FIC: Lights Out, Harry-centric, T
Title: Lights Out
Author: Dementis
Fandom: Spider-Man
Characters: Harry Osborn, Norman Osborn
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Spider-Man. For fun, not profit.
Summary: Harry left his father and the Goblin behind... until a flashback makes him reconsider.
Warning: Contains child abuse, spousal abuse, and an acid flashback. Don't read if you are sensitive to these topics. The characters belong to Marvel, not to me.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Harry had a lot in life to be thankful for.
For one, it wasn't like they were hurting for money. His grandfather may have been a poor businessman, but Norman Osborn had been a genius; as dark and twisted as Norman's personality could be, no one could really argue the fact that he'd been brilliant. The glider, the formula, the explosives, they were all the work of someone who really knew what they were doing, and had serious uses for them. Norman's work and the development of Oscorp had made them wealthy enough that Harry could pay for almost anything he wanted.
Second, he had a wife and child, which was more than he would have thought he'd have in high school. Dating Mary Jane, and watching the way her laughter around him grew emptier and how preoccupied by Peter she always seemed - well, even the nicer moments when Harry would have his arm around her, Peter would show up with a surprise photographer's flash and a teasing smile. The drugs had fucked him up too, and he knew it. It had started with simple antidepressants prescribed to him by the family psychiatrist, and then moved on to coke, and eventually acid tablets that he'd slip under his tongue and let dissolve there while his world twisted and spun and changed colors in the most magnificent way he'd ever seen. It had been the final straw between himself and MJ, the final step in driving her away and eventually into Peter's arms.
But Liz... Liz saw something in him that MJ hadn't, he supposed. Harry wasn't sure what it was that had made Liz kiss him the first time, or that had led to their long and loving relationship, to the ring around his finger and to Liz's eventual pregnancy. His wife loved him; that's all he knew, and he was grateful for that. The days were easier to handle when they consisted of Liz's fingers through his hair and her smile against the skin of his shoulder, her hand soft and small in his own.
And Normie. Normie was a blessing all by himself. Bright eyes and a brighter smile and the freckles across his nose. The slurred childish speech of "Daddy" and his creative mind...
Harry had friends, had a family, had money and a quaint business at the Coffee Bean, brewing hot beverages and chatting up the customers and trying to decide whether to hire the inexperienced teenager or the desperate older man on his staff. He liked his job, liked his family, liked the few close friends he had--
--but then why was he still so unhappy?
- - - - - - - - - -
The day had been long, and the house was quiet when Harry finally returned home. The door clicked shut behind him and he heard Liz pattering around in the kitchen, no doubt fixing Normie something to eat. His son was currently seated happily on the living room floor, his crayons drawing nonsensical childish shapes across his notebook paper, greens and blues and purples that blended together in a crayola rainbow.
"Hey, kiddo," Harry greeted him as he came in. He noticed Normie didn't look up much, just kept scribbling on his paper with a happy smile on his face.
"You're going to let him ignore you?"The voice came from nowhere, familiar and eerie. He startled, turning around to look for the source of it, his heartbeat picking up. "...who..."
"A /real/ Osborn wouldn't let this sort of thing happen. You're his father. Remind him of his place."
The room was empty. Harry and Normie standing here in the living room, Liz in the kitchen. Boiling noodles, or making a sandwich. Harry's hands clenched into fists and then unclenched again, feeling his blood pulse through his veins, feeling a sort of cold terror grip at him. With a slightly trembling voice, he said softly, "But... I'm not you. I don't do things like that."
Harry's eyes looked down to the floor, where his shoes looked starkly black against the pale hardwood of the floor. Colors seemed to creep from Normie's crayons and bleed over the wooden floor like a stuck pig, leaving an assortment of hues to twist into one another, the floor bubbling beneath his feet.
/Not again./
As he glanced back up, the vision of his father stood before him, a perfect visual replica of Norman Osborn's cold glare. Auburn hair slicked back, jaw square, body strong from so many hours spent balancing on the glider in high-speed chases with Spider-Man as well as from the goblin formula that norman had been breathing in. The look in his eyes is what scared Harry the most. He used to have nightmares about that look - sometimes he still did.
"It's rude to lie to your father, Harry," Norman said crisply. Harry visibly flinched at the tone, swallowing around a lump that had suddenly developed in his throat. "What kind of Osborn are you, letting him disrespect you like that?"
"He... he's only five, he doesn't know--"
"Please. When /I/ was five, my father was locking me in closets and slamming my head against the wall. And look what good it did me, Harold. Look at me now."
"You're dead," Harry whispered.
"I'm a /legend,/" his father corrected. "I tried to do the same for you. And what did you do with it? You threw it away. And for what? This bitch who only married you for your money?"
Liz. Harry's heart clenched.
"That's not true. She loves me - no matter my flaws."
The vision of Norman gave a mocking scoff. "Look at you. Pathetic. You actually believe she cares about you. You believed that about Mary Jane, too, didn't you? Until she ran off and married Peter." A dark rage filled Harry's heart at the thought of Peter, but Norman continued, "Peter's never been a disappointment to me. He's brilliant, he's got a good sense of humor, he's a hard worker. What have you ever done for me but bring me shame?"
No. No, no, no. Harry's face heated in a shameful flush and he opened his mouth to speak, but Norman beat him to it.
"Why couldn't Peter have been my son instead of /you/?"
Something inside of him broke. Not audibly - there was no sound of snapping twigs, no sound of breaking glass. Just Harry's breath, uneven in his mouth, Harry's heart slamming in his ears like powerful drums. "What do you want from me?!" he wanted to scream but nothing came.
Norman's mouth quirked into a smirk. "Man up," he said cruelly. "You're an Osborn. Show your son that you won't let a mere /boy/ ignore someone as powerful as you. Make me proud."
Harry's hands were shaking. He looked at Normie, swinging his legs and humming 'Twinkle Twinkle' as he marked a dark line across his paper with a black crayon. "Normie," Harry said lowly. "Aren't you going to say hi to daddy?"
No response. Just that continued humming, the soft melody drifting happily through the air.
"...son, look at me." Harry's voice became a bit more stern, the vision of his father watching on, spectating. "Norman. I said look at me." With this, he reached forward, gripping his son tight around the jaw, forcing him to turn his head. Normie gave a pained whine and tried to push his hands away with chubby, childish fingers.
His grip only tightened, lifting Normie off the ground, watching his legs kick in discomfort and pain. "D-daddy--!"
"When I tell you to look at me, damn it, you /look/ at me, do you understand? You shouldn't ever disobey your parents, you selfish little--"
"Harry, what--? Oh my god." Liz's voice met his ears but Harry didn't let go; he heard her rapid footsteps on the hardwood floor as she ran forward and gripped him around the arm. "Harry, stop it, what the hell are you doing?! Let go of him!"
(Norman's voice again. "Show her.")
Harry did.
In a swift, hard movement, he turned, backhanding Liz across the face, sending her tumbling to the ground. His muscles trembled and when he saw her look up through her mess of blond hair, her eyes filled with tears that began to trail down her cheeks--
Harry paused, looked at Normie, now on the ground at well, holding his face and crying. Liz's hand reached to him, scared and shaking. "H-honey, it's okay... just... don't--" Her voice choked off and Harry felt a crashing wave of guilt, looking down at his hands.
"Liz--"
"C-come here..." Her arms reached out to him and he shook his head, taking a shaking step backward from her. He had to get out of here. He had to run. Instinct took over and he ran from her, back out the front door as fast as his feet could carry him.
His legs pumped harder and harder as he ran, darting between evening joggers and dog-walkers, teenagers on their way back from detention or heading to the mall. Eventually he got further and further away from the groups of people, further into the darker twists of the city. Harry didn't even pay attention to how far he'd run before he tripped, catching himself by the hands on the sidewalk, skinning both palms and a knee.
In that moment, on his hands and knees in the alley between two buildings, he gripped handfuls of gravel and shook. A choked noise came from him and he thought of the day he'd asked Liz to marry him... thought of the day Liz had told him she was pregnant. Thought of Peter and the sight of the pride on Peter's face as he looked on to see Liz and Harry holding their newborn son.
"Get up."
Norman's voice again, but Harry leaned down, forehead against the ground, hands against his ears. What good was plugging your ears when the voice came from in your head, though? He whimpered, shaking his head, curling in on himself.
"This is humiliating to watch," Norman told him. "You did what you had to do. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Now stand up, Harry. You're getting filthy."
Harry pushed his hands harder against his ears until it gave him a headache. "Go away," he choked. "You're not real. Get out of my head, leave me alone..."
"Who's to say what's real or not? Stand, Harold. Proud and tall, just like I taught you."But Norman hadn't taught him anything. Nothing but how to be afraid of his father and himself.
Shaking, Harry braced himself against the ground and pushed himself up to standing. His legs trembled and he tried to keep them straight, tried to stand tall.
"What are you doing with your life, Harry? What happened to everything you learned? Everything I gave you? Thrown away... for nothing." Shame again. Norman's voice gave him chills here in the darkness. "Where is it?"
That made no sense. "Where is...?"
Bitingly, Norman said, "The glider. Your costume. The bombs."
Harry thought about it, anticipation burning in the pit of his stomach. "...Easton has it," he whispered. "Oscorp. Easton owns Oscorp now. I gave it away..."
Around them, a soft rain started to fall, dirty and polluted in the city streets. The asphalt shimmered with it, raindrops catching on Harry's skin, dripping from his elbows and the tip of his nose. His father's mocking scowl vanished, replaced with a look of... pride.
"Then go get it back."And Harry was alone again, half holding himself in the New York rain, blinking in the darkness. And he felt a sense of determination, of identity.
In the back of his mind, the Goblin had awoken again.
Author: Dementis
Fandom: Spider-Man
Characters: Harry Osborn, Norman Osborn
Rated: T
Disclaimer: I don't own Spider-Man. For fun, not profit.
Summary: Harry left his father and the Goblin behind... until a flashback makes him reconsider.
Warning: Contains child abuse, spousal abuse, and an acid flashback. Don't read if you are sensitive to these topics. The characters belong to Marvel, not to me.
- - - - - - - - - - -
Harry had a lot in life to be thankful for.
For one, it wasn't like they were hurting for money. His grandfather may have been a poor businessman, but Norman Osborn had been a genius; as dark and twisted as Norman's personality could be, no one could really argue the fact that he'd been brilliant. The glider, the formula, the explosives, they were all the work of someone who really knew what they were doing, and had serious uses for them. Norman's work and the development of Oscorp had made them wealthy enough that Harry could pay for almost anything he wanted.
Second, he had a wife and child, which was more than he would have thought he'd have in high school. Dating Mary Jane, and watching the way her laughter around him grew emptier and how preoccupied by Peter she always seemed - well, even the nicer moments when Harry would have his arm around her, Peter would show up with a surprise photographer's flash and a teasing smile. The drugs had fucked him up too, and he knew it. It had started with simple antidepressants prescribed to him by the family psychiatrist, and then moved on to coke, and eventually acid tablets that he'd slip under his tongue and let dissolve there while his world twisted and spun and changed colors in the most magnificent way he'd ever seen. It had been the final straw between himself and MJ, the final step in driving her away and eventually into Peter's arms.
But Liz... Liz saw something in him that MJ hadn't, he supposed. Harry wasn't sure what it was that had made Liz kiss him the first time, or that had led to their long and loving relationship, to the ring around his finger and to Liz's eventual pregnancy. His wife loved him; that's all he knew, and he was grateful for that. The days were easier to handle when they consisted of Liz's fingers through his hair and her smile against the skin of his shoulder, her hand soft and small in his own.
And Normie. Normie was a blessing all by himself. Bright eyes and a brighter smile and the freckles across his nose. The slurred childish speech of "Daddy" and his creative mind...
Harry had friends, had a family, had money and a quaint business at the Coffee Bean, brewing hot beverages and chatting up the customers and trying to decide whether to hire the inexperienced teenager or the desperate older man on his staff. He liked his job, liked his family, liked the few close friends he had--
--but then why was he still so unhappy?
- - - - - - - - - -
The day had been long, and the house was quiet when Harry finally returned home. The door clicked shut behind him and he heard Liz pattering around in the kitchen, no doubt fixing Normie something to eat. His son was currently seated happily on the living room floor, his crayons drawing nonsensical childish shapes across his notebook paper, greens and blues and purples that blended together in a crayola rainbow.
"Hey, kiddo," Harry greeted him as he came in. He noticed Normie didn't look up much, just kept scribbling on his paper with a happy smile on his face.
"You're going to let him ignore you?"The voice came from nowhere, familiar and eerie. He startled, turning around to look for the source of it, his heartbeat picking up. "...who..."
"A /real/ Osborn wouldn't let this sort of thing happen. You're his father. Remind him of his place."
The room was empty. Harry and Normie standing here in the living room, Liz in the kitchen. Boiling noodles, or making a sandwich. Harry's hands clenched into fists and then unclenched again, feeling his blood pulse through his veins, feeling a sort of cold terror grip at him. With a slightly trembling voice, he said softly, "But... I'm not you. I don't do things like that."
Harry's eyes looked down to the floor, where his shoes looked starkly black against the pale hardwood of the floor. Colors seemed to creep from Normie's crayons and bleed over the wooden floor like a stuck pig, leaving an assortment of hues to twist into one another, the floor bubbling beneath his feet.
/Not again./
As he glanced back up, the vision of his father stood before him, a perfect visual replica of Norman Osborn's cold glare. Auburn hair slicked back, jaw square, body strong from so many hours spent balancing on the glider in high-speed chases with Spider-Man as well as from the goblin formula that norman had been breathing in. The look in his eyes is what scared Harry the most. He used to have nightmares about that look - sometimes he still did.
"It's rude to lie to your father, Harry," Norman said crisply. Harry visibly flinched at the tone, swallowing around a lump that had suddenly developed in his throat. "What kind of Osborn are you, letting him disrespect you like that?"
"He... he's only five, he doesn't know--"
"Please. When /I/ was five, my father was locking me in closets and slamming my head against the wall. And look what good it did me, Harold. Look at me now."
"You're dead," Harry whispered.
"I'm a /legend,/" his father corrected. "I tried to do the same for you. And what did you do with it? You threw it away. And for what? This bitch who only married you for your money?"
Liz. Harry's heart clenched.
"That's not true. She loves me - no matter my flaws."
The vision of Norman gave a mocking scoff. "Look at you. Pathetic. You actually believe she cares about you. You believed that about Mary Jane, too, didn't you? Until she ran off and married Peter." A dark rage filled Harry's heart at the thought of Peter, but Norman continued, "Peter's never been a disappointment to me. He's brilliant, he's got a good sense of humor, he's a hard worker. What have you ever done for me but bring me shame?"
No. No, no, no. Harry's face heated in a shameful flush and he opened his mouth to speak, but Norman beat him to it.
"Why couldn't Peter have been my son instead of /you/?"
Something inside of him broke. Not audibly - there was no sound of snapping twigs, no sound of breaking glass. Just Harry's breath, uneven in his mouth, Harry's heart slamming in his ears like powerful drums. "What do you want from me?!" he wanted to scream but nothing came.
Norman's mouth quirked into a smirk. "Man up," he said cruelly. "You're an Osborn. Show your son that you won't let a mere /boy/ ignore someone as powerful as you. Make me proud."
Harry's hands were shaking. He looked at Normie, swinging his legs and humming 'Twinkle Twinkle' as he marked a dark line across his paper with a black crayon. "Normie," Harry said lowly. "Aren't you going to say hi to daddy?"
No response. Just that continued humming, the soft melody drifting happily through the air.
"...son, look at me." Harry's voice became a bit more stern, the vision of his father watching on, spectating. "Norman. I said look at me." With this, he reached forward, gripping his son tight around the jaw, forcing him to turn his head. Normie gave a pained whine and tried to push his hands away with chubby, childish fingers.
His grip only tightened, lifting Normie off the ground, watching his legs kick in discomfort and pain. "D-daddy--!"
"When I tell you to look at me, damn it, you /look/ at me, do you understand? You shouldn't ever disobey your parents, you selfish little--"
"Harry, what--? Oh my god." Liz's voice met his ears but Harry didn't let go; he heard her rapid footsteps on the hardwood floor as she ran forward and gripped him around the arm. "Harry, stop it, what the hell are you doing?! Let go of him!"
(Norman's voice again. "Show her.")
Harry did.
In a swift, hard movement, he turned, backhanding Liz across the face, sending her tumbling to the ground. His muscles trembled and when he saw her look up through her mess of blond hair, her eyes filled with tears that began to trail down her cheeks--
Harry paused, looked at Normie, now on the ground at well, holding his face and crying. Liz's hand reached to him, scared and shaking. "H-honey, it's okay... just... don't--" Her voice choked off and Harry felt a crashing wave of guilt, looking down at his hands.
"Liz--"
"C-come here..." Her arms reached out to him and he shook his head, taking a shaking step backward from her. He had to get out of here. He had to run. Instinct took over and he ran from her, back out the front door as fast as his feet could carry him.
His legs pumped harder and harder as he ran, darting between evening joggers and dog-walkers, teenagers on their way back from detention or heading to the mall. Eventually he got further and further away from the groups of people, further into the darker twists of the city. Harry didn't even pay attention to how far he'd run before he tripped, catching himself by the hands on the sidewalk, skinning both palms and a knee.
In that moment, on his hands and knees in the alley between two buildings, he gripped handfuls of gravel and shook. A choked noise came from him and he thought of the day he'd asked Liz to marry him... thought of the day Liz had told him she was pregnant. Thought of Peter and the sight of the pride on Peter's face as he looked on to see Liz and Harry holding their newborn son.
"Get up."
Norman's voice again, but Harry leaned down, forehead against the ground, hands against his ears. What good was plugging your ears when the voice came from in your head, though? He whimpered, shaking his head, curling in on himself.
"This is humiliating to watch," Norman told him. "You did what you had to do. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Now stand up, Harry. You're getting filthy."
Harry pushed his hands harder against his ears until it gave him a headache. "Go away," he choked. "You're not real. Get out of my head, leave me alone..."
"Who's to say what's real or not? Stand, Harold. Proud and tall, just like I taught you."But Norman hadn't taught him anything. Nothing but how to be afraid of his father and himself.
Shaking, Harry braced himself against the ground and pushed himself up to standing. His legs trembled and he tried to keep them straight, tried to stand tall.
"What are you doing with your life, Harry? What happened to everything you learned? Everything I gave you? Thrown away... for nothing." Shame again. Norman's voice gave him chills here in the darkness. "Where is it?"
That made no sense. "Where is...?"
Bitingly, Norman said, "The glider. Your costume. The bombs."
Harry thought about it, anticipation burning in the pit of his stomach. "...Easton has it," he whispered. "Oscorp. Easton owns Oscorp now. I gave it away..."
Around them, a soft rain started to fall, dirty and polluted in the city streets. The asphalt shimmered with it, raindrops catching on Harry's skin, dripping from his elbows and the tip of his nose. His father's mocking scowl vanished, replaced with a look of... pride.
"Then go get it back."And Harry was alone again, half holding himself in the New York rain, blinking in the darkness. And he felt a sense of determination, of identity.
In the back of his mind, the Goblin had awoken again.