Summary: "It doesn't make sense. Everything seems just fine. But this sixth sense of his doesn't lie." Spoilers for Spider-Man: No Way Home. Something's wrong. Peter can sense it. And he has a bad feeling that it has to do with one of the four supervillains that he and May are housing in Happy's apartment. Or, the written perspective of the Goblin coming out of the box. One-shot.
Rising Demons
Peter's in the midst of explaining Max's electricity dissipater to him when there's a shift in the air that raises the hairs on the back of his neck, jolting him out of the conversation. He feels cold, so cold.
Something's wrong. Something's very wrong. Or about to be.
It's almost as if there's an evil presence inhabiting the apartment with them- technically, there are three, but they've not posed a problem, he hasn't thought that they would- but it's like something's woken up that's been asleep, a predator rising from hibernation. And that predator has ill intentions.
He quickly dismisses himself, rising from his seat, moving to sit on his own. He quietly listens, but all seems well. None of the others are arguing- in fact, some of them seem rather comfortable here, even. It doesn't make sense. Everything seems just fine.
But this sixth sense of his doesn't lie.
Another stab of ice pricks his skin, and he suppresses a shiver, dread spiking his heart. He digs into this sixth sense, the one that's never led him wrong, and rises to his feet, tuning out all else as he makes his way back towards the main living space, where the others are. Something horrible is about to happen, he knows it.
"Peter?" Octavius inquires, recognizing from whatever past experiences he's had with his Spider-Man that this is no joke. He follows, Osborn right behind him, the latter eerily silent- his first sign. And Peter misses it completely. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know." He breathes, eyes darting about. Oh, God, he feels like he might be sick. "May?"
"What is it, Peter?" His aunt asks from the stairs.
He stops in the middle of the room. His breathing is heavy. All eyes are on him, and he's again reminded that he's in a room full of not simply patients, but of villains. His heart beats faster than some of his most exhausting feats. His head snaps around to each of them, his wide eyes briefly examining them for any hint of a sudden movement.
"Peter?" Max? He's not sure who's asking anymore. He hasn't felt this tense in his entire life- which is really saying something when you're the Spider-Man.
When his gaze flicks over to Osborn, the man brushes past Octavius, moves to stand in front of the window, where he turns to face the rest of the room from. His appearance, his aura- he doesn't feel very worried about it all to Peter. But then again, the others are only suspicious of Peter, not truly concerned. But it's his second sign, and he misses it too.
He looks to Max.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Peter glances back to Octavius, through the doorway May's ducked through behind him, and then it clicks. Octavius has been cured, he's safe. Max is clearly confused, at a loss of the situation. Flint seems just as baffled. Peter takes a deep breath. He knows who the threat is.
It's the man who's been kindest to him throughout this sorry excuse of a work day.
It's the armored, flying man who attacked him on the bridge just when he'd gotten things semi-under control.
It's the scared, lost man that fled to his mother in search of Spider-Man, seeking salvation.
It's the friendly, cooperative lab partner that he's worked alongside all day.
It's Norman Osborn.
Peter squeezes his eyes shut in regret, honing in on the man's aura. Buried, replaced with something cold and haunting and absolutely maniacal. Peter senses those dangerous eyes on him, senses the stony creature grab something on his person, his arm creeping forward in preparation-
His eyes shoot open, and a web fires from his wrist. Just in time, it seems, as a forearm gets caught up in it, pinned to the glass of the window behind it.
A head turns from staring at the trapped limb, narrowed eyes stabbing through him. The voice that speaks is slithery, almost, knowing deception right on his tongue. "That's some neat trick, that sense of yours."
"Norman?" Octavius steps forward, his figure as tense in horror as Peter's.
But it's not Norman Osborn speaking, not any longer. It's-
"Norman's on sabbatical."
"The hell?"
"-the Goblin."