Chapter 2
Peter was asleep by the time Harry closed out on his work, just after eleven (earlier than usual-- he'd probably have to work overtime tomorrow, but oh well). Harry debated waking him up, and settled on carrying him instead.
It proved to be an easier feat than Harry expected. The green vials that he had found had made him stronger, and even in his un-superfied state he'd been able pick up his friend, although not for very long. Everyone else had left the building, spare security, and Harry easily carried Peter to his room a few halls down.
But when Harry woke up, Peter was no longer there. Which he probably should have expected. He'd tried his best to patch up the burns on Peter's arms and change him out of the torn-up suit before setting him down in Harry's bed. He envied Peter's super healing, already stitching up the wounds on his chest and shoulders.
Still, Harry was surprised when he didn't hear from Peter at all that day. Or the next. Or the next.
Whatever, Harry thought. He'd reach out when he wanted to (he ignored the nagging hurt that snuck in when he thought about it for too long. Harry resolved not to think about it).
Besides, he had other problems. Potentially very big problems. The project in Hell's Kitchen was hitting nothing but roadblocks, and people were starting to get restless. More importantly, whatever the strange green substance was that Norman Osborne had left for his son (Harry cursed himself for using it-- he knew nothing good came out of anything his father created), it was starting to take his toll. For the third time in a week Harry had woken up in inexplicable rage, practically burning through his veins. He stared at his face in the mirror, involuntarily twisted into a kind of horrible rage, eyes shot and hair standing on end.
But it was wors when he didn't take the serum-- he'd wake up in cold sweats, feeling weak and in withdrawl. Dosages became more frequent-- he needed to stop. He wasn't addicted to the stuff, Harry told himself. He could quit when he wanted to. Just not now. Right now he had a project he needed to oversee, a friend (nemesis?) he needed to worry about, and not enough alcohol to drown out either issue.
He took another sip of whiskey.
Three months.
It had been three months since Peter had shown up crying at his doorstep, and Harry hadn't heard from him since. Granted, he hadn't exactly gone door-to-door asking about Peter's whereabouts either. It simply wasn't something he could let bother him. Already Peter was taking up too much of Harry's focus. Being mad at Peter was exhausting. Wishing Peter was there with Harry was even more exhausting.
Why did he care, anyways? It's not exactly like Peter wanted to see him, either. Some nights Harry woke up in the middle of the street, in that stupid Green Goblin suit, covered in some form of dust or grime or once blood. Those days he wouldn't watch the news, and he'd shy his eyes away from television stands that would blare out the Green Goblin's latest victims.
Yeah, he wasn't exactly on Peter's good list.
And Peter wasn't on his-- he'd still killed his dad. And if Peter's word was worth anything (it really wasn't), he'd been responsible for Aunt May's death, too. Maybe if Peter cared a little less about saving everyone else, she wouldn't be dead. If he'd never started this stupid superhero thing in the first place.
No, Harry decided. He didn't care.