Chapter Text
Harry Osborn and Peter Parker spent a lot of time in Harry's large living room. The spacious open area provided the perfect place to do homework, chat, and absolutely wreck each other at Mario-Kart (okay, Harry was usually the one doing the wrecking, but Peter sometimes got lucky). The wide-screen, HD plasma TV always had the clearest picture for Puppy Bowl/Kitten Bowl Sunday, and the long black couch was especially good for dramatically falling onto when reenacting a thrilling story.
The living room was also the perfect place to have a good old-fashioned “Bitch Session.”
“Bitch Session” was the creative name that Peter and Harry had given to their hang-outs that were mainly dedicated to, aptly, bitching about the things that were just driving them up a wall - often literally, in Peter’s case. It was petty, it was whiny, and it was cathartic as hell. A Bitch Session could do wonders to clear the mind and rejuvenate the soul. Usually.
They’d both just woken up several minutes prior to this particular Bitch Session (frequent sleepovers were a perk of summer), and the boys rubbed the sleep from their eyes as they settled in for what would surely be another rousing round of complaining.
"I just can't stand the way he treats me like I'm incompetent," Harry huffed, crossing his arms as he pulled his legs closer to himself and rearranged them so they were criss-cross applesauce. “Did you know the other day, I tried to tell him I went to extra help for bio on Friday, just like he asked, and he wouldn’t even give me the time of day? I couldn’t even get a word out! ‘Harry, not now. Harry, I’m busy. Go on and study. Lord knows you need every hour you can get.’ All I wanted was to tell him that I actually went to the stupid extra help that he told me to go to!”
He scowled. Peter nodded sympathetically. The constant failings of Norman Osborn to be even a somewhat decent father was a common theme in their Bitch Sessions.
"I know what you mean," Peter replied, fiddling with the camera that hung around his neck. “Jameson barely sends me out on assignments anymore. He thinks I can't do anything right. I offered to cover the governor campaign this month, but he told me it’d be better if Ben Urich handled it.”
Urich was a great guy, a top-notch reporter, but it still stung a little to be so quickly and sternly turned down. He’d been working at the Bugle for five months now, turning in amazing, quality photos of his own damn alter ego for his bristle-topped boss to twist and slander time and time again, and Jameson still treated him like a rookie. Sure, he hadn’t been on the staff for a year yet, but he was confident he’d proven himself more than enough times. It was enough to sour his mood any time he thought about it.
"It's ridiculous!" Harry spat, standing up and then sitting right back down again. He’d just felt that some emphasis had been needed; in the movies, people giving speeches usually stood up during intense parts.
"I'm his son. His son. And he treats me like a nuisance. Even when I’m trying to please him, he either doesn’t give it a second thought or it isn’t good enough." Harry sighed and slumped back against the leather couch, sliding low enough so that his legs sprawled out under the nearby glass coffee table.
Peter reached over and gave his friend a pat on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Har. It’s rough, I know. Believe me, if I could make him listen somehow, I would.”
“I know. Thanks, Pete.”
He scooched back up to a regular position and rested his chin in his hand.
“I just...I don’t know. I guess I just feel like I’ve tried everything, and nothing - nothing - works. I’m running out of options here.”
Peter opened his mouth to offer some of that special timeless wisdom he was so good at giving, but he didn’t get the chance. At that moment, Norman Osborn himself entered the room, and Harry quickly shut his mouth before he could accidentally let another word slip. His father was on the phone, professionally handling whoever it was on the other end of the line.The boys watched quietly from their seats as Norman began to pace up and down the living room, speaking in that calm, subtly condescending way that was basically his standard tone of voice.
"Don't worry about it," he said, mouth quirking into a smug smile -- the only kind of smile Norman ever made. "They're just children. If they give you any trouble, just give them a good kick around the block. What can they do?” He paused, listening to whoever was on the other line. “...Alright, I'll get back to you once I have those papers."
Norman clicked his phone off, slipping it in his pocket, and turned to his son and Peter. He smiled in what he probably thought was a free, easy way. It still made him look like a shark.
"Morning, boys."
“Morning, Mister Osborn," Peter said politely.
"Hi, Dad," mumbled Harry. Then, sitting up straighter, in an effort to appear more collected, he asked, "Who was on the phone?"
"Just the man who sells the newspapers to my new 'employees'," Norman answered, the same smug look as before coming back onto his face.
Harry and Peter glanced at each other, puzzled. It was very odd to hear of any new employees joining OsCorp, especially employees who could be considered ‘children’. Norman prided himself on only hiring the most outstanding minds from around the globe, and each was vetted by a rigorous and demanding process.
"New employees?"
"Those ragamuffin kids that live down in lower Manhattan,” the man replied, and he gave a slight chuckle, which was something Norman Osborn never did. Now Harry and Peter were doubly confused, and, to be honest, concerned.
Either ignoring or taking no notice of their wide-eyed expressions, he continued, “‘Newsies,’ I think they call themselves. See, just recently I was discussing the matter of getting newspaper sales up with Mr. Jameson - I’m sure you remember our new partnership.”
Peter and Harry nodded. It had been a strange day when Jameson announced that the Daily Bugle was now affiliated with OsCorp, but then again, it wasn’t really all that surprising. Norman seemed determined to own everything and every one in the city one day, so acquiring a share of New York’s foremost paper was probably something that had been coming for a while now. Still, it was kind of wild to see J Jonah Jameson walk in the penthouse doors during a round of Wii Tennis, or a movie marathon.
“Yes. So, we were discussing how we might sell more papers, and thus boost the Bugle’s numbers, and Mr. Jameson told me about a group of boys, about your age, who’d been panhandling around the building for a while now. That gave me a wonderful idea.” His shark smile widened into a shark grin.
Peter and Harry hated that grin.
“What...What was the idea?” asked Harry carefully.
“I told him to bring them all on as temporary employees. A freelancer-type thing, if you will. It works like this: one of Jameson’s men sells the newest edition of the Bugle to the boys, which they in turn can sell to the general public. They get to keep fifty scents of each profit, and the rest comes to Jameson and I.” Norman rolled his neck and tented his fingers. “Genius, isn’t it?” Norman laughed, and both boys felt a sort of strange feeling in their gut, like a twisting screw.
"Oh, wow,” Peter said, trying not to let his uneasiness show. “That’s...That makes sense, I guess. Uh...if you don’t mind, how much do the papers cost them, sir?" he asked carefully.
"Oh, just about twenty-five cents," the man said, waving a hand nonchalantly. “It’s enough to let them earn a profit.”
Not a fair profit, thought Peter, but he kept it to himself.
"Well that's, uh...great, Dad," said Harry, shoving his hands in his pockets and casting his eyes to the side. None of this sat right with him. None of it. His father was paying laughably low wages, far below minimum, to a bunch of poor teenagers who probably didn’t know there was such a thing as minimum wage. This was just the type of thing his father would do without a second thought.
Norman smiled and glanced at his watch.
"I know it is. Now, if you boys will excuse me, I have some important business to attend to. I'll see you both at dinner, assuming you’re going to stay, Peter." And with that, he strode out of the room, a faint whistling floating behind him.
Once he was gone, and nothing remained but silence, Peter and Harry looked at each other.
"Harry...did those numbers sound a little unfair to you, or was it just me?" Peter queried.
His friend shook his head.
"I thought so, too.” He curled his right hand into a fist, and his knuckles almost turned white with the tension. “I can't believe him. I just can't believe him! We have enough money, for God’s sake, we don't need to rob those poor kids blind!” he seethed. “What is wrong with him?"
It truly seemed there was no low that Norman Osborn would not stoop to. Harry shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was still mad enough to scream. He didn’t, though. That wouldn’t be ‘befitting of an Osborn’.
Go choke, Dad.
"Child labor,” Peter said, shaking his head in disappointment. “Wow. That’s a whole new step toward Peak Awful.”
“I personally think he’s already there,” Harry mumbled, “but I guess there’s always room for ‘improvement’.” He stuck his tongue out and huffed.
Peter frowned, running his hand slowly over the leather material of the couch. His mind was buzzing with a dozen different thoughts, and the foremost one was Do Something . He didn’t know what, exactly, they were going to do, but dammit, they were going to find some way to amend the wrongs being done by Harry’s father. It wouldn’t be right for them to just sit by, not while they knew what was going on.
"We can't let this continue,” he spoke up. Harry looked at him with a slight head tilt. “I've always stood for justice,” Peter continued, “and these kids sound like they're in need of some right about now. I don’t know how we’re gonna pull this off, but…” He leaned forward imploringly. “I feel like if we just go down there and get a read on things, feel out the situation, we may be able to come up with a plan. What do you say we go pay them a visit, Harry?"
Harry bit his lip and shifted in his seat. What Peter was suggesting was, however subtle or not, blatantly going behind his father’s back. It was going against what he’d want, and what he’d expect from Harry as his son and the heir to OsCorp. The thought of confronting his father about all this made his stomach churn.
…And that was exactly why they had to do it. If they didn’t stand up for these kids, no one would. And, hey, Harry had been looking for the courage to confront his father for a long, long time; maybe this was just the push he needed.
Harry’s eyes hardened with clear determination, and he nodded in agreement.
“Let’s do it.”
~~~
Jack Kelly stood on the rooftop of the abandoned lower Manhattan building that he and the rest of the Newsies called home, - as much as they could call anywhere home - resting his hands on the railing and watching the sun continue its ascent over New York City. Beside him, his friend Crutchie leaned on the railing as well, the crutches for which he’d gotten his namesake propped up beside him. He’d followed Jack out onto the roof before the others had woken up, and he could still hear their faint snores coming from below them as they stood in silence. For a while they didn’t say anything, just watched the horizon together as it turned orange, then pink, then blue. Finally, Crutchie broke the quiet with a chuckle.
“You're crazy," he said, bumping Jack with his elbow good-naturedly. Jack glanced over at him and raised an eyebrow.
"Why, 'cause I like a breath of fresh air? 'Cause I like seein' the sky and stars?" Jack challenged.
"You're seein' stars, alright," Crutchie snorted. “Besides, it’s daytime, anyway. No stars ‘till tonight.”
Jack shook his head, his eyes fixed on the concrete sidewalk and paved street below. He reached a hand out and pointed vaguely in the direction of a far-off intersection.
"Them streets down there, they sucked the life right outta my old man,” he said solemnly. “Beat on by bosses, inadequate pay, and when they ran out of use for 'im, they kicked him to the curb.” A scowl stretched taut on his face, and he lifted his worn newsboy cap to brush at his hair briefly. “Well, they ain't gonna do that with me. I’m done with this rathole.”
Crutchie tilted his head.
"But everyone wants to come to New York,” he said. “It’s the City of Dreams, ain’t it?”
Jack scoffed.
"New York's fine, for those who got a big, strong door to lock up,” he replied, “but for the little guy, you might as well be a damn pigeon in the streets.” Jack looked off across the city again, and his eyes obtained a hazy, faraway look. Crutchie knew that look. It was the look Jack always got when he was getting ready to wax nostalgic about a place he’d never even been
“I'll tell you personally; there's a whole ‘nother way out there,” Jack told him. “You keep your small life in this big city; give me a big life in a small town."
Jack:
They say folks is dyin' to get here;
Me, I'm dyin' to get away
To a little town out west that's spankin' new.
And while I ain't never been there,
I can see it clear as day.
If you want, I betcha you could see it too.
Close your eyes,
Come with me,
Where it's clean and green and pretty
And they went and made a city outta clay.
Why, the minute that ya’ get there
Folks’ll walk right up and say,
'Welcome home, son, welcome home
To Santa Fe'.
Plantin' crops,
Splittin’ rails,
Swappin’ tales around the fire
'Cept for Sunday where you lie around all day.
Soon your friends are more like family,
And they're beggin' you to stay!
Ain't that neat?
Livin' sweet
In Santa Fe.
“Got folks there?" asked Crutchie, turning to look at Jack inquisitively. Jack sucked his bottom lip before half-shrugging.
"I got no folks nowhere," he sighed. "You?"
"Nah, I don't need folks. I got friends," Crutchie said, and he smiled and prodded Jack with an elbow again, prompting the older boy to laugh.
"Hey, how's about you come with me? No one cares about a gimp leg in Santa Fe!” Jack exclaimed, patting Crutchie firmly on the shoulder. “You just hop a palomino! You ride in style!" He held his arms up and mimicked flicking the reins of a horse. Crutchie laughed.
"Yeah, picture me, ridin' in style."
Jack thumped him in a friendly way on the back.
"Hey, I bet a few months of clean air, you can toss that crutch for good."
Jack + Crutchie:
Santa Fe, you can bet
We won't let them bastards beat us.
We won't beg no one to treat us fair and square.
There's a life that's worth the livin',
And I'm gonna do my share!
Jack:
Work the land! Chase the sun!
Both:
Swim the whole Rio Grande just for fun!
Crutchie:
Watch me stand! Watch me run…
He suddenly became quiet, and Jack leaned in to give him a small side hug.
"Hey...hey."
Jack:
Don't you know that we's a family?
Would I let you down?
No way.
Just hold on, kid,
'Till that train makes Santa Fe.