Author's Note: Woo! Another chapter! Brownie points if you can point out the irony in what Norman's eating... ::gets all excited:: Anyway, this chapter goes out to all the people from the lj community at Vital Signs - http://www.geocities.com/green00goblin/ - and all the people who've already reviewed this fic. Read, enjoy, and keep reviewing. Oh yeah - and stayed tuned... the next chapter's gonna be a killer.

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Chopsticks in hand, Peter dug into his lo mein greedily, still smiling at the elder who now sat across from him. Despite his apprehensive attitude, the trip to the Chinese restaurant and home had been quick and painless, something that was new to Peter, who was used to doing things the long and complicated way.

"Hmm," He muttered between slurps, stealing a glance at the door to the kitchen. "I wonder when Harry's going to get here. His food's getting cold."

"I'm sure he'll be here soon," Osborn replied, pawing thoughtfully at his own sweet and sour chicken with the tips of the chopsticks. At one time in his life, he knew what it was like to come home to dinners that were either stone cold or tasteless, having sat in a warm oven all night. With a sigh, he lifted a piece of the chicken into his mouth and glanced towards the door and if on cue, it opened, revealing a tired-looking Harry to the both of them.

"Hey Peter... dad..." he said, setting the leather briefcase he had been carrying down next to the kitchen's door.

"Hey Harry. Got your food right here." The look on his friend's face made Peter feel almost as exhausted as Harry must have been. Seeing his sleep-deprived friend made the youth sad and offered his roommate a weak smile. "Come and get it."

"What did you get me?" the auburn-haired youth asked as he moved to sit down, returning Peter's smile with a tired one of his own.

Moving a little closer to Peter, so that Harry could pull his own chair into the small semi-circle the two men had created, the elder Osborn motioned towards the countertop. "Szechuan beef. And I think there's a little soup left, too."

"Thanks," Harry responded, ignoring the container of soup he had been offered and instead reaching for his meal. Popping the top of the immaculate white carton open, he dug into the spicy beef meal eagerly, as if he hadn't eaten all day. And, Osborn mused, he probably hadn't.

Swallowing a mouthful of his meal, he turned to Peter, a frown forming on his face. "No one saw him, did they?"

Under normal circumstances, the idea of teasing Harry would not have crossed his mind. But, Peter reminded himself, these were far from normal times.

"Actually... one man did see him." Peter kept his eyes on his lomein, suppressing the urge to laugh out loud. "The man who gave us our food asked if he was Norman Osborn." So it was a cruel joke. Deep down, Peter really didn't think Harry would fall for it, so, he saw no harm in it. Besides, his friend needed to lighten up anyway.

Had Harry chanced a glance at his father, he would have seen the elder man wearing a wry grin on his face, but the older boy was far too intent on staring at Peter in shock and disbelief. "What did you tell him?" he demanded, fear touching his spine with its icy fingers.

Apparently Harry had fallen for his friend's ruse - hook, line, and sinker.

Peter blinked at the noodles before him, unsure of how to answer. Keep up with the charade or let it drop, that was the question. He was refusing to make eye contact with Harry, so his skills of observation were quite useless. Was his friend going along with it or was he serious? He stole a glance at the younger Osborn and immediately regretted what he had previously said.

"I said nothing because it didn't happen." He swallowed more of his lomein, forcing the lump in his throat to retreat. "It was a just a joke Harry. Nothing to worry about."

"You're evil," Harry responded flatly. Popping another piece of beef into his mouth he reminded himself that Peter had just been trying to lighten his mood, not to hurt him in any way. And with that in mind, he offered his friend a small smile to show that everything had been forgiven.

Peter returned the smile fully, eyes shining with laughter. Now that he had found out how fun it was to tease Harry, he would remind himself to try it more often. It wasn't every day you got the once over on the youngest CEO in New York. "Am I really? I always imagined myself as a defender of the innocent and protector of peace. In my mind, I'm a super hero." The words slipped out before he could stop them and he glanced at Osborn quickly, worry etching across his face. That was stupid. Very stupid. In light of Harry's company, and, with Osborn being so silent, Peter had gone back to his lax attitude. He'd let something come out that he shouldn't have.

Harry grinned, either ignoring or not noticing the worry on the younger boy's face. "If you're the hero, can I be your side-kick?" he asked through another mouthful of his dinner.

Still smiling, he set his the white carton asside and glanced about the kitchen, obviously lost. He was looking for something to drink, and while he and Peter kept their refreshments - usually soda - in their boxes, his father's mansion was different. And considering the fact that he hadn't been in the huge house, since he had started college a little over six months ago, he couldn't remember where the drinks were kept. Unless, of course, he wanted water... and he doubted that would quench the thirst the spicy Chinese food had worked up.

"Ok, hero," Harry teased, "first crisis that needs our attention... Where does dad keep the drinks?"

"I think..." the elder Osborn started, his eyes glazing over as they had frequently over the last two days whenever he tried to remember something on his own. "I think there's some brandy upstairs in my room... Maybe soda too..."

Again, Peter let out a relieved sigh at hearing Osborn's answer. He'd been stupid, and he wasn't about to make that mistake again. He laughed at Harry, imagining his friend trying to crawl up a wall as his sidekick.

"Would you like me to go get them sir?" He'd never been upstairs in the mansion before. In fact, he'd only been in the foyer once, and that was back when they were in high school.

"No," Osborn responded, standing. "I need to get reaquainted with my home eventually, don't I? And what better a chance." Moving towards the door to the kitchen, he shot a half-smile over his shoulder. "If I'm not back in ten minutes, send a search party after me."

And with that, the older man was gone.

*

* I wonder if Peter's sent that search party up for me, * Norman wondered idly, coming to the last door at the end of a long hallway.

It had been nearly ten minutes since he had left the two college-aged boys in the kitchen, and he had been having a hell of a time getting around the mansion that he had once known like the back of his hand. In fact, upon reaching the second floor, he had come face to face with a labyrinth of long cooridors and empty rooms - and so far he had been down every hallway and in every room. Only one was left for him to search, the one he was currently standing in front of, before he would turn around and go back to Peter and Harry empty-handed.

Pulling the door open, he was rewarded with a huge master bedroom that was bathed in burgandy from the carpets to the thick drapes covering the windows. Slowly, he moved inside, feeling somewhat out of place in a room that had once been his bedroom. True, he wasn't really tresspassing, and therefore had no need to feel apprehenshion... but that didn't stop anxiety from stabbing him in the pit of his stomach. And all he wanted to do now was get what he had come for and get out as quickly as he could.

Winter-gray eyes scanning the room for the soda and alcohol he had promised his son, his gaze fell first on a group of masks hanging in a zig-zag pattern along the far wall. * A collection, * he mused silently, taking in the features of each of the frozen wooden faces. This was odd. Seeing things like the masks and attempting to piece part of his past back together from them was like trying to glean details about the personal life of someone you didn't know by looking at their hobbies. And still, Norman couldn't keep himself from staring at the collection, wondering where each had come from while knowing that doing so was futile.

For a moment longer, his gaze lingered on the masks, and then he returned to searching for what he had come for, and that didn't take long. Both a half-full vial of brandy and a case of Pepsi Twist were waiting for him atop what appeared to be a minature bar near the masks. Moving over to them, he grabbed both, stuffing the case of soda under his arm and holding the liquor firmly in his other hand. Then, with a quick glance over his shoulder at the masks once again, he headed towards the door.

And he was stopped again before he even reached the open portal. This time by a full-length mirror that struck a cord deep within him that - apparently - even forgetting the rest of his life couldn't erase.

* So many good things all happening for you... *

A shudder wracked Norman's body. It was that voice again, the one that had spoken to him for the first time in his office earlier in that day. He wanted to shake his head in protest, to run from the feral echo that was haunting him, but he couldn't. It was as if someone had super-glued his entire body in the position he had stopped in.

Gasping for breath, he attempted to voice a protest, and he found that his vocal cords had been unaffected by whatever was rooting him to the spot. "What do you want?" he begged softly, his own voice distant and small to his ears. Almost as though he hadn't spoken out loud. But he had, hadn't he? It didn't matter. Though his silent prayer that the formless memory his mind had dug up wouldn't return did. He didn't want to hear the voice again. It was evil - that much he was sure of - and it scared him.

But this time, Norman wasn't as lucky. This time, the shard of his broken memory pushed itself deeper into his tender mind.

* To say what you won't. To do what you can't. To remove those in your way. *

"No. Please."

What was this? -Who- was this? Half of him wanted to know, and the other half of him cried out to stay in the dark, if only to keep the voice from returning. Luckily, however, the latter half won out - with a pained sigh, the elder Osborn found his limbs in his own control again. And the former businessman wasted no time in escaping from the room.

*


"Back."

"We were getting worried, dad," Harry responded as he watched his father enter the room. "Did you find the drinks?"

Norman hefted the brandy and the soda onto the counter and forced a smile, though there was something haunted about his expression. "Right here."

"Any problems, sir?" The worry that had crept across Peter's face before now returned, eyes clouding slightly as he took in the man's almost dead appearance. He shivered softly, a tingling sensation rushing up his back, small spiders of fear crawling up the web that was his spine. Something didn't feel right. "You look a little shaken..."

For a moment, the rusty-haired man considered telling Peter what had happened in his room only moments before. After all, the young genious -was- there to help him remember his past, wasn't he? And if this memory kept resurfacing to scare what wits he had left from his return from the grave, he at least deserved a fight chance. One that maybe Peter could provide by helping him remember what the hell was going on.

He quickly disregarded the idea, though. What if the voice was something that was unique to him... something that didn't really exist... a hallucination maybe? And if it was, would Harry and Peter send him away for being crazy? He was terrified of the voice that had spoken to him twice in the form of a memory, but he was more afraid of being cast back into the black abyss his two sons had pulled him out of. But he couldn't lie to Peter again. So instead, he decided upon bringing up the masks he had found in his old room.

"The masks in my room," he started slowly, filling a glass that awaited him near-by with brandy. "They're a little unsettling."

Before Osborn had even finished, Peter's hold body had turned rigid, stiff like a board. One word kept repeating itself in his mind, taunting him, forcing him to remember what he didn't want to. It was his worst nightmare coming to life all at once and the brunnette took a step back, courage starting to crack.

"Masks?" He asked, ocean-blue eyes widening slightly. He looked to Harry, a questioning gaze as he tried to hide his feelings from the two. "What masks?"

"Oh... My father's got a collection of wooden masks in his room," the older of the two boys replied casually. "He's got about ten or fifteen from all over the world."

"I see," Peter replied, voice softer than it had been. "What makes them so unnerving Mr. Osborn?"

Norman frowned, attempting to put his feelings into words. "It's just the feeling that I'm in someone else's room... and that I'm trying to figure out who they are by looking through their things - in this case the masks. But it's odd, because I know I'm the person I'm trying so desprately to figure out."

* And the fact that they remind me of something I can't put my finger on... something that scares me. *

"That's understandable. You have been through a lot." The youngster shivered, eyes wandering to the door. Perhaps he needed to see these masks. Something about them just set him on edge.

"Mr. Osborn, would you mind if I took a look at your masks?"

"Not at all, Peter."

Peter nodded, more to himself than to the elder man. Mustering his courage for reasons unknown, Peter hesitantly made his way to the door and began to leave.

"Where is your room again?" He'd forgotten he had no clue where these masks were. It was embarrasing, to say the least, for him and he blushed softly, cheeks becoming a rosy tint.

"I'll take you there. It's quite a maze upstairs if you don't know where you're going." Offering a sheepish grin that matched Peter's blush, Norman motioned towards the door before heading out.