Chapter 2
In situations like these, Otto tries to keep his head level, so that the arms A.I. doesn’t consume him. Doesn’t muddle his judgement too much, though he’s aware their intelligence has long since infected his own mind. It’s more about keeping his composure, he surmises, though that’s getting increasingly difficult the longer their wills compete with his own. And now, with them acting like the world’s most efficient bear-trap, all of that conflict is made frighteningly material. It is a balancing act of momentous proportions to keep his calm about himself.
But he couldn’t have accounted for all of this.
Multiverse’s, wizards, multiple failed science experiments in the shapes of men he’s never seen, nanotechnology, goddamn magic being real- he’d never had such whiplash in his entire life, and never wants to experience it again. It’s like there are four televisions constantly playing static on a near screaming volume, while trying to complete the world's most lengthy and confusing word puzzle with a pen that has no more ink. It would make a migraine come on in anyone else’s head.
Peter flits around this wizard’s dungeon (he cringes inwardly at the word wizard and dungeon together, but what the hell else was there to call it?) to the beat of hummingbird wings, and it amazes him the boy doesn’t break anything in his speed. The arms tighten around his middle, constricting him to his place behind the translucent barrier. The appendages simper in his cranium, asking their host why they must hold him like this, when they want to be free too, but he doesn’t answer. Damned ‘Stark Industries’ as he’s heard it named. Nanotechnology. Makes him wonder what Oscorp could’ve done had Norman kept his head on his shoulders. He clenches his jaw; Larry tightens around his torso as it feels him tense, Flo readjusts his glasses back in their place. Norman.
The last time he’d seen hide nor hair of Norman, he was dead. The news was all over the Bugle, a media and paparazzi frenzy, all of them swarming Norman’s son and Oscorp at once. The esteemed CEO found dead in his living room, with the apparent cause of death being a fatal puncture to the abdomen. Died right as he was projected to lose his entire company, right as his child is moving out of his mansion. Top all of that with the rumor that Spiderman had been the one to bring him home wrapped in bedsheets like a cocoon, and you had a monster of a story. Jameson certainly thought so anyhow with the tacky headlines and borderline yellow-pages reporting. He’d thought it disrespectful of the man’s death. He- Otto swallowed heavily.
He and Rosie had both sent Norman’s boy their condolences then, sent flowers and care packages, the week after the announcement. Had promised they both would attend the funeral and offered the young Osborn heir any help he needed. The day of the ceremony he was mostly numb, started feeling a wave of nausea, hot flashes. Rosalie insisted he see a doctor afterwards, but he didn’t. When they’d brought everyone around for the viewing, he almost couldn’t bring himself to peer inside, but he still had. The face that laid in the casket made his chest feel empty. Too peaceful, a little too artificial for the pain he knew the man must’ve endeared in his dying moments. He didn’t directly look at photos of Norman for two weeks after that.
Rosie had been adamant about it, and in many ways, he was too, but after all that was said and done, he didn’t know why he’d offered, what drove him to go that funeral with too few family members and too many business partners to say Norman was really missed by anybody. The noble answer would be that it was the kind thing to do, and before the enslavement of himself to this failed project fused to his spine, that would’ve been enough. It would’ve been the end of it, but afterwards he kept asking himself, why? Why did he care so much about the funeral, about Norman’s son? About Norman? He and Norman hadn’t been together for years. “Together” in the same fashion he and Rosie were anyhow, they’d both cut it off a few years ago when Harry was still in the single digits ages. They’d been platonic after that.
Mostly.
One year before he died, Norman had stopped by him and Rosie’s apartment as they’d all gotten comfortable with, to drink a little and talk. Nothing particularly special, just a get-together. They’d laughed and bantered as they all did every other time, perfectly content in each other’s space. Not even the cold of the winter made the room feel any less warm. As Otto had flipped the playing cards for another drunkenly played game of cribbage, Norman had gifted him a momentary look. It was fleeting, because the man’s eyes immediately flitted away to the empty cup in his hand, but he had been looking at Otto’s as they carefully arranged the cards, flipping and arranging them with bulky yet gentle fingers. Looking back on that night, he could make an educated guess what exactly that look was. It happened again once he took a long drag of his cigar, which Rosie scolded Otto for since they are bad for the lungs, but he’d just grinned and blew the fumes in her direction. Though agitated she’d still laughed at his audacity. Norman had not. Just stared at him while he exhaled puffs of smoke with his head tipped back on the armchair.
Larry constricted around his middle again.
By the end of that night, Rosie had gone off to bed, Otto promising to soon join her once he and Norman said their goodbyes for the time being. They both stood at the open door, Norman in the doorframe and Otto just a foot away in the living room. “I had fun, as always.” Otto offered a lopsided grin “it would be a shame on us if you hadn’t Norman.” He smiled back, but it was watery, wishy-washy. His own expression softened “Are you decent to drive yourself?” “Don’t worry about me, plenty of cabs.”
He was ready to say goodbye, give his luck to him to get home safe maybe, but then Norman had piped up with a “Otto?” “Yeah?” One of those cool, thin hands came to find it’s place on his forearm. “I…” They were close now, not quite sharing breath, but a few precious centimeters more and they would be. Otto felt glued to the spot, the other pleading to him with his eyes. Or were they asking him? “Yes?” he replied, much quieter than before, when the alcohol had dampened his sense of volume. Norman parted his lips as if to speak, but nothing came. He was going to simply step back, laugh it off, tell the other party he’d see him when he saw him. Before Norman did it.
It was quite possibly the shyest kiss he’d ever received. Norman had to reach to meet his lips, since Otto had always been almost half a foot taller, and he could feel the strain of the other trying to bring himself to his height. It barely lasted a second, because Norman almost immediately pulled away like the other had burned him. Either from the effort of standing on the tips of his shoes, or from the way he could barely look him in the eye. Neither said anything, until Otto did- had -to break the silence. “Norman, what-““I’m sorry, I’m- I apologize, Otto, I just needed, I just had to-““I’m married, Norman, what are you doing?!” He’d whisper-hissed, the smaller of the two giving a begging stare that made puppy-eyes look ineffective in comparison, but he didn’t let up. Not on this. They were over a long time ago, he was married. He couldn’t. “Just go. Please.” He placed his hand in center of the other’s chest, not ever outright shoving, but gently guiding him out the doorframe. “Go.”
Norman had cast him one last pleading look, before he looked down, nodded once, and went down the hallway, out of his sight and into the elevator like he’s walking to death row. Otto rubbed a hand down his face as if to wipe away the feeling of dread coiling down his spine.
He was married. He couldn’t. Not anymore. When he returned to Rosie, shuffling in with stiff knees, he stayed on his side of the bed, a cold divide of sheets between them. He didn’t sleep.