|Harry Ryan has two first names (sybarite) wrote in rooms,|
@ 2015-10-07 21:25:00
|Entry tags:||!marvel comics, *narrative, harry osborn|
narrative: marvel, harry osborn
Who: Harry Osborn
What: A return to 20 and return of memory.
When: Fuzzy timeline is fuzzy.
The hard drive? It was safe and sound in the back a dresser drawer, secured under a stack of monochromatic Gucci polos. Black on top of gray on top of secrets. Harry's wardrobe was becoming a sad state of affairs. Everything colorful still owed its youth to an unplucked price tag, never worn. He'd become a walking funeral at some point, where the outsides matched the insides.
Gwen was still on his mind. Always, in clearer headed moments like these. He was unfortunately sobered now, the combined efforts of time and caramel syruped espresso. So he went for brandy. It was after noon anyway(a most opportune time to start drinking, in his mind). He still didn't know if she was clone Gwen or real Gwen, but it was obvious to him that she had no memory of more recent years shared between the two of them. He didn't think that she knew about him like that, he didn't think that she knew about their kid, or any of the bad things that came after. The bad things, he only had an inkling of them, and even that was too much.
Buzzed by three, and he wanted to walk. He wanted to investigate the reason behind Gwen's amnesia. So he made himself a note about the hard drive, who to contact for its delivery, and a brief detail on where it was hidden. Then, through the door to the hotel. Through to DC, and… nothing. Gotham, as unimpressive as ever. Already eighteen, there was nowhere for his mind to retreat, and he felt really fucking stupid for even going there in the first place. He got some more coffee and went home. He wrote to Peggy Carter, completing his good deed for the day. Then he took a nap.
It was only upon waking, a flood of memories in his mind, that he realized that little trip to Gotham might have just affected him after all. Delayed somehow. Strange. His body felt like an overstretched rubber band. He sat there for awhile, on the edge of his bed, just assessing. He didn't feel goblined, but he remembered it. He remembered everything.