Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There was a red stop button for everything.

Big, bright, and beckoning - hoping to be pressed not a moment too late.

But that moment was too late, it seemed, for Otto Octavius.

Peter Parker, much less Spider-Man, didn’t have time to even react. The blast radius of the explosion, a beam of sun spread like a whip that struck down all in it’s path. Equipment, objects -

People.

There was a scream of a name somewhere - a name Peter knew he was supposed to know. The woman that was before him held that name, the woman grasping desperately to another form - but, with such a flare of the power of the sun, there was soon nothing but flame and the overwhelming green and red flash of the reactor imploding, before nothing more.

⁂

Voices.

Voices talking.

Not his own voice, Peter groggily put together as he opened eyes he didn’t realise had been closed.

Voices.

Voices screaming. Running. A rhythmic tap of the floorboards against his skin that held him so close.

No. Heart. That sound was his heartbeat.

“Peter?”

That voice - again. Peter managed to move an arm to feel it, but regretted it quickly as a bolt of agony shot through it. 

Peter Parker was no sucker for pain.

Okay - perhaps that was a lie. 

He wasn’t a sucker for pain starting a couple of years ago. Spider-Man could take a punch, survive a fall, do just about anything.

But he wasn’t Spider-Man here and now, was he?

Peter coughed as he felt his stomach drop and he managed a weak spit out the side of his mouth, a glob of dark dust came with it, before he realises it wasn’t enough. With a gasping sound, Peter pretzeled himself far enough to his side to vomit violently and save himself from choking to death on Otto Octavius’ hardwood floors. 

He coughed a moment more to clear his air of the taste of bile and blood, hands gripping at the wood as his world threatened to pitch down into unconsciousness again. 

So why couldn’t Peter Parker get up?

“Pete?” the voice called again, before the face finally appeared as he twisted his head to the side - rather upwards.

Harry Osborn’s face filled his vision, as Peter opened his eyes further - his veins throbbing behind his eyeballs, his head pounding. Something in his own gut said it was wrong - all wrong.

A pain filled him as he felt Harry Osborn’s hands touch him, pressing somewhere - he couldn’t tell exactly where - everything below his skin felt like it was burning. He cried out sharply, sucking breath through his teeth, before Harry pulled his hands away, holding them out towards Peter apologetically. Rather it was the shape of Harry’s hands, he noticed - Harry’s features were non-existent in a completely blurred world.

Blind as a bat!

“I gotta’ get you outta’ here Peter,” the other’s voice said, fighting against another scream of metal against metal, causing the face hovering in and out of focus to flinch, before moving behind his head. “Can you get up?”

“Where’s… Doctor...?” Peter managed as, without waiting for an answer, he was propped up on the front of Harry’s knees. 

When his head came up from Harry’s support, he felt something beneath his ribcage clench.

“Doctor...” Peter echoed weakly, as Harry took hold of under his arms, dragging him out, back toward the noise, the chaos and commotion. 

But Peter Parker’s call fell upon nothing and no one, his voice carrying only into the sunken hole into the dark water of the river, where the man once stood.

Something bubbled and moved beneath its surface - then was quiet once more.

⁂

“Harry - I’m fine.”

“Pete - you were nearly blown to pieces by a scientist fueled by Oscorp money. Sip your water.”

Peter frowned, feeling the gaze of a nearby nurse on his cheek till he looked her way, a knife that broke the taut string. He pushed up his glasses with a snort, quickly turning back.

“Only for you Harry…” he teased lightly after a moment, and took a sip, bringing a relieved grin to the other’s face.

“Only for me, eh?” he bit back, but it was all bark - this time at least.

Peter flinched sorely as he sat back against the pillows again. Hospitals never enthralled Peter Parker - well, he doubted they brought joy to anyone, he realized, resting in the semi-dark of a lamplit hospital room with company at his sock covered toes. This was more friendly than others, he supposed, having four corners of a spacious room, featuring his bed, a television, a couch and coffee table, even a mini fridge humming out of sight. Peter couldn’t help feeling like he was in a luxury hotel for a brief second, before the sting of pulling too far on his IV in setting down his water had brought it back to reality. 

He frowned softly, before Harry’s hand swooped in to ease him of such a heavy burden, putting it aside.

“Harry-”

“Peter.”

“Harry .” the man in the bed began again, brow furrowing, “Please, tell these doctors I can leave. I really don’t want to be here.” 

“Peter, I doubt anyone wants to be in a hospital,” he chuckled, “you’re in the best hands in the world. Promise.”

Peter watched as the aging nurse moved to the door again. This was Harry’s playground, sure, but it was a hospital, no matter how Harry made it shine, funded it, cut countless red ribbons, and put things into rooms. A very pretty hospital for a pretty tired man. 

“But I am fine,” he cut in after the door closed behind her, “really, the blast just - just knocked the wind out of my sails - honest.”

“I think it did more than that, Pete,” Henry said as Peter felt his stomach tighten again. Peter Parker felt his face grow green, Henry tentatively held his hand out for the trashcan at his bedside, but Peter waved his hand to dismiss the notion. His head spun, he closed his eyes till the sensation passed, opening them when he felt Harry shift like a nervous small dog at the end of his bed. “Please stay, Pete, for me.”

A beat of a stiff standstill. Peter pressed his arms across his chest gently, before toes poked Harry’s side from under the layers of blankets.

“For you, alright. You did get me my glasses. Stupid contacts...” he caved and fibbed simultaneously after a moment, “But, what about you?” Peter pressed back, “lucky Harry Osborn about to spend all his good karma points if he isn’t careful.”

A bitter laugh, Harry pinched the toes threatening to beat him up.

“All the luck I’ll ever get, you mean. I’m fine. I’m more worried about you. We all are,” he chuffed, holding his hands up helplessly, “ Look - Aunt May came by and nearly beat a doctor and security man down with her umbrella when you were asleep. I brought you your glasses and some flowers - psst - the line is ‘thank you, Harry - I love you, Harry - You’re my best friend, Harry’...”

“And M.J.?”

A flicker of chocolate eyes at Peter’s toes, before Harry ensured the besocked feet were covered with a blanket once more.

“She doesn’t get out of her performance till 11 - by then, visiting hours are closed.”

“Oh…”

A quiet moment, neither daring to speak. The workshop of medical equipment serenaded them in the heartbeats between.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, Pete?”

“Could you… hand me my water again?”

⁂

The night fell fast on Peter Parker's room along with the wish that perhaps the events of the afternoon would melt into some fever dream. 

Carefully, Peter swung his legs over the side of his bed, shivering softly at the cold air against his skin. The too large hospital gown hung loosely over shoulders, which he reached to quickly fix, cheeks warm. 

“Why are they always too big…?” he mumbled aloud as he wobbled to his feet, keeping a hand on his bed and the other on his IV drip stand as it rolled across the floor. 

He was alone now, at nearly midnight, he realized, glancing at the clock on the wall as it ticked steadily against the hairs of the back of his neck. A chill followed him, standing on his own two feet that shuffled steadily towards the window. Solid plexiglass, he concludes as he frustratingly manhandles the floor to ceiling window all 20 stories up. There was no swinging out of this one, driving wildly into the winds of the night. He pulled his fingers away with ease, so much so he doubted he’d be able even if he could open a window somewhere.

No - best to wait it out - go back to bed - things will be alright in the morning.

His knuckles went white, his eyes fixed on scrunched up toes, the corners of his mouth drooped. A bitter taste lingered on his tongue.

It wasn’t all fine, was it?

“This entire afternoon was a disaster…” he commented aloud, placing his arm against the glass to press his forehead against to ease the dizzy sensation before it could return. 

The afterimage of the reactor’s explosion was seared into his eyelids as he bored them into his forearm. He couldn’t understand. Why hadn’t he sensed something was wrong? Nothing had changed. He’d met Harry there, joined the gathering throng, brought his camera even. Danger had no warning before it happened - he placed his fingers against the glass and they slid like a deer on ice. Something about him had changed - had it always been like this? Had he just… not noticed?

No. No - he would’ve known if such unspoken things weren’t there anymore. He would’ve noticed. Spider-Man would’ve noticed. Hell - Spider-Man wearing a puny Peter Parker suit had been a hero when he’d saved Mrs. Rosie’s teacup from the floor, knocked willy-nilly with the wrath of Otto Octavius' stray elbow.

Mrs. Rosie.

His heart sunk at the thought of the woman - her husband - the both of them. He’d only known her for an afternoon - but she felt warm and kind at the dinner table. She’d insisted he stay for dinner - she packed him leftovers - she offered him a lemon square to take home. 

She couldn’t have survived. Neither of them could have. There was no one there when -

“Peter Parker.”

The sound of his own name on the other side of the glass caused Peter to backstep quickly, startled so much so that he lost footing, and him and the IV bag went careening to the floor. 

He cries aloud at the fall, holding his sore hand and arm close to himself as the connection between him and the medical equipment is severed. Biting tears threatened to spill over the edge of his vision as he fumbled for his glasses that had fallen off his face with the force. Glasses donned, he sat up quickly, unable to stop staring with his wide eyes and wider, hanging open mouth.

“D… Doctor Octavius…” he said barely above a whisper at the form hovering like some metallic fallen angel outside his room window, nearly twenty stories up. 

The arms of the demonstration are still there on Otto - grasping against the brick like a vice, the source of his apparition. Frankly, Peter mused, as he managed to rise to his feet with shaking knees, it was a miracle he didn’t hear him approach. 

The man was like a ghost. His hair is limp and stuck to a wide-eyed face, pressed so firmly against the glass, leather gloved fingers grasping. To Peter, it looked like Otto was trapped under a layer of ice, threatening to drown. Peter glanced over him some more as he clenched his hospital gown. They were not the clothes Otto wore before. Gone were the grey top and work pants at the demonstration - now, he donned a random worn trench coat - shoes and pants just an inch too short. 

An ugly surprise waiting for some unlucky office worker drying his laundry, come morning.

“Doctor Octavius! What-?”

“Quiet!” he hissed, concern stricken brow quickly furrowing to two sharp points, “Don’t you press that button, Parker - not till you listen.”

Peter stopped any movement he’d made for his bed, clutching that bleeding top of his hand close.

“I-I wasn’t thinking about it,” Peter said, taking a half step away from the fallen nurse button as a show of good faith. He held out his fingers placatingly, now red with the blood that stains the sleeve of his gown. 

Otto glanced at them a moment, something crossing his face, before moving back to Peter’s gaze.

“Peter Parker - brilliant but lazy, I was told,” he began in a voice so soft and hoarse Peter strained to hear it. He took a step closer as Otto swallowed, “Peter… I could use some brilliance right now. Yesterday - you asked me something - something important - if… if I was sure I could contain it - and I was - and I am.” 

There was a swaying moment on Otto’s side of the window, Otto slapped his hand against the glass with a thunk - causing the other to jump.

“Doctor - you’re hurt,” Peter swallowed, “let… let me get someone - to help you.”

“NO!” the spitting voice barked, muffled against the plexiglass as he fogged it up with his hot breath. A visible shaking inhale and exhale, the black palm runs down the panes surface, realizing he’d pressed the younger man a step back in doing so. His gaze wandered.

“No… no Peter - they’re looking for me…”

“They?” Peter asked, glancing briefly at the small, untouched television, where Otto’s eyes rested, “You mean, the police? Why?”

“Because everyone thinks I did it.” Otto hissed, snapping his eyes back to Peters, hand against his own chest, “It’s all over the 10 o’clock news, Peter! - Scientist Super-Villain Set to Strike Down the City - Super-Sun Super Sinister - it’s not true - it’s all not true.”

“Why come to me?” Peter retorted, sharper than he intended, but the pain shooting up his right arm was all too real - everything felt like a bad dream he could still shake if he tried, “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one left alive who questioned it at all…” the scientist pressed back, a twinge creeping somewhere in his voice. Peter met the other’s dark gaze and it was wet. Droplets of coming rain begin to cling to his stolen trench coat, and he gives Otto’s eyes the benefit of the doubt. “You believed in me once - do you believe in me still?”

Quiet stretched between them, Otto pressed himself further against that glass as though he expected to pass through it like a specter, grasping harder.

“Peter. You saw it before - we looked at the calculations - together ,” Otto shook his head limply, “I couldn’t have miscalculated. Something… something is terribly wrong now, Peter. And I need to fix it. I need your help - to fix this .” The two pinpoints of Otto’s eyes bore into his, he felt dampened pins in his own blue irises, seeing more of that rain again. “And I know I can’t do this alone. Peter Parker - will you help me? You’re… you’re my only living hope right now…”

There was that sinking feeling again in his stomach. Peter swallowed down his bile and clenched his eyes, before staring out again. His disbelief at his own nod bled into his widening eyes. 

He had a point. Something had changed, something reeked of unpleasant possibilities of what it could all mean. He shook his head free from those thoughts. There were bigger things here.

“I… I hear you Doctor…” Peter managed to squeak, taking another step forward, “but… I can’t leave through this door. The security -.”

“We don’t need doors ,” the other chimed, a mechanical whirring as the cameras of the upper two tentacles came into view, staring intently at Peter Parker.

Cameras to the brain - more pinpointing little eyes.

“You know - once I smash this window - we can’t go back,” Otto gave a hoarse, final warning, as the tentacle arms drew themselves back, slithering and whirring like some metallic unseelie creature from the depths.

A strike of lightning backlit the both of them in a coming storm, Peter Parker inhaled and exhaled slowly, considering his options.

“I know… but I made my choice,” Peter Parker set in stone, holding out a bloodied palm towards Otto and keeping it out to soothe as he backtracked, setting distance between himself and the targeted pane. Braced behind the hospital bed, Peter crouched and looked at Doctor Octavius with a ghost of a smile over the mattress, nodding his head as he gestured limply. 

“Ready, Doctor…”

“So be it ,” Otto’s voice fogged up the glass as the tentacles screeched, throwing Harry’s playground into an explosion of glass and dusty debris in seconds.

When security arrived, forcing the stretcher away from the door, there was nothing left of Peter Parker but his wayward hospital equipment, droplets of blood, the growing distant sound of metal crushing stone, and the cold, night breeze that carried the rain as the sky finally popped from the pressure.

Chapter Text

It is quaint, Peter reasoned, wiggling his damp, besocked toes, for an abandoned secret lair. 

A deep, resounding creak. He watched Otto lean to light another candle on the makeshift side table, cradling the flame a moment, before blowing out the match in one puff.

Well. It isn’t a lair and it isn’t like the place was a secret, Peter reasoned to himself, watching as a metal claw worked to adjust a rusting bucket where water leaked in from the ceiling. All four seemed to pitch in - placing empty scrounged containers where water hit the already damp floor, adjusting, then adjusting again.

Besides, he was here to prove his host wasn’t some mad scientist gone rogue, right?

Right.  

Half sunken in the water, the abandoned marina downtown had seen better days. 

The oversized wooden structure had been struck down to its knees with time and neglect. Water sloshed somewhere underneath damp shoes and cold feet, lapping at the swollen, dark floorboards that cradled two figures in a flickering dark. Tongues of smoke from a small trashcan fire licked the ceiling, candles scattered light where light was lacking, and large sets of yellow tinted windows sat haphazardly in their frames on both sides of them, overlooking both a now misty, half-past midnight in New York and the river trickling downstream. 

The hollow sound of the late night rain made every hair on Peter’s skin rise with sprouting gooseflesh. The only other warmth he could find was the similarly damp Doctor Otto Octavius, who returned to gripping his wrist with a vice he hadn’t known the older man possessed, aided by his new candlelight. Leather gloves creaked as Otto leaned further forward, a stray hum in his throat as he trained his eyes over Peter’s hand. Peter watched carefully as the doctor’s assistants briefly leaned forward and looked too, before, with a metallic click, they got back to work. Otto let out his breath and sat back on his crate. 

“Good news, Peter Parker…” Otto began, setting the sore hand down on his knee, “we won’t have to cut it off as we expected.”

That managed a huff out of the boy, not quite a laugh, but the sensation brought a twinge of warmth back - or something akin to it at least. Eyes pulling away from the actuator's latest bucket adjustment, Peter went to comment, but paused when he found the dark edge of Otto’s trench coat, tracing it with his eyes.

“I’m… uh... sorry I got blood on your trenchcoat…” Peter managed to murmur as a shiver shot down his spine, spindly fingers of whistling wind tracing his hunched bones. Otto’s trenchcoat creaked as he twisted his neck to look at the darkened spot, before back at Peter. 

“Well. I’m sorry you don’t have any pants.”

A crack of lightning and thunder shook the aging windows then, Peter covered an ear with a palm as the noise sent them both ringing, his head pounding with a lingering unease. He shakily breathed in and out, willing the noise to subside once again. 

The young man felt something heavy press over his back and Peter was surprised out of his stupor to find Otto’s new trenchcoat resting there, having been pulled off of the other’s slick shoulders and dropped on his own. There was a quiet dip of his head from Otto, a stiff pat on the boy’s back, and he gave Peter the closest thing to a smile he’d seen from him since they had arrived there. 

Cautiously, Peter returned the look and pulled the coat closer to capture what remained of his warmth. 

Slithering across the floor, the arms lifted a nearby pile of rotting canvas and clinging nets from a time long lost out of the way. In the hours since they’d last seen each other, it seemed Otto acquired a few things beyond just instant infamy - none of it originally his own. Rattling around a moment more, the arms finally found what they were looking for in the small pile of borrowed trinkets: an aged, but still whole, first aid kit. There was a horrid little sound as the box was pried open too forcefully, the lid hanging loosely in one of the claws, leaving the body warped in another’s grasp, spilling its contents onto the floor.

“Hey!” Otto barked, quickly snatching the box back and sending the metallic actuators into a fit of whirring and grinding of gears. A hard stare was directed at the four, before Peter felt that stare directed toward him, barely shielded by dark sunglasses.

“Sorry.” Otto muttered, filtering through what remained in the box as the arms gathered scattered, yellowing bandaids, “Sometimes they have a mind of their own.”

There was a biting, cold sting as a square gauze pad was placed over Peter’s pale hand and the unexpected sensation caused the younger man to grit his teeth. Humming low, Otto began to unfurl the gauze and apply it to the scarlet speckled hand, his calloused, stubby fingers pressing against Peter’s clammy skin, keeping the smaller limb steady as he worked.

“Thank you,” Peter managed, blinking back instinctual rising tears from the edges of his eyes, “You know, I didn’t thank you - earlier, I mean.” 

“For what? It’s just a coat…”

“For saving me…” Peter murmured, “back there…”

“I kidnapped you from a hospital,” Otto spoke, curling a corner of his lip slightly as he raised his gaze from Peter’s hand, “I feel that is a far cry from saving anyone.”

“Well…” Peter ventured, shrugging his shoulders and watching a tentacle stacking items back into the rusting box, “It was to me. I’ve never liked them much. Bad experiences and… stuff.” 

“Hmph - and stuff, huh?”

“Yeah…” Peter chimed, praying that the other could not see the slow gathering of sweat on his forehead. 

Innocent. He doesn't know.

But someone out there does.

We’ll worry about that later… 

But --!

Later. Peter put his foot down, shoving the coil of nausea aside with a faint shake of his head.

With a low grunt, Otto set down the remainder of the gauze, smoothing over the fresh wrapping with both his thumbs. Peter flinched at the tingling sensation, and Otto’s shaded eyes flicked up at that, before carefully setting Peter’s hand free.

“You should be fine now.” Otto spoke curtly as he stood to toss the recovered kit back toward the pile of supplies. Peter held his hand and arm across his lap, watching as Otto reached for more dampened kindling to shove into the metal trashcan, sending embers floating where they rested and into open air.

“Now, Peter Parker...” Otto piped, craning to look over his shoulder as he fiddled with something in his pocket, claws absently clicking in time as they reached for it too. 

The boy sat on the edge of his crate, jumping as sparks flew unexpectedly, the sound of metal against metal before a wet slosh hit the floor. 

Peter’s heart climbed further up his throat - his knuckles turned white with this grip on his forearm.

“I do not have tea...” Otto rumbled as turned back around, brow raised as the claws let go of an opened metal can and held it reverently in his hands. An uppermost actuator tucked its long, barbed appendage away and clicked over the man’s shoulder. “but, I have a can of beans and a spoon...”

“I… I uh…” Peter struggled to start, staring at the sliced open can, juices dripping down its side to the scientist’s feet.

 A beat of hesitation. Otto moved. Peter didn’t break his line of sight as he pressed himself a bit farther atop the crate, watching as more beans went leaking out with the motion of Otto stepping forward and offering the can out with shaking fingers and hopeful, curled eyebrows.

Sneak peek of my insides. Possibly.

Shut up, Spidey.

Peter coughed, nodded his head, and pulled up his lips to expose his teeth back. 

“I can work with beans, sir.”

A satisfied hum, an arm whirred as it took hold of the can from Otto, holding it out over the flame. Juices sizzled as they and the label were burnt off slowly, part of the fire collapsing, sending small sparks to cling to the can’s underside.

Slowly, Peter stood to his feet, trenchcoat swishing as he shuffled closer to the fire and held out his hands. Opening and closing stiff, furled fingers, Peter risked looking up, only to meet the eyes fixed on him. Only him, he dumbly realized, as if his previous thoughts echoed rudely off the wharf walls.

Well no shit. You’re the only two people here, Peter.

“You’re so tense…” Otto finally commented, fractures of the flame refracting off his darkened shades. His metallic arms writhed somewhere behind him, prickling as he furrowed his brow, “Are you scared, Peter Parker?”

“Yes. I mean -” Peter inhaled as he caught himself, “No. That came out wrong. I am tense…” the boy confessed, careful to keep his voice even, “but, not for the reasons you think, sir.”

Otto gave a small smile that didn’t meet his eyes, exposing his gums in a chuff as he crossed his arms over his exposed chest. “You’re a horrible liar.”

“Half-true,” Peter cleared his throat, “sir.”

Otto fell silent. Peter found it deafening.

“Sir,” Peter cut in, sharper than he intended to, speaking over the din, “Sir - if I may - what are we doing here?”

“Hm - Hiding.”

“I thought you needed brilliance -” Peter pressed, starting to walk around the can with opened palms, “help - well - help figuring out what...”

“And I thought you were intelligent enough to realize we cannot leap into this.” Otto shot back, quickly looping to keep the distance between them. “We need a plan, boy.”

“I- well-!”

“You what, Parker?” Otto asked, looping to close the distance between them, casting a large shadow on his own two feet.

I think we abandoned caution to the wind when we smashed the window! He wanted to shout, before stomping a foot and turning for home like how he wanted to do in the first place!

“I agree, sir,” Peter spoke evenly, unclenching his fist to free his fingernails from where they dug into his palms at his side, “I agree we need a plan.” A pause, a flicker of his eyes over Otto’s shoulder, “And believe you may be burning your beans.”

“Ack!” the other yelped as he turned, the arm quickly lifted the beans off the flame, his human hand fanning the rapid steam as he looked upon the boiling can. 

Peter let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, holding out a hand placatingly. “How about we worry about beans first? Then - the bigger things,” he glanced upwards a moment, gesturing with an open palm, “this storm will pass soon…”

“I should hope so,” Otto murmured, nearly to himself as he cradled the steaming can with a gloved hand, “Yes, I should hope so…”

⁂

The rain slowly subsided within the hour, alongside shared beans and words. A silence between bites, savoring the lukewarm meal that didn’t take long to turn cold and sour. Unsure what to do with his hands, Peter clasped them politely together in his lap when offered each spoonful of beans, leaning forward to take his next bite and allowing himself to be fed, seeing how it soothed the scientist into a gruff amiable silence. When Peter opened his mouth and no new distracted spoonful came, Peter looked at the other man, whose shaded gaze traced his socked feet with a furling brow. 

“What have we done…?”

Arms growing limp, the spoon and can dangled in his hands, before hitting the ground with a clattering thud. The last three bites spilled on dark, dank floorboards - but Peter wasn’t hungry anymore. 

“…Sir…?”

“My Rosie is dead,” the hoarse voice rose from the hunched form, fingers grasping at the air directly in front of him, “My… my universe…” his voice shook and faded with a painfully swallowed breath.

Otto’s sweating forehead found its way into his grabbing hands, and Peter stood carefully as more pained, sharp breaths echoed, not daring to admit they were smothered, hopeless sobs. 

Careful to step around the can, Peter’s hand found a shivering shoulder, feeling the heat of the feverish flush that spread across his bare, olive skin. Lichtenberg figures - remnants of electricity arched from his spine like tendrils, spreading to hug heaving sides and squeeze shaking shoulders. Blisters and bruising rose where metal rested clamped unnaturally tight against angry, hot skin. Seeing it so close, crossed in low moonlight from a window, Peter could only conclude Otto looked like Hell. 

At the touch, Otto flinched and raised an arm across himself, as if to fend off an incoming strike. His claws followed suit, writhing around both their ankles where they had been dormant on the floor.

“Don’t!” he hissed as he sucked in his breath, glasses slipping slightly down his sweating face, “Don’t touch it!” 

“I didn’t mean to frighten you…” Peter began, eyebrows raising, “Does it hurt…?” 

A bitter, trembling frown, Otto stared aside as one of the claws rose to look back at him, creaking in its mechanical way. The scientist suddenly raised his arm, as if to use it to force Peter’s away, but, after watching how Otto’s forearm just trembled and limply smacked against his, Peter doubted the action would follow through.

Peter swallowed, leveling himself to Otto’s level, running his thumb along creeping scar tissue. His eyebrows furrow upward, attempting to gaze into those sunglasses now focused so far away. 

“Sir, I am so sorry…”

“Sorry doesn’t fix things…” Otto sniffed, bitterly wiping his nose with the back of his hand, “retribution reaps rewards…”

“Wh-what?” Peter balked, blinking as he unfurled his hand from Otto’s shoulder, “Doctor, what are you talking about?”

“Someone wronged me Peter - I couldn’t have miscalculated! - it was working wasn’t it?” Wild whites of eyes flickered from behind dark lenses, ”I can’t let it die too - this was - this is my life’s work! My… life’s…” 

Otto’s wandering eyes glanced at a claw, escaping to a place Peter couldn’t see - the boy glanced silently between the man and machine.

Hissing under his breath, holding a sore side, Otto unfurled and stood to his feet, the lower claws supporting him against creaking floorboards, his upper claws rising to stand beside him, pressing up against forearms. Otto curled his lips to bare his blunt, aging teeth.

“Someone is going to pay for what they’ve taken from me. For my world - stolen from me. For… Rosie…”

Another rapid intake of breath, the man shuddered as he held himself in his own embrace, his stocky hands clasping at his bare shoulders, turning his knuckles white, digging his fingers into tender burnt skin. 

“Doctor,” Peter addressed firmly, offering a hand and step towards him, “Please, I know you’re in pain - let me he-“

A fist connecting to the lapels of the trenchcoat, Peter’s eyes bulged as Otto wrenched him forward with brute force. Burning, wild eyes bore into Peter’s, the pair close enough their noses grazed, spittle flying with an animal noise.

“You know nothing of my pain!” the man snarled, as the claws writhed and rose higher, their cameras exposing in red pinpoints of light pressing near Peter’s face, “You know nothing! Nothing of what I am feeling!”

Peter grit his teeth, grasping that fist that held him on his toes with his newfound feeling of weakness. 

Of Human-ness. 

“Then tell me .” Peter managed to speak, his voice barely a breath, “tell me. God. Everything. Everything you know happened. Everything you’re thinking! ” A beat, his gauze wrapped hand came over the top, enclosing Otto’s hands in their spindly cradle. He squeezed, leather gloves slick with his clammy palms. “Please - let me - help you .” 

A gasp of breath as his socked toes struggled against floorboards, Peter matched Otto’s wild stare with an even one of his own.

“You may have brought me here, Otto,” a sharp suckle of air, “but, I made a choice , remember?” 

Leather creaking, Otto’s hand trembled with the force of his grasp, neither breaking eye contact as Peter was lifted an inch more in response.

“It is Doctor to you…” the man’s low voice pressed hot on his cheek, before the grip was quickly dropped, the motion sending Peter back a couple of steps, “Otto is only when you think you’re dying, boy .”

“N… coff~! Noted,” the boy sputtered, watching as the other moved away, turning to face that distant skyline out the scratched, oversized window. 

The actuators rose and draped a torn canvas from the floor over one shoulder, and Otto pressed a hand over to settle it. Getting his breathing under control, Peter straightened slowly, his eyes falling upon the lack of light where he knew it was supposed to be. 

Something in Peter stirred into place - clenching his heart as he caught the shake of the scientists’ hand against the canvas, before roaming to the haunted whites of his eyes reflected against the pane.

“Sir…” Peter began, “your inhibitor chip… it’s…”

“We know…” a voice akin to the scientist he knew spoke softly against the pane, “I… I know…”

The metallic limbs rose up to meet him around his shoulders, opening their claw-like appendages with a creak. Peter felt their watchful eyes slithering on his flesh as if the AI threatened to peel it free if he took another step. A raised gloved hand broke the tension. Otto gave a cursory glance at his back, and, with a creak, they lowered their defense as the doctor turned, facing Peter again - paler, older. 

“That is not important now,” his elder continued, “What’s important is that this… disaster… is not in vain… that… that Rosie… ”

He couldn’t finish - Peter didn’t press him too. Otto rubbed his arm desperately at his heavy brows and eyes, stifling some stray, whimpering noise.

“It won’t be…” Peter spoke, taking a step forward, holding his hands out to the both of them, “I’m here to make sure of that, sir - alongside you - with you…” 

Without retribution that is…

One thing at a time.

A shaking breath, Otto raised his head, daring to step forward to join Peter again, having composed himself once more.

“But how? Where to even look -?  Everything happened so damn fast.” 

“I know…” Peter hummed as he bit his lip, musing as he looked over the AI. 

The four were like a pack of sniffing strays - cautiously optimistic, but hackles still raised along their bony spines. He stared directly into a widening camera as it crept closer, clicking in question. It felt alien, strange even, knowing now there was something behind the flickering cameras and wires, staring back. 

Staring back…

A lightbulb. Peter grinned. Otto raised his brows. The claws rose with them.

“Sir?” Peter breathed, as fingertips grazed the cheek of cold, living metal, “How did Oscorp handle surveillance for this project?”