Chapter Text
Harry couldn’t keep his fingers still. Every time he would have to adjust the way his hands politely sat in his lap as Doctor Octavius droned on. There was an echo in his head. Relocation. Harry could still picture Octavius—smug—just moments ago with his jittery-handed air quotes. The pad of his thumb stuck stubbornly under his index and against his middle finger.
Connors hovered around his shoulder. “Do you feel any pain? Nausea?” He stressed through his teeth, “Please be honest.” A blood pressure cuff was snapped around his upper arm.
Octavius squinted at being interrupted. His mouth a thin line, but he also waited to observe and note Harry’s response.
The truth was that he still wasn’t sure that this wasn’t some sick fantasy his comatose mind had plunged into, or if he was back in his junior year of college. Coked up in the bathroom.
And yet his heart continued to beat slow, steady, and firm. This body felt impossibly warm. The last thing he remembered was being so cold. Like he was drowning. Harry looked between the three men (doctors?). Guy number three hunched over a computer setup in the far corner looked familiar, but he had yet to introduce himself. Octavius and Connors shared a look, which made Harry’s gut leap. Something childish in him irrationally thought he was in trouble.
“I-I’m…” his voice cracked, “I’m fine. No pain. Not really nauseous, just…” The words slipped from him like honey. Someone else must be speaking because that was not his voice. Relocation echoed. Ventriloquists came to mind, but Harry licked his teeth. It was not a stranger’s voice.
Octavius smiled. It did not seem kind. “Disorientation is to be expected in a transfer of this magnitude, but from a scientific perspective all data is valuable.” He rolled his wheelchair closer to Harry’s bedside. “You’re lucky, Osborn ,” Octavius punched out every syllable,“your result is the first successful trial in a medical procedure never seen and only dreamed.” His grin widened.
It gave Harry the impression that Octavius was rather impressed with himself. He shook off the jittering hand Octavius set on his knee.
They all jumped when Harry’s bedroom door burst open. His father, who had delivered the news earlier this morning when Harry first woke, was braced between the gaping door frame. Norman still looked older than he remembered. More grey hair staking a claim over his scalp, eye bags deep and dark, but there was a bright and manic look to his green eyes. He swept across the room in broad steps, and stuffed as much Harry into his arms as he could.
“Son, I made us breakfast,” he whispered quickly, something sharp laced his tone. Maybe frustration?
Harry tried to hug back, but his fingers were stuck. He tried to imagine what this would look like from the outside. As if he had his own body back and was spying around the corner. Norman was a physically affectionate man, but in his own jilted and formal way. So it was hard to imagine him squeezing Peter this tightly. Yet alone himself.
Harry swallowed with his best friend’s throat. Relocation . He breathed in the scent of his father’s stress sweat and cologne with his best friend’s nose. You’re lucky, Osborn.
Norman told him Peter died this morning, the same morning Harry woke up. Connors sniveled about some sort of noble sacrifice. That that body had just finally given out under the stress. Apparently.
And here he was trapped within himself as the others began to speak again despite the world ending hours ago when Peter had decided to give Harry his heart. And everything else that came with.
—
Harry tilted the plate back. His fork scraped sharply as he gathered every last crumb and morsel into his open mouth. Norman grimaced beside him. He chewed open-mouthed and glared as Norman sat unflinchingly as Harry’s spit flew. Silent as he watched Harry carefully pile his fourth empty plate.
Harry’s teeth clicked when he shut his mouth, and looked away as he chewed quieter. After several attempts to scoot an inch or so away, he had finally given up when Norman rested his arm on the back of Harry’s chair. The dining room table was the same one he remembered the last time he was awake. Long. With plenty of space for each person to sit without invading each other’s personal bubbles.
The fork clattered against the plates when Harry threw it. Something hot brushed under his skin. It had been there ever since he woke up. A symptom of what, he didn’t know. He felt too hot. Too alive. The frequency of the television in the living room could make his ears bleed. He’d never heard it like that before. Harry snatched the glass of water refilled by Norman and downed it as fast as he could. Ice hit his tongue and teeth harsher than he was used to. It didn’t hurt, but it might as well.
Harry set the glass down. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Norman’s face frustratingly remained unchanged. He only tilted his head closer. Harry wanted to slap him and howl.
There was no one in the world who could break promises as spectacularly as his father. It was a talent really. With how many missed dinners, concert recitals, and graduations. That he would stop show-ponying him when he turned eighteen. All his and his mother’s research propositions cut down one by one, or absorbed into something self-serving and grandiose. That he would let him pass if he had to suffer any more.
“Do you know how completely unethical the position you put me in now?” He slammed his fist down, and Norman flinched as the table creaked. It was so unreal to hear his anger filtered through Peter’s voice. Harry hated it. Hated the way this old shirt felt too tight on his chest. It didn’t fit. “ Why?”
“Because I love you,” Norman answered matter of factly. Like he was talking to some stupid reporter, or telling Harry he shouldn’t pursue environmental law.
Harry crossed his arms. “Not good enough. Why.”
Norman sighed, “Because I… He… wanted to.” He shook his head, which then hung low to the ground. At least he wasn’t looking at Harry with that desperate and unhinged elation anymore.
Harry gripped the table’s edge. “Bull. Shit.”
He was trembling again. Connors had comforted him through the first time. Explained that it was merely a symptom of the transfer (Octavius corrected as relocation ) to a new host body, rather than residual symptoms from the illness that killed his old body. This nervous system was apparently adjusting to a replaced consciousness.
“I can tell that you’re upset and still processing.” His father stood and began gathering the dishes. Harry doubted he took any part in making that banquet of a breakfast. The sentiment was meant to be placating, just as the action of cleaning up was meant to soothe and misdirect. Norman ran a hand through Harry’s hair, and cupped the back of his head. “Just please consider how much of a real second chance Peter has given you. The switch is temporary, you’ll have a better-suited body in no time. I promise.”
He smiled and left before Harry barked out a hysterical laugh.
He sat at the table alone, and remembered that last vision of Peter in white. Saying that he loved him. The hand caressing his face. MJ and Peter hovering. The both of them crying. He’ll never get to say it back.
—
If anything he was grateful to be rid of that hospital gown. They were always too loose around the nether regions for his liking, but the folded clothes his father had picked out were too tight in all the wrong places. It wasn’t dignified to waddle around as if his crotch itched.
Harry could have laughed. MJ had always warned him one day that his skinny jeans would squeeze him to death. He wondered how much she knew about all this. Probably more than him.
The doctors had left his room when he waddled back. They had also dismantled that setup of computers and screens, but just about everything else appeared startlingly untouched from the last time he remembered being here before becoming… Venom. Harry sighed.
How long did Connors say? Around a year? Less time than the first go around anyways.
He brushed the back of his hand against his desk. Not a lick of dust. He could smell whiffs of fresh windex. Sharp in his nose. Someone sure went through the effort of keeping everything frozen in time and clean.
Harry ignored the return of the hospital bed as the one anomaly to this image, and waddled over to his closet with a greater sense of urgency. He really needed to pee, and these pants were not helping with the pressure on his poor bladder.
Having a walk-in closet certainly was one of the perks of being able to dip into Norman’s funds. Sometimes he felt guilty over being too materialistic at times, but then he would remember the way his Mom framed it for him. Self-indulgence is not a crime in and of itself.
Harry grimaced at the stock of name brands, cashmere, and silk. He flicked through his button-downs all the way to the simple tees, and wasn’t in the particular mood for any of them. Harry tsked. It felt like playing dress-up on a doll. Picking out clothes for someone else’s body.
Mom never seemed to mind it when he was still a kid. She laid out his clothes for him every morning, but it had gotten to an embarrassing point somewhere in the middle of junior high. He still regretted what he said back then. Harry sighed and crouched down into a squat in the center of it all.
That’s where he noticed the odd cardboard box sitting between the shoe rack and his bags. Its flaps were open like excited arms, and then Harry remembered why he had put it there in the first place. He smiled and scooted forward on his knees.
Inside and on top laid a green and blue striped flannel. One of Ben’s old hand-me-downs. Extra clothes Peter forgot to pick up after many sleepovers over the years. Items he wasn’t keen on returning if Peter never bothered to ask, but too embarrassed to wear without permission anyways. He rifled through many layers of tops that were left behind on the backs of chairs, until he finally found a passable pair of plain jeans. Two sizes bigger than the ones he’d usually wear.
Then he plucked up the first flannel and took a whiff of the collar in case it wasn’t washed. Harry blinked when he didn’t register a smell. Not even a faint dusty musk from sitting in a box for forever. Knowing the risks of Peter’s stink, he tried the pit under the sleeve. Nothing.
Harry slowly refolded the shirt, and held it against his chest. His thumb rubbed against a small frayed hole along the seam of the shoulder. Harry remembered it coming from a burn in that one shop class Peter dared to take in high school. There were a handful of other pinched and threaded over spots he had mended, which did secretly impress Harry despite how many times he complained he could buy enough clothes for the both of them. But Peter always ignored those little spots until they became big enough to be a problem. Harry wished he had been brave enough to ask May for sewing lessons when she was still around. He didn’t know how to fix this.
Harry collected the rest of the necessary items after folding the rest of Peter’s clean clothes back into the box, and setting aside the ones that needed washing—and the ones that probably wouldn’t fit him anymore anyway. He wobbled off to his bathroom with his chosen outfit under his arm feeling all too much at the same time.
—
Harry woke up on his sofa slightly sore, and fuming. This body shook with the effort at his attempts to even out his breathing. That or it was those side effect trembles taking hold again. He glared up at the ceiling, and thought about all the terrible things he could do to his father’s cars. This was an exercise he had practiced since he was thirteen, but had only followed through once by keying the 2008 Ferrari F430.
Now that he had been lent that authentic spider strength he let his imagination run wild with tearing apart the lot asunder.
Harry shut its eyes, tired of directing his fury at blank white.
Being yanked in and out of a connected hivemind network was not having any adverse effects it seemed. He expected some sort of pull, but the absence of such left him feeling as if he were waiting on someone to call him back. Something warm curled at the back of his skull, and he remembered his father’s hand.
His old therapist might have suggested journaling out his feelings, but everything he wanted to say were not things he wanted his dad to read. That humiliating conversation he had sat between his bed-ridden mother and stumbling father about the birds and the bees had confirmed exactly how snoopy Norman was.
Harry put two fingers to a pulse below the jaw, and started counting heartbeats. It should be concerning how low a heart rate it was sustaining, but he didn’t feel dizzy and Connors didn’t mention anything about it. Which made it entirely plausible that it was a part of Peter’s altered physiology.
Harry dragged a hand over the face and groaned. His palm landed on the space below the left shoulder. Fingers over the dip in the collarbone. He regretted looking in the bathroom mirror.
There had to be some sense of logic to the operation. An ulterior motive. Norman’s critical thinking skills were not so low, and Harry could not believe that he would be so blind to all the implications following in this path.
The fingers pushed down. They could not feel the texture of the scarring through fabric, but its shape was more evident the longer he explored. It didn’t hurt to touch.
Maybe dad didn’t learn anything from Devil’s Breath. A virus that killed an unthinkable amount of people, including the May Parker. The woman who let Harry stay over as long as he wanted when his Mom was sick. Who basically housed and fed him while his father was too busy making his arrangements .
How many people that Harry cared about would Norman sacrifice for his sake?
So much blood was on his hands. Harry’s hands. Harry’s everywhere. Being in a new body did not deter the phantom taste of crushing Kraven’s skull.
There wasn’t much that he remembered that night. Harry shifted over and upwards so he was properly sitting. He did remember how rageful he had felt. Hands fiddled over wrists that felt oddly bare. Peter had been acting like an ass, the foundation literally burned to the ground, and Harry was just so… The fingers flexed. Tired of being not in control. Venom pulled him together for once, fulfilled him, and made him whole. Crashing through Oscorp felt better than any drug he’d ever tried.
The shaking stopped, and already he craved a second nap.
—
Harry found Norman out on the balcony. He sat in the far outer corner of the railing overlooking the city. His back to Harry. From over ten feet away he could smell the sweetness of whiskey on his breath. Harry made no move to make his presence known, but he also didn’t bother to hide as he strode to his father’s side.
Norman’s face was flushed. Beads of sweat collected at his hairline. Both could be attributed to the humid heat and the drink in his hand. He raised his glass to Harry, who leaned against the railing, and smiled.
“How are you feeling?”
He did not deign to give a response, but his flat stare was enough for Norman to grin and bob his head. Silence built between them in a facade picture of serene summer weather. Harry gritted his teeth. Annoyingly enough it only caused Harry to squirm, while his father basked in the sun like a cat.
When he had enough, Harry coughed and requested, “I want to see my body.” I want to see him.
Norman slowly turned his gaze back towards the city. The sky was bright and cloudless. Towering buildings sparkled with orange cutting out of the fading blue. His father’s face crumpled inwards as his jaw tensed, which gave him the appearance of someone deep in focus on chewing a rat.
He took a sip of his drink. “Son, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Harry kept his response unemotional and airy, “I just want to check.” I want to see him.
The heart, slow and reliable, thudded. A roar in the ears. Traffic screeched below. A pigeon switched directions middair. Harry kept his gaze trained on Norman. Willed him to listen .
Norman set aside an empty glass on the armrest of his chair, and stood. He clapped a hand on the shoulder and kept up that grin. The touch felt hot, but Harry was burning everywhere. I want to see him.
“I’ll drive,” his father said.
It took Harry another fifteen minutes to convince him otherwise.
—
Harry thanked the chauffeur while his father already began walking. His stomach roiled and twisted as he shut the car door. The Oscorp visitor’s pass sat heavy in his pocket. What really proved the passage of time was how strong the tower stood. Unblemished, without a sign of scaffolding.
Up close like this the tower took up most of the sky. In the past whenever someone mentioned how intimidating the Oscorp tower stood, Harry would always scoff. Now he trailed behind Norman like his shadow, as if that would protect him from its imposing gaze.
With his father at the head, security did not give them much of a hassle other than checking their identification. Harry felt a crawl itching over its skin when they took his in hand, and for whatever reason he hoped they wouldn’t look too closely. Hoped they wouldn’t be able to tell he was a fraud.
They were released after a few pleasantries including a handshake between Norman and head of security. It somewhat baffled Harry how casually his father was carrying himself. He wore no blazer or sports coat, and his dress shirt's sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. There was a bounce to his step as he led them to the secondary and private elevator.
Harry allowed the shoulders to drop once they were inside, now that he wasn’t looking for cameras along the hallway. The elevator began descending downwards in a silent glide.
Considering where he woke up, Harry asked,“So did the operation take place in separate buildings or?” He trailed off as Norman took the reins.
“Otto and Doctor Connors performed the relocation within the penthouse. I wanted you close to home in case of… complications.” He looked away from Harry then, and faced towards the elevator’s silver doors. “I had the body removed for preservation purposes, and there was no more room in my personal lab.”
Harry nodded like any of it made sense. When they reached their floor he realized he’d never been down here before. Harry wondered as Norman guided him whether that was because it was new or old and secluded. Thankfully, they didn’t pass anyone in the pristine halls.
Norman used his key card to open a door, and Harry was then shocked by both the presence of another person and the gust of cold air they were blasted with. The third unnamed doctor from before only briefly appeared startled, and then gave Norman a relaxed nod. He tucked his tablet under an arm, and exited past them without rushing. Harry’s gaze followed the man as he made his way to the elevator. There was still something familiar about that narrow face, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.
His father beckoned him with a hand, and Harry very nearly took it with its own. Instead he preserved warmth in the chilled chamber by crossing arms.
Chamber was not a name provided to him for this room. There was no name plate outside, and Norman wasn’t bothering to speak right now. Chamber came instinctively. It was freezer-like and dark. The walls lined with what looked like dozens of drawers. Norman herded him towards a corner and grabbed a handle. A heart lurched in a chest, and somehow Harry knew without being told.
His father pulled out the drawer about a foot and a half outwards, releasing puffs of white cold air. Harry saw a face, but it took a moment to register as his own. His expression was completely neutral. More lax than if he was sleeping, and completely drained of color. Harry leaned over and searched for anything recognizable. The thought of Bella's post-birth corpse in Twilight Breaking Dawn part one came to mind unbidden. Harry stifled back a laugh.
He could not bring himself to touch this person. He would not find Peter here. It felt as though that both of them had died, and yet somehow Peter caught him. Except now he was trapped without release. To carry both their burdens.
Harry hunched over his face, a mere inches away, looking for any sign that this was a dream.