The penthouse is silent. Shadows settle into corners, creeping away from the fading light of the setting sun.
He moves from room to room, his hands shaking, adding a short laugh for every new step. Each expelled breath of sound escaping in time with the beat of his heart, "Heh, haaa, ha, ha... Spiderman..."
His shadow jumps across the sharp edges of the furniture, spreading across the room before melding with the darkness.
His wife isn't home.
Pausing, he raises a hand. His index finger comes to rest on his chin.
Tap. Tap.
"Where to? Where to?"
He skips forward, first one and then two steps until he's in the hallway. Here, it is almost completely dark. His shadow, distorted by the light, stretches across the floor, indenting as it hits each doorway.
Zig. Zag.
Reaching both hands out, he spreads his fingers. They scrabble like spiders, gripping at the empty air.
He giggles.
"Need to-"
Shocked by the sound of his own voice, he jumps. His feet drag against the carpet, shuffling in the silence.
"Too soon...what to do?"
Maybe Harry? Useless Harry.
He considers for a moment. Yes, that could work.
"Need to!"
His fingers twitch again. They ache to grab, to hold, to break.
To fix.
"Need to hide. He's coming... he knows. He knows. He knows."
"Too soon."
He moves in a sudden burst of activity, down the hall and past several doors until he is there.
Pushing the bedroom door open.
The room is in shadow. So dark, he can see almost nothing. A bed, a dresser, a TV and a game console. There are schoolbooks scattered everywhere. Every book is open, pages torn and crumpled. As if the owner had tried to study them all at once, and failing, had abandoned them.
They make odd little islands in the sea of clothing that is the floor.
He's moving further into the room, wading through the mess, when he sees it.
A body. It is thrown over the destroyed books amid sparkling shards of broken glass. Like a broken doll, thin limbs at odd angles.
A sickly sweet smell permeates the room. It's familiar.
Nose twitching, his right foot stops but the left keeps going. They collide and he stumbles for a moment and then he recovers. Feet moving in a quick jig. Dancing while he frowns at the sight before him.
"Yes," he says in triumph. "H-a-r-r-y!" he sing-songs.
Lying there on the floor in his bedroom. Small body crumpled like the clothing and books that litter the room.
Passed out. The little fool.
He casts about him, looking for the cause.
Though he already knows what he'll find. It couldn't be more perfect if he had planned it himself.
"I-know-what-to-do-!" He sing-songs again. His voice is barely above a whisper.
Still, he looks among the trash and other trappings of his boy's room. There's more here than old, unwashed clothes and books. So many books. Torn and ripped apart; Harry's discarded attempt at intellectualism.
The boy never did have what it took.
Broken glass, blood, and that smell.
The state of the room is an obvious cry for help. But Daddy's been busy. Very busy.
"Heh, ha, ha, ha!"
The mirth escapes before he can control it. He covers his mouth, trying to stifle the sound. But, he needn't have worried because Harry doesn't react. Reaching a foot out, he nudges Harry, pushes gently, and then harder. Harry's head moves to the side with each nudge, his body shaking with the increasing force of the taps.
Still nothing.
Distracted, he angles his toes to a point and drags his foot down the side of Harry's face to his neck. Here he rests for a moment, considering, and then he presses. Just the barest amount.
He wouldn't want to hurt his boy. His boy crying for help in the trash heap that is his room.
Harry's face begins to turn red. He gasps, and his face scrunches up.
But he doesn't wake.
"H-a-r-r-y!"
And then, there it is. It glints under Harry's lax hand, catching the light that seeps in through the open door. A small empty bottle with only traces of the viscous green liquid it used to contain.
It's in his hands and under his nose before he registers that he's made the movement.
The smell is strong: acidic, bitter and sickly sweet.
Globulin green.
He'd know it anywhere.
He leans forward, bending almost in half, hovering over Harry. Watching his chest rise and fall. Greedily sucking in the warm puffs as Harry exhales, each breath wafting over his face.
It is on his breath.
The fool has been drinking it.
He giggles. He has a plan!
He reaches out and pulls at first Harry's shoes, then his pants. He lingers there. The boy's legs have a light covering of hair and there is more muscle than he remembers. The globulin has worked some of its magic here. He caresses the gentle curve of a calf leading into a thigh, which is still youthfully slender, but dense with new muscle. His hands linger on the warm flesh, the soft hairs tickling his palms.
He licks his lips at the hint of strength. For a moment, he is almost proud of Harry. It took initiative to disobey his father. He smiles at the thought of his weak Harry mounting a little revolt against the king of the household.
Stealing the king's power from under his nose. Taking the globulin green for himself. Finally showing some ambition, but lacking the aptitude to see it through appropriately.
The fool had drunk the globulin!
"Harry, Harry, H-a-r-r-y!" He scolds as he grips the firm thighs. Squeezing hard enough to leave bruises.
He pulls Harry's shirt off next. Pausing, he looks at his boy. His Harry. Such a disappointment.
Standing up, he grabs each slender wrist, holding them in one hand, and tugs. He makes a human shaped path through the destruction of the room as he drags Harry behind him. Out the room and into the hall and then into his own room. Here he drops Harry and begins to disrobe. Removing the mask, the tunic and the pants, until the Goblin is nothing but a discarded persona.
Nude, he walks to his closet. Pulling two silk ties out, he considers, dark blue or steel gray? He settles on the latter. Undershorts, undershirt, socks, pressed slacks, starched shirt and handmade leather loafers finish his attire. Each garment added until he is dressed in the costume of Norman Osborn.
Harry still lies there, naked on the floor of his father's room. He'll be the Goblin soon enough.
It will be Harry's greatest achievement.
But first Norman must help him make the most important part of the transformation. Kneeling next to his son, he covers Harry's mouth with one hand. His fingers almost engulf the entirety of Harry's face. He reaches down and grabs one of Harry's bare ankles. Pulling and twisting, he waits for the small pop followed by the puff of moist air against his palm as Harry gasps in pain.
Yes. That will do it.
With care he dresses his boy, trying not to jostle the leg too much. Caressing the broken ankle, his hands slide up to touch the bruised thighs and throat. Such warm skin, almost feverish, it's moist with sweat. His fingers linger on the soft lips, until he replaces them with his mouth, capturing Harry's small pants of pain.
Kissing it better.
He's a good father.
And then he covers the pale flesh with the green cloth until slowly, Harry becomes the Goblin.
There is no light in the hall now as Norman drags the Goblin behind him. No light in the penthouse as he props him on the couch.
No sound but Harry's whimpers as they wait for Spiderman.
No shadows to hide them.
He smiles in the darkness.
"Too soon," he says to no one, "I was too soon."
"I can wait."