a stop, first?” He swallowed, hard. “It’s a little out of the way, but —”
“Say no more.” Tony was already gesturing to the in-dash navigation system.
The GPS stared back at him and for a moment, Peter hesitated — his finger halfway to the touch screen and lingering in midair. It wasn’t until they cleared the Osborn’s driveway that he inputted the address.
It had been a while, but he still remembered it like the back of his hand.
The drive there stayed quiet. Tony answered the occasional text, Peter did the same — but they didn’t really speak. Neither felt they needed to, both comfortable in the silence between them. It was one of the few times Peter didn’t feel the need to talk incessantly. And if Tony noticed, he kept his comments to himself.
Before Peter knew it, the car was pulling up into Cedar Grove Cemetery. The headlights beamed across the lines of tombstones that laid across the land, and Tony drove at a slow speed until the road ran out, pulling off to the side and wordlessly placing the car in park.
It stayed quiet, then, too.
Eventually, Tony shut off the engine.
“You want me to hang back?” he asked, softly — his voice low enough that it didn’t disrupt the layer of silence held over them.
Peter was still looking out the passenger side window when he shook his head.
Despite it being Queens, and despite them being in the city that never slept, the cemetery was as quiet as their drive over. The loudest noise came from the wind, a sharp whistle bringing a flurry of leaves down from the trees encompassing the graveyard.
A few fell on Tony’s shoulders during the walk there, as well as Peter’s. As Tony went to brush the orange and yellow leaves off his jacket, Peter failed to do the same. Some even landed in his hair at one point — he made no moves to rid himself of them.
It was a short walk, not too far from where the car was parked. Peter knew exactly how many headstones to count before they got there.
There was Eugene White, Vivian Allen, Gloria Moran —
The trees crunched slightly under both their weight. The time spent in Wakanda had separated Peter from the changing seasons; he last remembered summer coming to a close, with the heat still reaching into the near nineties. Fall had arrived a short while ago, and had no problems in making its appearance known.
Peter stuffed his hands deep into his jacket pockets, looking at every gravestone that paved his path.
William Flores, Nora Peterson, Earl Dennis —
A strong breeze tore through the cemetery, blowing Peter’s hair back just as they came to a stop up ahead. The leaves circled at his feet, his shoes rooting in the ground no different than the trees surrounding them.
“Hey, Uncle Ben.”
The night sky, as dark as it was, didn’t steal away the sight of the name in front of him. It’d been etched into stone and looked no different than Peter last remembered. He leaned over, brushing the dirt and tree branches off the top, and clearing any scattered dust away from the front.
With his hand already there, Peter’s fingers traced over the name. His nail pressed hard into the stone as it ran the length of the B, staining his skin with dirt along the way.
Suddenly uncaring to the storms that had come and gone before he’d ever arrived back in New York, Peter slowly sat down to the ground, crossing and folding his legs underneath him. The mud was damp on his jeans, but he didn’t care.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Peter’s voice was nearly a whisper. He laid his hands down in his lap, his fingers noticeably tapping against the inside of his palm. “Been thinking about you...a lot...lately.”
A somewhat muted shuffle sounded from behind him. Peter could see through his peripheral as Tony leaned casually against a gravestone not far away — Jeremiah Campbell, if Peter remembered correctly.
He stayed quiet, and Peter stayed looking ahead. Ben’s headstone hadn’t changed in years, but in his defense, the last few months had felt like decades. Peter took it in as if it were the first time seeing it.
“Didn’t even think I was thinking about you,” he still whispered, his voice no louder than the wind — perhaps even quieter. “I miss you.”
Peter looked down at his hands, watching as his fingers tapped nervously at the squishy flesh of his palms. He couldn’t even remember the last time he came to visit Ben. It was a thought that disturbed him almost as much as everything else had lately.
Things in his life had gotten so...hectic. So out of his control. There was a time, way back when he first started patrolling, where he’d visit Ben every night. That turned into every week. Then every month. Then Peter just…
He didn’t know. He didn’t know what happened.
“I miss fishing.” Peter laughed a little bit, surprised by his own random thoughts. He swiped at his nose with his bent finger, careful not to get any dirt across his face as he did. “I know May didn’t have any use for your boat but...I dunno. I miss it. I had this...this weird dream about it. A few months back.”
A few months back — Peter’s own words echoed in his head like he wasn’t the one to have said them. All of this had just been a few months ago. He sniffed, hard, as he placed his hand back down in his lap.
He remembered waking up with clarity for the first time in the Avengers compound, tucked away safely in the medbay of the large facility; finally able to rest after days of struggles with painkillers hindering his recover. He remembered that dream about fishing with Ben, as vividly as he remembered the things King T’Challa told him about the Ancestral Plane.
Peter still didn’t know what to make of it all. Back then, and especially now.
“Bet the guy who bought it off Craigslist is using it more than you did.” Peter cracked a smile, as small as it was. “No offense.”
A few leaves blew over Ben’s gravestone, too dark to see what color they were and too quick to get a good look anyway.
Peter watched, wordlessly, as the wind picked up. It blew his hair back away from his forehead, showing the lines on his skin that spoke of each traumatic event layering the years of his life.
Feet shuffled quietly — Tony’s feet, not far away. It was the only sound made.
Peter used that noise as a way to cover up the next sniff that hardened his shoulders, his back stiffening straight with the cry he stifled deep down inside.
“I screwed up, Ben,” Peter spoke all in one exhale, his face briefly pinching tight together before he forced the emotion to subside. He sniffed again before speaking. “I shoulda gone to people sooner. I shoulda...shoulda told someone. I didn’t. And people got hurt.”
For the first time since sitting down, Peter looked away from the gravestone. The chained fence not far away caught his attention, where a sidewalk bordered the cemetery and streetlamps lit the way.
He used to have the entire cemetery memorized. Giving a brief glance around, Peter realized that for the most part, he still did. The sixth light post down the sidewalk still had a burnt out bulb. And the chain fence still had a hole on its top right corner, from where a wild animal got stuck and Animal Control had to cut the wires apart to get it out.
That was years ago, but Peter wasn’t all that surprised neither had been fixed yet. It was New York, after all.
There was a time, right after Ben died, where he’d sneak out and visit here. May never knew — or if she did, she’d kept it to herself. And Peter would visit Ben at one, two, sometimes three a.m, talking to his uncle until, eventually, he’d be able to fall asleep.
That felt like ages ago. The cemetery looked the same, but time felt so, so different.
Peter wasn’t sure why, but the thought that he may have somehow forgotten his uncle had his stomach twisting into knots.
“I know what happened... all of what happened…” Peter left the unspoken linger. He didn’t have it in him to clarify all his mistakes — from the robbery that took Ben’s life, to the monster that killed innocent soldiers. He couldn’t get those words out of his throat just yet. “I know that...it’s not my fault. But it...it kinda is. And I…” Peter looked up, forcing his bottom lip to stop quivering before he spoke again. “I keep thinking about what you said. What you told me. These powers are a responsibility and I…”
If Peter let himself speak anything after that, it would’ve been too clouded with tears to be understood. He slammed his lips shut, swallowing until the lump in his throat dislodged. Somehow, each swallow only made it grow larger. Burning against his windpipe with a swelling that barricaded him from speaking again.
Looking back at the gravestone, Peter was surprised to find a shadow covering what little light spread over Ben’s name. Darkening it just enough that if Peter didn’t know what the words were, he’d never be able to make it out.
A soft grunt accompanied Tony as he lowered himself to the ground, the shadow across the tombstone departing as he sat down next to Peter. Unlike Peter, though, he had to force his legs to fold underneath him; a louder grunt following suit as he worked his limbs into a semi-comfortable position.
Peter barely flickered his eyes towards him. He stayed looking ahead, his frown only deepening with the lingering seconds that passed.
“I could’ve stopped those people from dying, Mr. Stark,” Peter managed to say, surprised even those words made it past the emotion in his throat. “If I had just told someone that I was…”
The few weeks spent in Wakanda may have done the others good, but Peter hated how much time it gave him to dwell on things. Things like how many opportunities he had to come clean, how many chances he had at telling the truth.
Everyone who tried to help him got hurt, in some way or another. Ned told him that Principal Morita had only recently returned to work, and it was limited duty at that. The others, healed or not, suffered in ways that caused them pain — caused them injury. Even May, even MJ — he hurt them. Even if it was only with his words.
Just like that night in winter, nearly two years ago now.
“I could’ve stopped Ben from…”
Peter didn’t have it in him to finish that sentence.
Bowing his head, he returned his gaze to his lap, where his fingers had long since stopped tapping against the inside of his palms. They sat idly, no different than he did. Listening as the wind whistled against his ears and the distant honking from city traffic leaked into the suburbs.
Tony cleared his throat before he spoke. “You knew your uncle well?”
Though he didn’t whisper, Peter was surprised at how quiet Tony's voice was. Like a whisper without the hush to it. If Peter had more than a second to think on it, he’d realize that he’d never heard Mr. Stark sound that way before.
It was foreign, but comfortable. No different than the silence that filled their car ride over.
Peter simply nodded.
“Ben was, like...my best friend,” he said. “My dad...they died when I was six. He was always working before that, I was always over at Ben and May’s — my mom and May were like, so close. They’d always take me out shopping with them. There was this one fabric store they’d go to — all the time, it was a drag.” Peter laughed, the corner of his lip tugging upward enough to reveal a weak smile. “But they had these like...lollipops with gum in the middle? Up front, by the registers. Mom would always buy me two. One for shopping, one for the ride home.”
It was a distant memory, covered with the cobwebs of time that passed and faces that lost their detail. Years took his parents faces from him. Peter saw them in the photos, but he could never remember exactly what they looked like.
Staring at the gravestone ahead, Peter realized the same thing was occurring with Ben. The photos were etched into his memory no different than the name etched into stone. But the face was getting blurrier as the days went on.
“And Ben was like…” Peter swallowed. “He was always more like my dad than anything else.”
He didn’t want to forget Ben.
A pause gave Peter just enough time to rub the back of his hand against his eye, using his knuckles to scrub near the bridge of his nose until he felt safe enough to pull away.
“Anyway.” Peter sniffed, hard, uncaring as the sound was heard. “Yeah. I knew him well.”
Forgetting Ben just didn’t seem possible. Peter lived by his words — every day he went out, Spider-Man or not, those words were his guidance. His breath, his mantra. His reason for fighting, for protecting the little guy’s.
So why did he feel like Ben was so far away?
Was it because he stopped visiting? Was it because he’d gotten so busy?
Was he moving on?
“What do you think he would say to you now?” Tony’s question broke through his own questions no harsher than the wind that blew past them. Both sounds were nonabrasive, light and easy even in a place like a cemetery.
Peter gave him a side-eye before looking back to the gravestone with an exaggerated shrug.
“Same thing as you, probably,” he practically mumbled.
Tony tilted his head to the side. “Humor me.”
Peter pursed his lips to the side but dropped the act no sooner than it came on. His tongue ran over his teeth; the moment of silence both giving him time to think, and then the strength he needed to answer.
“He’d say…” Peter took a deep breath in. “He’d say it wasn’t my fault.”
Just like Peter, he wouldn’t clarify which mistake was in question. He’d speak about them all, but not because it was too hard to pin down which one mattered the most — but rather, Ben would make it known that all were out of his control.
Even the robbery.
“And?” Tony pressed.
“I dunno, Mr. Stark.” Peter grew frustrated, his jaw momentarily clamping tight before he had to work it loose. “Probably that...that it wasn’t in my control, or something, or — Mr. Stark, if I had just told you.”
Peter went to drop his head into his hands, only to stop when Tony latched onto his forearm first.
“Hey,” Tony’s voice was stern, and he immediately squeezed Peter’s arm. “Look at me.”
It took a few more hard squeezes for Peter to turn away from the gravestone. It wasn’t just his voice that showed his frustration — so did his expression.
“Peter,” Tony addressed him head-on, tilting his chin low until he caught Peter’s gaze. “It wasn’t you.” Even when Peter fought to look away, Tony found a way to grab his attention again. He didn’t speak unless their eyes were locked. “You were, by all accounts, legally dead.”
Neither of them were surprised when Peter shook his head. “Yeah, but —”
“Kid,” Tony stressed. It was his turn for his voice to waver, just enough for Peter to smother down any rising argument. “I want you to listen to me, and listen to me good — okay?”
Peter didn’t nod. But his eyes spoke the ‘yes’ that stayed in his throat.
Tony briefly looked away — at nothing in particular, his eyes finding the same hole in the chained fence that Peter had noticed before. But Peter could tell it wasn’t the hole left behind from a rabid raccoon that distracted him. His lips moved soundlessly, as if he were talking to himself.
And then he turned back around, the streetlamps from far away not dim enough to highlight the sincerity in his eyes.
“You were...you were under the influence of something, Peter. Something much more powerful than any of us could handle.” Tony squeezed on his arm, this time harder than the last. “Bigger than anything you could control.”
The frustration spread across Peter’s face began to ebb away, just a bit. The crease between his brows softened enough to bring back his young features, washing away the stress that tried relentlessly to weigh him down in all the wrong ways.
With the hand not clasped on Peter’s forearm, Tony reached out for the gravestone, gripping the top and holding it tight.
“And if your uncle was half the man you’re growing up to be, then he was a smart man. And he’d say the same thing.” Tony lowered his chin along with his voice. “He’d tell you that life is all about lessons. We all make mistakes — we learn from them. The lessons we learn aren’t always easy ones, either. But if you keep harping on it, you won’t be able to see the next lesson that’s waiting for you.”
For a moment, Queens traffic outside the cemetery was the only response Tony recieved.
For a moment, Peter almost wanted to mention that what Tony said was exactly what Ben would’ve said.
Instead, he gave a small smile.
“I might need you to tell me that. Every now and again,” Peter said, quietly. At first, unsure if he was heard at all, even with close proximity.
Tony moved his grip off Peter’s forearm and settled it on his shoulder, latching firmly and squeezing hard enough to rock Peter against the wet soil of the ground.
“Take the world off your shoulders, Underoo’s. Nobody can handle that weight.” Tony met his meek, small smile with his own. “Share the burden, we’re here for you.”
Peter was as bad at hiding his emotions as he was at lying. When the slightest look of shame crossed his face, Tony squeezed his grip on his shoulder. Using a strength too weak to top Peter’s, but still holding firm in a way that was always grounding. Keeping Peter anchored before those thoughts could take him away.
“Hey,” Tony started, his face unequivocally honest. “I’m here for you.”
Peter blinked, and then blinked again, staring Tony down for a time that felt far longer than it could’ve been.
That didn’t sound like Mr. Stark.
Not the Mr. Stark he’d had come to know; changing through the months no different than the seasons that changed while they were in Wakanda. It reminded Peter an awful lot of his conversation with Steve, right before they left the country. How he saw a difference in the great Captain America— altering him, changing him. Just like time had changed Mr. Stark.
Peter saw different in the beginning. Time slowly, but surely, brought that on. The Mr. Stark, the one and only Tony Stark. The Iron Man.
Turned mentor. Turned friend.
And now, listening to him speak, using a gentleness Peter had never heard before...time had changed the seasons again. Turning him into something else.
Only once Tony finished speaking did Peter look back to the headstone in front of them. The sight never changed; not as time separated his visits, not with the leaves brushed away, and not even with Tony’s hand covering half of the R that ended Parker.
Peter’s eyes scanned the length of the gravestone, from left to right — making out the name of Benjamin Parker with crystal clear clarity, even in the late of night. And from there, his eyes drifted over Tony’s hand, covering half of the Parker surname before Peter turned his head to face the man directly.
When he realized it, Peter smiled.
“You going to freak out if I call you Tony?” he asked, a little more volume to his voice, with a tug at his lips adding a smile to the touch.
Tony arched an eyebrow, slightly, before warming up to the same smile.
“You get a one time pass,” Tony said, removing his hand from the gravestone to point a finger in the air. “Use it wisely.”
Though Peter hesitated, it didn’t stem from Tony’s false indignance. His smile grew wider at the edges, every pull of his muscles as sincere as the words that followed.
“Thanks, Tony,” Peter said.
Tony smiled back, patting him firmly on the shoulder. “You’re welcome, Mr. Parker.”
The wind blew by, rustling at the trees from above and shaking the branches along the way, dropping leaves in a scattered pattern to the ground below. At the same time, Tony unclenched his grasp on Peter, going to use his shoulder as a foothold when standing up.
“Now come on,” Tony gestured for him to stand as well, happily taking Peter’s arm when the kid offered it for support. He bones were too stiff for sitting that long, let alone in a pretzeled position. “Szechuan Bean Curd wasn’t a suggestion — Pepper’s craving it, and I’ve gotta do my due diligence in keeping the woman happy.”
Peter let out a chuckle as they began their way back to the parked Audi, its bright orange impossible to miss even in the middle of the night.
“I dunno, Mr. Stark,” Peter started to say, wiping the mud off the back of his jeans as they walked side-by-side down the cemetery path. “She didn’t sound too happy about the whole wedding thing.”
“Eh,” Tony waved him off like he’d mentioned forgetting eggs at the store and not something as important as a wedding. An impromptu wedding. Just weeks away. “It’s all about compromise, kid.”
They passed by the many gravestones Peter had come to memorize — Earl Dennis, Nora Peterson, William Flores, Gloria Moran — talking about a wedding that Peter couldn’t believe was happening in just a few weeks. Of all the crazy things that he couldn’t wrap his head around, he was glad at least one good thing was around the corner.
“Yeah, but…” Peter eyed Tony as they approached the car. “She called you a lot of names.”
Tony grinned, ear-to-ear, as he unlocked the Audi. “Yeah, she did.”
Peter grabbed the passenger side door and hesitated.
“She kinda scared me,” he admitted.
Tony’s smile only grew larger as he climbed into the driver’s seat.
“How do you think she got the name Pepper?”