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❧Dance ❧With ❧Me?




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➷ NO REGRETS, JUST LOVE. We can dance until we die, bb.
➷ ...Something like that!

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Oh sorry, did I hurt your feelings? Like when you killed Gwen?

[hemogoblin]

[Harry can tell Peter is right on the edge, so close to just giving in and letting out all the hate he must be feeling. He stood there watching him, finishing off the cookie he'd taken, all while he observed Peter's reactions to each one of his verbal blows. When Peter turned his back on him--a mistake he'd neverh ave made without so many people around--Harry was all too happy to follow him down the steps and away from the house. It didn't matter; he'd made his point, and he would be back, he wouldn't stop. It'd be so worth it to come back here again if he got the same reactions out of Peter he was getting now.]

There, I knew you had a few good quips in there somewhere. [He's laughing at that, and it's almost as if they were friends again, laughing and sharing jokes. Except the words behind the friendly, amused tone aren't friendly at all.] I bet you'd make a good Chief Emotional Officer right about now. [A beat, and he's falling into step beside Peter, just to see his face.] Or maybe you can be our new Chief Termination Officer? Wouldn't even need to interview you, I already know you're up to the job.

[He stepped in front of Peter then, a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving further forward. The streets around them weren't so crowded now, people probably wouldn't notice as much, which was no doubt Peter's intention. Harry didn't care, he was plenty game for a rematch anyway.] Sorry, is it too soon to talk about Gwen? [He's grinning now, plunging ahead anyway.] What'd you think killed her? Your web snapping her spine, or her head smashing against the floor? [Yes, he had seen the autopsy, and he had looked forward to bringing that up to Peter, to shoving that knife in his gut and giving it a good twist.] I think it was you, if only you'd been a few seconds faster.

That didn't even make sense, homogoblin!

[peterparker]

[Peter started chewing on the inside of his lip before he noticed he was doing it, eyes narrowing at the sidewalk ahead, the chinks in the concrete where the grass was sprouting up. If he was a little more bookish, in like, the Shakespearean sense of the word, he might'a seen the metaphor in that. Stick a chink in my armour, something else grow backs stronger. Motivational fortune cookies. Stuff like that...

His thoughts were going nowhere, in that bleak spiral that didn't make much sense. Quips, yeah; he always had those on hand. A bevy of meaningless comebacks, snappy, zingers. True-blue New York here, Harry Osborn; you wouldn't learn jokes like these in Boarding School on the Island of St. My Dad Got Sick of Me.

When Harry stepped out in front of him and grabbed him by the shoulders, Peter tilted his head up at an angle, and now the narrowing of his eyes was less like a glare and more like a squint. His hoodie pooled around his neck, and he felt small, looking at Harry. Felt like the scrawny kid he'd been when they were friends. Funny thing was? Harry looked even smaller. Even paler, even sicker than when he'd been ill. Smiling there, hair ruffled by the wind, tone chipper, like they were discussing the latest Mets game and not the death of a bright, beautiful young girl.

Maybe some sicknesses just ran too deep to be cured by a visit to the basements of Mad Scientists, Inc.

Peter might have gotten angry. It was still there, the possibility, tense in his muscles, taught in his bones. But it deflated somewhat with each word, each taunt.

Harry wanted to get under his skin, but he was already under Harry's. After all; they had that spider venom in common now. They had Gwen's death on both their hands. And they had some deep kinda wounds that weren't going anywhere, weren't healing anytime fast.

Peter stared at Harry for a long moment before reaching up to brush off one of his hands abruptly, never breaking eye contact.]

Why'd you do it, Harry? I got her involved, I missed, I messed up- yeah. You're right. It's my fault. But you threw her. Someone innocent, someone so- so good. Someone who never did a thing to you, and who didn't deserve it. What happened to you, Osborn? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you died too the minute- [It stuck in his throat, like a splinter, but he forced it out with a sour grimace,] -the minute you decided to murder Gwen Stacy. The minute she left this Earth.

Must be lonely up there on Skullcrusher Mountain.

Hey now, Harry's not the one wearing a blue and red spandex outfit

[hemogoblin]

[He's a little disappointed now, that Peter hasn't just lost it yet. Peter did seem small to him, then; this whole time he had, trying to resist his anger as Harry easily pushed every single one of his buttons over and over again. And Harry didn't feel at all ill, he'd never felt better. He felt like he was winning and he'd barely even started playing.

There's no real reaction to his hand being brushed away, just a slight glance down at his shoulder. He almost laughs when the guilt tripping, the attempts to reach him start. Yes, Gwen never did anything to him. Old Harry would've cared, wouldn't have taken an innocent human life like that, but he--the new and improved Harry--he just didn't. Peter cared about Gwen, taking her away hurt him, and it was justification enough. It would be the same when he finally arranged for May's death, something he had every intention of doing once he'd given it a nice build up, hung it over Peter's head for a good, long while.]

Oh, so now it's time for the 'please, Harry, why'd you do it? We used to be friends! How could you?' bit. [Say hello to the sarcasm and the mockery, Peter. His voice is dripping with it.] Come on, Pete! What happened to me? I'll give you a hint; it starts with you. [He pointed a finger at him.] A simple blood donation, that's all I wanted, and you said no. You left me to end up just like my father. And the funny part? If you'd just co-operated, Gwen--your hope--she wouldn't be gone, and we'd still be friends.

[He knows it would've likely turned out the same, whether he'd used the spider venom directly or not, but that wasn't the point. The point was the betrayal, the selfish betrayal; Peter had been his friend, and not just any friend, but his good friend, his best friend... and he'd refused to save his life. Just thinking about it made him want to forgo this whole game and smash his fist into Peter's face right then and there.

But he'd learned at least some control, and pushing Peter's buttons was almost as satisfying.] I got a good look at the autopsy the police did, one of the perks of having all these resources. And I was right, it was you that killed her, the web that snapped her spine. You could blame me, sure, you could make it complicated, but it was all you. All because you were too slow.

Pretty soon it's gonna be a lot more lonely for you than it is for me. [What's that? A threat against Aunt May? Yes indeed, it sure is. He's practically rocking on his heels with glee now, all in anticipation of the anger that's sure to follow all his baiting.]

Blue and Red make sense. It's patriotism.

[peterparker]

[The mocking tone put his teeth on edge and clenched his fist as tight as his jaw. It felt like every ounce of him was exactly that tightly wound; like he could feel every atom folding in on itself, reverse-mitosis, shrinking, using up all the oxygen. Senescent. Spiders were cold-blooded, after all... wasn't too far of a stretch to think that he felt himself curling, on the inside, into something dangerous. A predator, redux. A hot-headed human with a cold-blooded appendage, am unstoppable crutch regulated by compassion, reason, moral conscience.

Everything Harry Osborn seemed to now lack.

That blame. Peter could take the heat. He could. He'd been blaming himself for as long as he could remember... and for each bout of blame and self-pity came the voice in the back of his head, small but determined, that kicked him back into gear. Made him do something, made him worth something.

Why didn't they come back? Maybe you did something wrong, weren't worth it. Your fault.

Fight past it. That can't be true. There has to be more to the story... search for it.

Why do Uncle Ben and Aunt May work so hard, so many shifts? Your fault, an extra mouth to feed, unplanned, and it takes you a lot to get full. Your fault.

I'll repay them. Tenfold. I'll finish high school, graduate well, get a scholarship, go to college, support myself and then support them. I'll make it happen, we'll make it through. As a family.

He died. Uncle Ben died. Aunt May won't stop crying-- she thinks you can't hear her in the living room, but you do, and it's all on you, it's all on you for not doing the right thing. The thing you knew, you knew was right, Parker. Your. Fault.

I'll find him. I'll find the man who did it, I'll put him away. If I can't-? I'll at least do what Uncle Ben said... I'll take responsibility. I'll take care.

Gwen's father was another. Your Fault- but you can make it up to him, you can fix it, by listening, by completing a difficult promise...

When Harry re-visited his familiar old weight, guilt, 'It starts with you... YOU left me...', Peter knew to check it. He'd offered to help. He wasn't going to abandon Harry, he just didn't- he didn't want the blame for this. The sharp teeth, the wild eyes, lurking behind his complexion now. However he did that, it didn't change the fact that just below the surface there was the same predator in Harry now that there was in Peter. The difference? This predator caved to self-pity and found purpose in catering to it, rather than shaking it off.]

You're the one who decided to end up like your father; a murderer.

[Gritted out at a whisper, but it would be the only thing Peter said. Because when the blame game came back for round two, when Harry landed that second verbal punch which winded him with surprise- the web that snapped her spine. you killed her. all you. too slow.- he had nothing.

He had no way to fix it.

The purring threat against Aunt May made him see white, and the spider uncurled, and showed it's fangs.

He didn't know he'd hit Harry until he was grabbing him by his lapel, fist poised in the air to do it again, mouth open, breathing harsh. There was the faint tickle of contact over his knuckles, a ghost from where he'd brutally slammed them into his upper cheek, meaning to do damaged. Unhinged.

He'd lost enough to the Osborns. He'd lost enough by messing up.

He didn't want to lose any more. Not to him.

Not to this thing.]

Still. Spandex :P

[hemogoblin]

[You're the one who decided to end up like your father; a murderer. For some reason, those words pull Harry to the edge, almost make him give into his own rage, almost make him hit Peter first, or let the transformation begin, right here in front of all these houses. But he'd worked too hard and come too far for that; still, he's on the edge of it. If there'd been some other, similar, verbal jabs, it probably would've done the trick. It's being equated with his dad, and the notion, the idea that his father was actually a killer that hits him harder than it should've. Of course, Norman must've been shifty, must've known about Ravencroft, perhaps was even partially responsible for the whole thing with Connors.

The old Harry would've been hurt to find this out about his father, would've been horrified by it--his dad was too busy murdering and experimenting on people to even be bothered with him, his dad was a terrible, awful human being--but not the new Harry. No, no, he doesn't care, he tells himself, doesn't care that Norman was probably involved in illicit dealings. All that matters is protecting Oscorp, so he can surpass his father. And he doesn't care about killing people to do it, either.

And then Peter's fist is coming at his face.

And there it is, finally. What he was waiting for, unhinging Peter, making him embrace all that pent up rage. Harry's head snaps to the side when Peter's fist smashes into his face, the pain worse than he expected. That might've left a mark, if he could still bruise. His lips is bleeding now, though, and he does put a hand up to his face, pulling it away to see the blood, all before he gives Peter another grin, a smile pulled out to hide the surprise that probably lingered too long on his face when Peter dropped the bomb about his dad.]

You think dear old dad was a murderer? You had to go a long way just to pull the "like your father" line there. [A beat, and a smile, as if this is all a joke. Even if he knows it's not, that it's probably true, and that Peter knows about it, Peter can use it against him, and Oscorp.] Then again, maybe he is, but he'd never do it himself. He'd get somebody else to do it. Just like I never had to kill Gwen, when I had you right there, to do it for me.

[He laughs then, and it's still very much Harry Osborn, not the high pitched, utterly unhinged Goblin laugh. He grabs Peter's hand, giving it a yank to try and free himself from the other's grasp. His eyes glint as he looks down the street, sees a group of teenagers heading toward them, but still pretty far off.] Maybe this time, you'll actually manage to be a hero. [At that, he withdraws the small, orange pumpkin bomb from his pocket and twists in Peter's grasp, bringing up a leg to shove his knee into Peter's stomach to distract him as he tossed the bomb toward the people down the street.

He doesn't care if they live or die, if Peter stops the bomb and throws it away, he just needs the distraction, the time to get into the nearest alley and away from prying eyes. Time enough to don his mask, so they'll be even.]

Like green leather is way better? From Interpol to stripper pole in one.

[peterparker]

[He admitted it. He admitted, to Peter's face, the design to kill Gwen. His liability. Peter had learned a long time ago, his Uncle Ben's parting gift to him, that things like revenge, like blame? They didn't fly as a consolation prize. Didn't make you feel better, stronger, or less responsible. There was no catharsis in what Harry had admitted, but there was a small rush of adrenaline at that victory. (And beneath it, a small, crueler voice that had enjoyed the way his face shifted into real, raw fury and hurt at Peter's declaration. That Norman Osborn was a murderer. The man who'd killed his parents.)

Still, he didn't have time to enjoy those two steps forward. Like the saying goes: for every one step ahead, it's ten paces back. Peter might have let go of Harry's lapel, might have let his own rage subside into something more rational, more reasonable, and ultimately kinder. Even if Harry didn't deserve kindness... Gwen did. Aunt May did. Uncle Ben had. And he betrayed all of them if he sank to Harry's level.

Luckily, he didn't have to make the right decision unaided. When Harry withdrew the bomb from his pocket and tossed it, detonator on, everything went slow. Peter's senses rippled, became alert in a way that they did when he focused them all on one point; so attentive, he almost wasn't paying attention. Just reacting.

He did let go of Harry, face falling lax as he turned, arms out, poised. Not the grace of a gangly teenager, not the awkward mien of seconds ago, but something else altogether.

It didn't matter who was watching. He had a job to do.]

Either way, you still manage to be the bad guy!

[That said, he tossed his arm forward, leaning back, arching the web as it flew towards the bomb to grab it. He'd have to whip it back and hope for the best. They were close enough to the pier, and if he got a good enough height on it... fireworks. A prank gone wrong. Call it whatever they'd call it, no one had to die today.

And as Peter did just that, flung it back behind himself and harmlessly in the air, where it exploded, shocking the two girls down the street and giving Peter cause to sport a grin and wave a little- hah hah, neighborhood kid in a hoodie up to no good, nothing to see here, take your lunch money and move along- he came to the chilling realization that that was something Harry didn't care about anymore. Who lived or died, who he killed. It wasn't just atrocity fueled by temper, anymore. This wasn't a Saturday Morning Cartoon, cracker-jack box villain.

This was a cold, seriously sick individual with a lot of money, a lot of power, trust issues, and a bomb in his pocket.

This was a murderer who had no qualms with being a repeat offender.

This was--

...a distraction.

Turning, blinking, Peter's eyes widened and his lips pursed a little when he noticed that Harry was missing from his spot just behind him.

...Okay, so maybe he was a little bit Saturday Cartoon Villain. Like 25%.]

Seriously, man? You pulled a Scooby Doo? Not cool.

[Muttered, turning both ways, trying to catch movement to follow.]