DISCLAIMER: It's not mine, 'cept the plot, get the owners to impose a jail sentence and fine, and you'll get knocked on your bott! Lol.
Chapter Two: Secrets (Part I)
Peter woke feeling surprisingly well rested, considering the previous night's ordeal. Sleep lingered in his eyes and mind as he threw off his covers. He shuffled to the closet, and pulled out whatever shirt and pants his hand happened to land on. He didn't bother to look at the clothes he held. The teen shuffled out of his room, to the bathroom for a quick shower.
Half asleep, he stepped into the warm spray and washed up. The shower finished waking him up, and he turned off the water. His hand groped for the towel he'd left on the towel rack. He didn't dare step out of the shower without drying off somewhat. Aunt May had complained often that wet bodies were ruining the linoleum in the bathroom. He shook his head at the irony. Aunt May worries that moisture will ruin the floor in a room that's bound to get wet, he thought with a whimsical smile.
He dried off, then stepped out of the shower and started to dress. Until he noticed that his shirt was a bit tight. Peter frowned. I may not be a jock, but I do get some excercise. After all, chasing that bus every day for half a dozen blocks to get to and from school has to count for something. When did I gain so much weight? With some difficulty, he managed to get the shirt off again. Dreading what he would see, he turned to the full length mirror that hung on the bathroom door with his eyes shut. When he opened them, Peter thought his eyes would pop out of his head.
Trying to reconcile his mind with what he saw in the mirror, he ran a hand over his chest. Holy cow! I know those muscles weren't there yesterday! The hand traveled to the six pack he now had. No way! Then, No wonder the shirt was too tight! Holy cow. He noticed another change in size, a bit further down and his face flushed. No way! Peter thought again.
"Peter, are you alright in there?" came his aunt's worried voice, snapping his reeling mind out of the circles it was going in.
"Uh, yeah, Aunt May. Be right out." Peter pulled his boxers and pants on, and slung the towel over his shoulders, not wanting to risk ripping his shirt. Aunt May liked to take stuff he had outgrown to charities and shelters for the homeless, and he thought it was a good cause.
"Oh, good, I was starting to worry. I tried to tell you several times that breakfast was ready."
"Sorry. I kinda spaced out," he said as he opened the door. Aunt May smiled and nodded, already starting to walk toward the stairs so she never noticed Peter's new physique. The teen took advantage of that, practically running to his room in his haste to get a looser shirt. If he showed up at school with muscles that had appeared overnight everyone would think that he had had plastic surgery or something. Finally dressed, he ran downstairs for breakfast.
BEEEP! BEEEP! BEEEP!
The insistent, shrill cries of Harry's alarm finally woke him. He hated the thing with a passion, and the noise it made. It was a necessary evil though, since he was a heavy sleeper. Long ago had his father and all the hired help given up on trying to wake him every morning.
For several minutes Harry lay with his eyes shut, listening to the alarm. He wanted to sleep. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he imagined a badly proportioned animated Harry pulling out a giant mallet and smashing the alarm clock. Alas, it was not to be. Peter would probably get the crap beaten out of him by Flash if Harry wasn't at school. Briefly he wondered, What's Flash got against Pete anyway?
Admitting defeat to the alarm clock, he opened his eyes. Before he could come up with a reason to stay in bed, he bolted onto his feet. This was a morning routine for Harry. If he didn't throw himself out of bed pretty quickly he'd fall asleep. Theoretically. Stupid alarm.
He shook his head and ambled to his oversized walk-in closet. As usual he grabbed a pair of faded jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. Harry knew it ticked his father off to see him dressed like that. Especially since these aren't exactly fashionable, he mused. Frankly, Harry didn't care. He was the one who had to wear it. Why not at least be comfortable?
He dragged himself to the bathroom for a shower. As soon as he was showered and dressed, he ran downstairs to the kitchen. Normally he'd skip breakfast or just grab something quick, but lately Pete had been telling him he looked gaunt. He seemed worried about it, even asked Harry if he was becoming anorexic. Harry had barely suppressed a laugh when Peter asked him that. Truth be told, Harry had fast metabolism, and the only meal he skipped or skimped on was breakfast. Even that was only because of lack of time.
Harry shook his head. Peter worries too much, he thought, taking a seat at the kitchen table. His father was seated on the other side. They almost never used the dining room. It was for when they had guests, and for special occasions.
Suddenly Harry noticed his father didn't have his nose buried in the Wall Street Journal. He was about to congratulate his father and suggest they sit in the dining room for this 'special' occasion, when he noticed what his father was doing. Alternating between glaring at his cereal and glaring harder at his son. Images of the previous night flooded, unbidden, into the teen's mind. Norman. Norman drunk and passed out. In his completely trashed study.
Suddenly Harry lost his appetite. Pete'll jump my case if I don't eat something, though, the thought came to Harry-- detachedly; as if he were suddenly no longer Harry Osborn, but someone else. Just watching, the way a movie, or sometimes a well-written book is watched in the mind's eye. Harry got up from the table, muttering some excuse about being late. He grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and forced himself to walk, not run.
The hairs on the back of Harry's neck raised as he turned to head for the door. Danger! Danger! his senses cried out at him. Then he felt a hand take hold of his wrist. Nothing unusual about that. Except that the hand had an iron grip on his wrist, and it hurt like a mother, and it would probably bruise.
A voice came, his father's voice, but so much harsher than Harry ever remembered it. And he remembered it being pretty harsh at times. Like last week, when I failed that history quiz, he recalled. His father had been pretty angry. "Where do you think you are going?" Before Harry could reply, his father spun him so Harry had to look at him. There was a strange, Maybe crazed? gleam in his father's eyes. He'd never seen that before. Norman answered his own question. "Nowhere. We're going to eat together, like a normal family. And we're going play hooky, like a normal family, and spend the day together, like a normal family."
This was really creeping Harry out. The last time he had suggested doing anything 'like a normal family,' Norman had just gone all melancholy and went to his study to get drunk. He fumbled for an excuse to get out of it. "School, Dad. I'm not doing too hot as it is. I have to go to school. I can't miss any more of it. I already missed two weeks on your trip to Spain, and four days with one of your overseas conference-things, and--"
A right hook to his jaw cut him off. Shit. So I was right. Dad's become violent. My fears are coming true. He stared at Norman for a moment, his hand reaching up to touch his jaw. Norman had started ranting and raving a split second after hitting Harry. The teen wasn't listening though.
He bolted to the door, tears forming in his eyes.
Lunchtime
Peter stared at his wrist. What was that weird, sticky white stuff that had just shot out of it? Since when did anything come out of his wrist? Peter was thankful his best friend hadn't been there to see him make a freak out of himself. Harry'd had to stay behind at their last class. The teacher wanted to talk to Harry about his grades.
Peter ran out the cafeteria door, letting it close behind him. The tray was still attached to the white stuff, though, and that was still attached to his wrist. He needed to go somewhere. Needed to think. When he pulled free of the white stuff that had trapped him near the cafeteria doors, he continued walking down the hall. He headed for his locker. At least if he was going to ditch he could take what homework he did get and do it later.
All hopes of an easy escape were dashed as Flash's voice shouted from a few short yards behind him, "PARKER! YOU FREAK! STOP!"
"Uh-oh," Peter muttered under his breath. He was still trying to do his locker combo to get his homework. He'd been on the receiving end of Flash's punches before. Sloppy, but man! Did they ever hurt! Whenever Harry was around he stuck up for Peter, but Harry was probably still being lectured by Mr. Dunaham. As he did every time Flash attacked him, Peter fervently wished Aunt May wasn't such a pacifist. She wouldn't let him take martial arts lessons. Fighting was one thing she was dead set against.
Then, out of the blue, everything seemed to be going in super-slow motion. His senses were all suddenly on overdrive. A fly landed on the alarm bell on the wall. A kid down the hall slipped. Up the hall, Harry emerged from the classroom Peter had left him in. A fist flew at Peter's head. He dodged it with ease. It impacted his locker door so hard it left a large dent. Glad that wasn't my head, Peter mused, wondering at his new reflexes. Where had they come from?
"FLASH! KNOCK IT OFF, LEAVE PETER ALONE!" shouted Harry, about to step into the fray. A couple of Flash's cronies grabbed him and held him back. Peter glanced at him.
"It's okay Harry. I think I can take him," Peter stated calmly, surprising himself and everyone else.
Flash tilted his head, confused. "Have you gone nuts, Parker? Maybe you should get your temperature taken, seein' as I'm gonna send ya ta the nurse's office anyways."
The goon threw a few punches at Peter, but he dodged each with ease. He noted that Harry didn't struggle as hard to free himself from Flash's cronies. He'd realized that Peter could handle himself. Finally fed up, Peter threw a punch of his own, giving it his all, since he knew he was pretty weak. Harry's jaw was among the ones that needed to be picked up off the floor two seconds later. The school's toughest bully and most popular jock had just gone flying down the hall. The momentum only ended when Flash crashed, back first, into the far wall.
In the back of his mind, Peter registered Harry's exclamation of, "HOLY CRAP!" He didn't want to hear more reactions.
TBC...
