Chapter Text
Peter's life runs on a very regular routine. His dad would say it's because he was raised to be conscientious and responsible; privately, he thinks it's more that he doesn't really have anything else to do. His alarm goes off every morning just after sunrise – his one little concession to himself now that he's living on his own. He pulls on his glasses and goes down the too-wide steps to the too-big kitchen to make coffee (decaf, to his eternal chagrin, his father's warnings about migraine triggers playing in the back of his head) and take his meds. Then it's time for work.
The house in Roland is dwarfed by the Staten Island mansion of Peter's childhood memories, but it's still bigger than any one man needs. Still, his father had insisted, and, well… he had to admit, the sheer size of the personal lab taking up most of the ground floor makes a lot of things pretty worth it. The lab is dominated by his current project, a bulky machine surrounded by a haphazard array of tools and parts that Pete stubbornly refuses to organize because it's his lab, dammit, Dad, it makes sense to him.
Maybe this is why his neighbors avoid him. Weird guy from out of state living alone in a too-big house doing mad science all day who talks to his dad in his head, like, way too much. Could they tell he did that by looking at him? Well, it's not like he has many other people to talk to. See: his neighbors avoiding him. Hell, his dad even has his groceries delivered.
"At least I have you," he says to the plastic potted plant on his lab bench. The plant, being a plant, and not even a real alive one, doesn't respond. That's probably for the best, Peter muses.
So this is how Peter spends his days: alone but for a fake plant in a too-big house in the middle of nowhere, drinking bad coffee and building machines for his dad. Could be worse; he could be doing it in Jersey.
–
The sound of the door opening startles Pete out of his reverie; a glance at his watch reveals he's been working for a good nine hours and forgot to eat lunch. Again. Oops. Oh well. He rolls his chair back from the machine and pushes up his glasses to rub his aching eyes. There's only one person with a key to the house, and he wasn't expecting a visit, but when is he ever? "In here, Dad!"
A shadow blots out the light streaming in from the kitchen, and Peter tips his head back over the back of his chair to see Norman Osborn's imposing figure standing in the doorway, surveying the lab. For a moment, Peter feels like a child again, holding his breath, waiting for his dad's reaction. Then Norman smiles and steps into the lab, and the spell is broken.
"Pete, m'boy," he says, clapping a large hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezing. "It's good to see you. How's progress?"
"Getting there. Still got some kinks to work out, but it'll be ready for the demonstration, for sure."
"That's good to hear. And how about you? How are the migraines? Have you been taking your medication?" Norman takes Pete's chin in one hand and tilts his head back and forth, peering into his face like he could find the answers there.
"Yup." Peter swats his hand away. A look of irritation flits across his dad's face, almost too quick to catch. "Scout's honor. Haven't had one since we started the new meds, Dad, seriously. You worry too much."
Norman visibly relaxes and the corners of his lips quirk up into a smile. "Well. I'm sure you can forgive a man for worrying about the health of his only child. I'm glad the new pills are helping; here, I brought you a refill." He pulls a rattling bottle from his pocket and tosses it into Peter's hands.
Peter catches and cradles it, looking down at the little green capsules. He and his dad had been at their wit's end, trying to find a solution for the sudden onset a few months ago of skull-splitting migraines that seemed to be triggered by just about any and everything. They'd moved him out to Indiana, away from all the stimulus of the city, tried medication after medication until finally Norman had given up and invented his own. Since then, nothing; blessed relief. His dad still insisted on removing anything from the house that might be a trigger, including all electronic screens down to his smartphone. Hence the decaf coffee in the grocery orders. How he manages to be a helicopter parent from several states away boggles the mind, but then Peter guesses anything is possible when you're Norman Osborn.
He tucks the bottle into his pocket. "Y'know, Dad," he begins ever so casually, already bracing himself for a losing battle, "with the new meds, I bet I could move back to New York."
Norman's smile immediately drops into a stormy expression and Peter sighs inwardly. Yeah, he didn't really think that would work. "Peter," his dad says sternly, "you know that's not a good idea. The city simply has too many potential triggers. We don't want any backsliding, do we?"
"No, Dad," Peter sighs. "I just don't want to live out here in the middle of nowhere forever. I haven't had a half-decent bagel or slice of pizza in months." Also, everyone here hates me, he adds silently. At least in New York, that's how you know you belong. It's almost comforting.
As quickly as it disappeared, Norman's smile returns. He squeezes Peter's shoulder again. "Of course. And I promise, Peter, this isn't permanent." His smile widens. "In fact, how about a compromise. When the project is done, you can come to the city for the demonstration. As a test run."
Peter jolts up in his chair. That's a big concession; bigger than he'd dared hope for. "Seriously?" he asks, half-expecting his dad to change his mind.
"Yes, seriously," Norman says. "Now, if you're done for the night…"
Peter jumps up out of his chair. Right; Norman being in town means– "Movie night! Yeah, let's go."
Norman steps aside and sweeps an arm out towards the door. "By all means, son," he says, amusement laced through his voice, "lead the way."
Okay, so, another reason his neighbors probably think he's weird: the empty house next door that his rich dad bought just to stay in when he visited. Still, at least it's an excuse to go somewhere other than his own place. There's food already prepared when Norman lets them in, better than Peter can make for himself, and then it's into the designated, specifically designed movie room.
Peter doesn't fully understand how his dad's migraine-proof movie system works; according to his dad, the combination of projector lens and specialized glasses filter out certain offending wavelengths of light. When Pete had dubiously asked to see the schematics, Norman had needled him about not trusting his old man. Which really isn't it at all, but Peter has long since learned that if his dad doesn't want to tell him something, he's not going to get it out of him. And, since this is the only time since the migraines started that he gets any entertainment that doesn’t come out of a book, he's not about to push it. For all he knows, it's just a regular projector that his dad thinks is special, and the medicine is working. Either way, that gift horse can keep its mouth firmly closed, thanks.
"I don't know why you're so excited, son," Norman says as he watches Peter settle in, smirking. "You know you're just going to fall asleep in the middle again."
"That's what you think, Dad," Peter says. "Not this time. All the way through. You'll see."
"I suppose I will," his father says, and flicks the switch to make the room pitch dark. And then the lights turn on.
–
His head feels like it's splitting apart. His mind feels syrupy and slow, and he almost imagines he can hear his brain sloshing around between his ears. Where is he? What's happening to him? Who is he? He can't remember. He tries to grasp his thoughts but they melt away. Burn away, in the light. There's something important he's forgetting. Something he should know, but he can't–
He tries to move and can't. With an impossible effort, he manages to turn his head and sees a shape in the darkness to his right, holding him down against his chair with an iron grip across his chest. He heaves against it, barely gaining an inch before being shoved back. The shape looms closer and the face slowly swims into view. Something clicks in his head.
"Osborn," he gasps, straining against his grip.
"Nuh-uhuh, Petey-boy," Osborn says with a wide, manic grin, clicking his tongue. "Eyes front or you'll miss the most important part."
Strong fingers grab hold of his chin and force him to look directly into the light again. He can feel himself slipping away. He–he has to do something. With a heroic effort, he summons what dregs of strength he can find in his rapidly weakening limbs and lashes out. He feels himself connect and hears a meaty thud against something solid and a surprised grunt, and the grip across his chest disappears.
He–he–he should… he should… who is he, again? What's going on? He can't think through the light. For just a second, he thinks he was about to do something. But almost sooner than the thought can materialize, it slips away. And then everything slips away.
–
Peter wakes up with his glasses askew and his chin slumped against his chest. The screen is totally dark. Okay. So maybe he slept through the movie again. Maybe it was just a really boring movie, okay? In fact, it must have been, because he just watched it and he can't even remember what it was about. Well, whatever. He shucks the special dark glasses and slides his regular pair back onto his nose with a yawn. Movie nap or no, he feels exhausted. Time to say good night to his dad and head home for bed.
He looks sideways at Norman's usual seat, but his father isn't there; huh. Must've gone to bed and not wanted to wake him. Peter suppresses the pang in his chest at the thought. Sure, he doesn't see his dad all that much, and he'd like to have said good night, at least, but it's fine. He pulls himself out of his seat and slumps towards the exit, only to be stopped almost immediately when his foot bumps into something solid.
Peter blinks several times, trying to make out what the shape on the floor is in the dark theater room. His heart leaps into his throat as all at once he recognizes it as his father. Dropping to one knee, he checks his dad over; thank god, he seems okay – except for the whole laying on the floor thing. Also, he's definitely unconscious.
"Jesus, Dad," Pete mutters, rocking back on his heels. He must have fainted. From stress, or something. Probably too many late nights working. "And you get on my case for not taking better care of myself."
Well. Nothing for it but to get him to bed. Peter awkwardly heaves his dad up, hooking one of his arms over his shoulders and grunting with the effort. Norman is a big, solidly built guy, and Pete isn't exactly winning any strongman competitions.
It's a long trip up the stairs to Norman's bedroom, but he manages it. He unceremoniously dumps his dad onto the bed and pulls his shoes off, then stands there scratching his head. He feels like he should do more. Water? That was probably a good idea. Maybe some painkillers or something. In case his dad has a headache when he wakes up.
Peter opens the drawer to the nightstand, hoping to find a convenient bottle there. His hand bumps into something hard and smooth instead, and, curious, he pulls it out to find… a powered off smartphone. Oh, there's something he can do for his dad: as long as Peter can remember, Norman has insisted on rising at an ungodly early hour. So Peter'll just turn his phone on and set an alarm for him.
He powers up the phone, feeling very pleased with himself. This'll earn him some brownie points for sure. It buzzes loudly as the screen turns on, dozens of notifications flashing past.
Peter squints at the harsh light of the bright screen in the dark room. The most recent notification is from just a few minutes ago, a text – from someone listed as "Red".
Please don't be dead
Okay. That's… concerning. Peter glances at his dad, still unconscious on the bed. Is this fainting spell part of a larger, ongoing problem, that his dad doesn't answer his phone and someone assumes he's dead? Without thinking, he types out a reply.
Don't worry, he'll be fine. He just needs rest.
There. Hopefully that was the truth. Tomorrow he'll have to shake his dad down for–
The phone starts buzzing again as an incoming call pops up. From "Red" again, this time with a contact picture of a drop-dead gorgeous red-headed woman. Wow. Okay, Dad. Seems a little young for you, but…
He answers the call, reassurances that his dad will be perfectly okay after a good night's sleep already on his tongue, but before he can get anything out a frantic, accusing voice demands, "Who are you? Where's Peter? Whatever you've done with him, I'm–"
Peter drops the phone.
The tinny voice continues speaking, but he can't make out the words. He frantically ducks down and scoops the phone back up, jamming the end call button.
What the ever-loving fuck was that?!
The phone goes off again: Red calling back. Peter declines the call. Okay. Okay. So, this is a crazy woman. This is a crazy woman that his dad had probably been avoiding speaking to, hence the powered down phone in the nightstand of the house he rarely visits. And Peter reopened contact. Oh, his dad is going to kill him.
The phone goes off again. Peter goes to decline, planning to just turn it all the way back off, when he sees the contact info. It's not Red.
"Mr. Osborn", under a picture of a man who is definitely not his father, but who looks a whole lot like him.
Peter stares at the tiny picture. He supposes it could be a picture of his dad when he was younger. But then why would his dad have his own contact in his phone? And why would it be calling him? He looks at his dad again, still dead to the world and blessedly unaware of Peter's crisis.
Should he answer it? Maybe he's… an estranged cousin, or something. Peter is pretty sure his dad doesn't have any siblings, but he is also absolutely certain that if Norman didn't want him to know about something, he wouldn't know about it.
Before he can make up his mind, the call ends. Well, that's the universe making his decision for him, clearly. He should put the phone away, go home, and forget this ever happened.
Except…
Before he can stop himself, he swipes open the phone and brings up the browser. His fingers are a little clumsy on the keyboard – he hasn't used one in months, after all – but he manages to type "young osborn" into the search engine and hit go.
Among expected results for his father, he spies an article with a picture of the same man from the contact photo. He taps on the result blindly, and a second of squinting at too-small text on the too-bright screen gives him a name.
Harry Osborn.
Who the hell is Harry Osborn?
Peter's head spins. He's too tired for this. This… this… whatever this is, he can figure it out tomorrow. Or never, maybe. This is probably none of his business. This is his dad's phone. Sure, the crazy lady he'd never seen in his life had said his name. And sure, apparently there's some guy out there with his last name, who looks just like his dad, who Norman has never mentioned to him.
With shaking hands, Peter powers down the phone and shoves it deep into the nightstand, slamming the drawer shut with rattling force. What he needs is sleep. He'll go to bed, and tomorrow the world will make sense.
With one last parting glance at his slumbering father, Peter makes a break for it.
–
In the light of the morning, the prior night's strangeness feels very far away. Peter's alarm wakes him from confused dreams that quickly fade in the face of the smell of eggs and coffee. He hurries downstairs to find his dad in his kitchen, making breakfast.
"Hey, Dad," he says as he walks in. "You're here early."
"Peter!" his dad greets him with a wide grin, "Well, I have to head back to the city this morning, but I wanted to come by first to apologize for falling asleep during the movie. I guess I really picked a stinker for this one, eh?"
Peter slides into a chair at the table, where a plate of eggs and a steaming mug are already waiting for him. Norman's eyes follow him, and he gets the distinct feeling he's being… appraised. Does his dad know? Did he check the phone and see the text? Pete adjusts his glasses to avoid eye contact and hides behind a sip of coffee. Never in his life has he been so grateful for terrible decaf.
"Yeah, well, I did, too," he says when he puts it down. "So I guess you can say you told me so."
His dad turns back to the griddle, and seems to relax slightly. He scoops the remaining eggs onto a plate and sits down across from Peter.
"Maybe next time I'll let you pick the movie," he says with a beneficent smile. "I'm sure there's something you've been itching to watch."
"Sure, Dad," Pete says, studying his father in turn. "I'll think about it."
He belatedly shoves a forkful of eggs in his mouth, remembering that he's trying to act normal. If his dad doesn't know he found the phone, then he's not in trouble, and he's not about to go looking for it. He's too smart for that.
"Dad, do I have a brother?"
Oops.
His father goes stock-still, then slowly lowers his fork and raises a napkin to his lips.
"No, Peter," he says, with a forced light tone. "You're my only son." His eyes flit up to bore holes through Peter's soul. "Why do you ask?"
Okay, yeah, his dad's pissed. Nice going, Osborn.
"Oh, no reason," Peter says, fiddling with his fork. There. Just leave it at that. "I, uh, went for a walk last night. Y'know, after you fell asleep." What? What are you saying? Stop talking. "Just down the street. I, uh, I saw a… news report. On one of the neighbor's TVs. Through the window, you know." Peter clears his throat. "There was this guy on the screen – I think the, uh, the scroll said his name was Harry Osborn. And he looked like you, so, uh… you know. Just wondered." He shoves another bite of eggs into his mouth, just to shut himself up.
Norman lays his hands flat on the table in a move Peter recognizes as stopping himself from clenching them into fists. In a cold, deliberate voice, he says, "Harry Osborn is not a part of our family."
Peter's spine prickles. He gulps down his eggs and nervously adjusts his glasses again. "Sure, Dad. Whatever you say. Just, uh… just thought I'd ask."
"Hm." Norman stands up, dropping the napkin on the table. "Well. I'd really best be going."
"Oh." Peter's stomach sinks, but at the same time he's a little, shamefully grateful to have this weird visit over. "I'll, uh, see you for the demonstration, then, I guess." If he hasn't just ruined his shot at getting back into the city.
"I'll be back before then to get you," Norman says, heading for the door. Peter scrambles out of his seat to follow, his heart picking up. He's still going; thank god. "I'm sure the project will be ready by then."
"Oh, yeah, for sure, absolutely," Pete babbles. "Hundred percent. In fact, I, uh, I'll get right back to work on it now. And I'll see you then."
"Yes. Then." Norman pauses in the doorway, giving Peter another probing look. Pete has no idea what he's looking for, but awkwardly smiles and hopes desperately he's not disappointing. After a moment, his father grunts, then reaches across the threshold to clap Pete on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, son. Take your medicine. I'd hate for something to happen to my only boy."
Peter pats his dad's arm. "Sure thing, Dad, you big worrywart."
Norman quirks a last fleeting smile at him, eyes still hooded and dark, and then Peter's door is closing behind him and he's gone.
Peter lets out a long breath he didn't realize he was holding, and slumps against the wall. He takes his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. That could've gone better. Still; could've gone worse. After a few seconds, he drags himself into his lab.
He flops down in his chair and addresses his plant. "Okay," he says. "I'm ready for things to go back to normal."
The plant still doesn't answer him.
It doesn't make Pete feel better.