Chapter Text
The first time it happened, Harry honest to god thought that he was going to die.
…well.
Die sooner . The fact of him dying was one he was unfortunately already well acquainted with.
Of course, that’s not really what he had been thinking about in the moment. The “moment,” naturally, being falling from an incredible fucking height.
It had honestly been a pretty normal night for him, if you ignored his impromptu swan dive from the top of a sixty-story building. He’d been “out on the town” in the most literal sense of the word—he’d spent the past few hours just…walking. And thinking.
Walking and thinking was kind of all he did nowadays. It wasn’t every day what you thought was a nasty cold turned out to be the same degenerative disease that killed your mother, so sue him for needing a little bit of time to process. His father was, somehow, taking the news worse than he was. Of course he knew he was important to Norman, his self-esteem wasn’t that low, but you’d think he’d be a little less affected given the fact that he wasn't the one, y’know, dying at 23. Norman had always been a little emotionally stunted, and was currently channeling all of his worry, rage, and grief into being someone who spent all of his time on the phone yelling about something or other. In a disappointing but unsurprising move, his father had decided to forcibly move him back home after the diagnosis, and being around such a violently unhappy man was not how he wanted to spend his last few…years? Months? Hell, weeks ?
Whatever.
So.
He was walking. That’s the important part. He was walking through New York City at 2am, like he had been so many nights recently, because the only way to escape his father’s oppressive influence was to sneak out while he was sleeping, and it’s not like Harry would be asleep anyways. He needed something to take his mind off of his impending doom, and listening to the sounds of the city and watching the lights bounce off the damp sidewalk was something that had always calmed him. He ambled along, only alert enough to make sure he didn’t accidentally stumble into the road or become an unfortunate victim of a mugging. He let his feet take him wherever they felt fit, and very purposefully didn’t think about anything except how the further reaches of the skyline could almost look like constellations, if he squinted. It was peaceful. It was exactly what he needed it to be.
Unfortunately, it seemed like New York was approaching a little bit of a cold snap, and he was a little more preoccupied with plan “escape without being seen” than dressing appropriately for the weather when he stumbled out of his building a little more than two hours ago. His bones already ached, but the cold would make it worse, would make it something he couldn’t ignore. Something he couldn’t pretend was a holdover bit of soreness from sleeping wrong or the like. Seeing an Oscorp building felt almost like fate, then, because if he called for a driver now the gig would be up and he’d be locked up in his room for the foreseeable future under his father’s watchful eye.
He hastily entered the building, because, what else was there to do? Only a couple security guards and an overnight receptionist remained in the lobby, and simply flashing his ID card got him through to the elevators without issue. The perks of sharing a name with the company, he supposed.
He honestly wasn’t very sure where in the city he’d ended up, but a quick glance around told him he’d never stepped foot in this particular building before—or if he had, he’d forgotten. Unfortunate, as many of the offices had emergency changes of clothes for the higher-ups, and a suit jacket would be better than no jacket, but at least it meant anyone around wasn’t likely to recognize him out of formalwear, if the receptionist’s surprised squeak earlier was anything to go by. He’d punched the button for the top floor when he got into the elevator, and in less than thirty seconds it’d arrived with a soft ding.
He strode out, pleased to find the floor empty, and even more pleased to spot a fancy observation deck with patio heaters and a fancy-looking fire pit. Warmth with a view was exactly the kind of thing he needed right now.
The door was unlocked, which, given the gift of hindsight, was absolutely suspicious, but he chalked it up to an overly self-important trustee who was only allowed to access this floor as a formality forgetting that an unlocked door hundreds of feet in the air was technically still a security risk. Honestly, there was a vigilante in the city with the ability to stick to and climb up walls , you’d think people would be more careful. Not that he thought Spider-Man had any interest in Oscorp’s executive offices, but, you never know. The guy had some crazy enemies, some of whom could fly . Anything was possible.
He stepped outside, not bothering to ease the door closed behind him, which was mistake number two. He made his way over to the ornate glass ledge, stopping for only a second to turn the heater beside him to the highest setting and to practically plaster himself to its side. Leaning over the ledge slightly for the best view, he could feel the wind burning his cheeks and ruffling his hair. The city was spread out before him, twinkling in the same way he imagined the stars were behind the thick cloud cover. He couldn’t tell you how long he stood there, soaking up the warmth from the heater and the beauty of the city below, but he couldn’t find it within himself to care. This was the most alive he’d felt since he was diagnosed.
Of course, then, it comes as no surprise that his moment was ruined, because allowing a terminally ill person even one moment of happiness was too much to ask, apparently. It was cliché, but everything honestly happened too fast to process. One second he was peacefully watching cars speed around below him, and the next he was slowly turning with his hands held placatingly above his head at the cold press of a gun barrel against his back.
He’d never seen the man threatening him in his life, and the sentiment seemed reciprocated, as there were no immediate demands for money or his father’s influence. Which meant that his presence here hadn’t been planned, and by the panic in his assailant’s eyes, he had but a few seconds to try to get out of this situation without a bullet between the eyes. Lovely.
“Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble, I swear—”
“Shut up!” The man spat, seemingly thinking something over for a second before quickly lunging forwards and fucking pistol-whipping him .
He hit the glass behind him from the force of the blow, hearing an ominous crack before he landed on the ground, groaning.
“You-” the man started, shifting from foot to foot anxiously but managing to keep the pistol steadily aimed at his head. “Do you work here? Answer me!” Ok, wow, impatient much? His chances of getting out of this encounter without any extra holes looked slimmer by the minute.
“N-no, man, I don’t work here!” He struggled to sit up, his ears ringing still from the force of the blow. That answer apparently wasn’t satisfactory enough, and the man started forward like he was going to hit him again, causing him to flinch back and hit his head against the glass barrier again. “My- my dad does! My dad works here!”
This gave the guy pause enough for him to avoid a second head injury in as many minutes.
“Stand up,” he ordered, gesturing with the pistol. Harry had always been a smart kid, and so he did as he was fucking told. “You know what this is?”
There was suddenly a piece of paper shoved in his face, and Harry noticed that the guy had apparently been holding a folder the entire time, which probably explained why splitting open a gash in his forehead seemed to be the best way to subdue him despite the fact that the man in front of him could absolutely best him in a fight.
He shakily took the paper, squinting to read through the pounding in his head.
“Is this…this is the building vault?” It was less than common knowledge that each Oscorp building had a vault installed in the basement—his father insisted that keeping the company’s money in a large series of locations rather than one big target reduced the risk of robbery, and subsequent money lost in said robbery. He’d never really put that much thought into the policy until literally right then, as it was apparently the reason he was in this mess.
“Yeah,” the paper was snatched out of his hands, it and the file hitting the ground as the man moved forward, grabbing his collar and slotting the gun barrel under his chin. “You’re going to tell me the combination. I don’t think you need me to tell you what’ll happen if you don’t.” They were nearly chest to chest, and the man was sporting a twitchy grin. He found himself focusing on how bad the man’s breath smelled rather than the immediate danger he was in, because if he thought about the sound of the safety clicking off, he’d freak out and definitely get shot.
“The combination! Yes! Okay!” He could totally do that. He could, like, probably do that. Maybe. Look. Didn’t we just establish that he didn’t know what building he was in? The vault codes weren’t universal, and they changed on a weekly basis. The only one he reliably knew the combination to was the one under the main office, and that’s only because his father personally made sure he was informed each time it changed.
He was apparently taking too long, as the man jostled him and pushed him closer to the ledge, nearly bending him backward over open air.
“Well? I don’t have all fucking night kid, spit it out!” There was a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his face, and he leaned down into his shoulder to wipe it without moving the gun or shifting his grip on Harry, allowing him a glimpse of a red and blue figure silently landing on the roof behind him. “And don’t you dare lie to me—you making it through the night depends on how much money I leave here with.” He shoved him violently once more, the glass barrier digging painfully into his back.
“Hey, man, threatening a kid? Really? Seems like low-hanging fruit—what’d they even teach you in Amateur Thug School?” The man whipped around at the sound of another voice, removing the gun to instead point at the new person, but not loosening his hold on Harry in the slightest. Honestly, in any other context, he’d protest being called a kid, but he was pretty sure this situation was best handled with silence on his part. Spider-Man seemed to know what he was doing (assuming, of course, that the glimpse of red spandex he got earlier was Spider-Man—the mixture of being held near horizontal and the guy’s huge fucking shoulders in front of him blocked out any chance he had of seeing his (maybe) savior), and he didn’t want to remind the guy with a gun that he essentially had a hostage right now.
“L-leave, or I’ll shoot you!” The man’s voice was shaking heavily at this point, which, fair. Gun and a little more muscle than average could only do so much against literal fucking superpowers. Thank god Spidey was a good guy, no matter what the Daily Bugle said.
Spider-Man apparently thought this threat equally as ridiculous as Harry did, as he let out a long, exasperated sigh.
“C’mon, dude. I know you know that’s not gonna work. Let the kid go and then we can negotiate how many laws I tell the police you broke when I turn you in. This goes well I’ll only get you on breaking and entering, swear it!” Spider-Man did not sound like he “swore it.” Harry would appreciate a little better acting when his life was on the line, thank you very much.
Gun Dude did not focus on the same part of the speech as Harry did, instead repeating “Let him go?” in a concerning tone of voice.
“What?”
“...you said to let him go. You want me to let him go?” Fuck fuck fuck this did not sound good.
Spidey obviously agreed, if the hesitation in his “...yeah?” was anything to go by.
“You wouldn’t— you’d never let him get hurt, right? He’s a civilian. That’s what you do, you protect civilians.”
“Y-yeah, I do, so why don’t you just put him down, yeah? Nobody has to get hurt.” Spider-Man’s switch from sarcastic quips to a tone better used talking to scared animals was probably the most worrisome thing to come out of all of this. Harry didn’t know what was happening, and he didn’t like it when he didn’t know what was happening.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’ll put him down,” he turned towards Harry then, glancing briefly at the glorified glass pane currently holding his weight before smiling in a way that had him feeling decidedly off-kilter. “But you’ll have to catch him.”
A shouted “Wait!” was the only warning he got before the man’s hand dropped his collar and a foot swung out to kick him backward, shattering the already cracked glass and leaving him with only air between his back and the ground sixty stories down.
A choked-off scream leaves his lips, and then he’s plummeting towards the ground, the air whipping around him and stealing the breath from his lungs. He cartwheels from the force of the initial push, unable to stabilize himself enough to stop the dizzying spirals his body forces him through.
He doesn’t really have any thoughts other than oh fuck I’m going to die , then shit what will happen to Dad , and then far more worryingly, what are they gonna tell Peter and MJ?
He’s falling for maybe five seconds total before he’s abruptly wrenched to the side, but it feels like it’s been hours once his feet finally touch the ground. In the moments it takes for him to come back to himself, he realizes he’s not dead, he was saved by Spider-Man, and that he’s currently collapsed in said man’s arms barely staving off a panic attack.
“Hey, hey man, it’s okay, I caught you, everything’s going to be okay.” Spider-Man’s voice is soft and soothing, as if calming down someone pushed off a sixty-story building is something he does every day. Hell, it’s Spider-Man. Maybe he does.
Harry takes in a few more shuddering breaths before removing his hands from the death grip they had on Spider-Man’s shoulders, and raising his head to look at the man who’d saved his life.
He expects an easy quip, maybe a pat on the shoulder and another assurance that he’s okay before Spider-Man leaves to catch the absolute asshole that just threw him off a building to save his own skin. He expects a quick dismissal, now that the danger has passed, especially because the reason he was in danger is currently in the wind. Honestly, it wouldn’t even surprise him if Spider-Man just left without a word, now that he has both feet on solid ground and a glaring lack of injuries needing immediate medical attention.
None of that is what happens.
It goes like this—Spider-Man’s eyes widen (or at least the eyes on his mask do) and he stumbles forward a step after choking out a strangled gasp, moving to rest a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and-
“Harry Osborn?” What. What is happening right now?
Quicker than lightning, Spider-Man has Harry wrapped up in a tight hug, confused as all hell. Harry awkwardly pats his back for a few seconds before Spider-Man seemingly remembers himself and lets go, but doesn’t move to put room in between them.
“I’m so glad you’re okay! Holy shit, oh my god.” Spider-Man takes a single step back, letting out a long breath and burying his face in his hands, as if he was the one recovering from an unexpected skydive.
“...Yeah, um. Thanks. Y’know. For saving my life. I really- well. Thank you.” Spider-Man looks up at him, still looking shakier than he has any right to after rescuing some random citizen (even if that random citizen is the son of the mayor and has enough money to buy a city).
“Yeah, of course— of course, man , seriously. Are you- you’re okay?”
“Uhh, yeah. Or. I will be, after I get home and the adrenaline wears off. I’ll be fine.” Spider-Man lets out another long breath, nodding to himself.
“Good, that’s- good.” Spider-Man just looks at him for a long second, seemingly contemplating his next words, when the building’s alarms start going off behind them, interrupting him.
“Shit! I have to go catch that guy. Stay safe, okay? I’ll- well…just stay safe, yeah?” He gives Harry one more long look before disappearing into the night, leaving before Harry can find it within himself to answer.
He doesn’t quite remember the journey home, too wrapped up in everything that just happened. He doesn’t have the energy to try to dissect why Spider-Man was acting so weird or to think about how he’s going to hide the giant gash across his forehead from Norman. It’s all he can do to remember to replace his jeans with sweatpants before falling into bed, ready to let the events of the night fade from his memory like a bad dream.
He wakes up the next morning to about fifty messages from Pete and MJ bribing and pleading for him to shirk his duties for the day and grab lunch with them. He doesn’t even have to think before agreeing.