Harry Osborn (potential) wrote in thedoorway, @ 2014-06-07 09:12:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log, !thread, harry osborn (mcu), tony stark / iron man (mcu) |
Who: Harry Osborn, Tony Stark (MCU)
When: Morning, June 7th 2014
Where: Norman Osborn's funeral, at St. Patrick's Cathedral
What: Funerals. Awkward chats about being handed the reigns to your shitty dad's company while barely old enough to legally drink your troubles away.
Rating: PG-13 for swears, death, angst, and sadness.
Harry didn't look sad. Uncomfortable, certainly. Lost. Small. Confused, perhaps, but not sad. Truthfully, no one did. Mostly, people looked anxious, presumably about the future of the company. A few looked bored, and one was trying very hard to conceal the fact that he was playing Tetris. But no one was really going to miss Norman Osborn, were they? Harry couldn't especially blame them. It wasn't that he had any compelling reason to believe that his father was a bad person, or a lousy boss. Really, it was that he lacked sufficient evidence to believe that his father was much of anything. Most of his communication with his father had been through au pairs, assistants and secretaries while Norman occasionally glanced at Harry like he wasn’t sure what he was doing there. Even before Harry was shipped off to boarding school, Norman Osborn's presence in his life had been akin to a very angry box in the attic. Just some curious object with uncertain utility that he occasionally stumbled onto, or saw in oddly detailed nightmares. And since he’d left for school, Norman hadn’t even been that. A card on his sixteenth birthday and a bottle of scotch was the last communication he’d received from the desk of Norman Osborn, signed in what was clearly not his father’s hand. Then radio silence. In truth, a dead Norman Osborn wasn't much different to him than a live one. He hadn't even known that his father was sick, much less dying, until he’d gotten the call to come home. Of course, his father had to leave him with one last kick in the teeth, didn’t he? One last shitty thing his father gave him, worse than the scotch he didn’t need, the car he’d never been taught to drive, and the company he didn’t want. Congratulations, Harry. You’ve got a rare degenerative disease that I always knew you had and never told you about. I’ve been using experimental science to manage my symptoms, but I’ve since destroyed the research, and I’ll be much too dead to help you, so you’re pretty much fucked. But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll think of something while your mind and body rapidly deteriorate. You took a biology class at Eton, didn’t you? Accepting another round of handshakes and condolences, Harry did his best to look consoled before excusing himself with a quick lie about calling the caterer. Instead, he stepped outside of the cathedral, rummaging around in his pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Usually, he was more of a social smoker, but he was going to die anyway, wasn’t he? What was the harm? And was that Tony Stark? It wouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that Tony Stark didn’t like funerals. But they might be a bit shocked to realise how much he despised them. If he could, and he often found a way and a reason, he’d avoid them. But the death of Norman Osborn was the kind of thing he couldn’t step around. If he’d been a no-show, no one would have considered the fact that Stark hadn’t been comfortable in a church since he’d had to sit in the front row and stare at the side-by-side coffins of his parents, let alone a funeral. If he hadn’t come, people would have chalked it up to rivalry, losing faith in Oscorp, a lack of respect of all that Norman had done for the world -- and Tony didn’t want that. Stark Industries didn’t need to try to spin that kind of bad press, especially when doing so might mean bringing the death of his parents front and center once again. So he’d gone to Norman Osborn’s goddamn funeral and he’s stuck it out for as long as he could and then ducked out, explaining to anyone that had tried to stop him on the way out that he needed to make a phone call. He was halfway through dialing Bruce’s number when he noticed Harry Osborn looking at him. He supposed it was fitting, really. Going to a funeral just to avoid having his past dragged out for comparison’s sake, only to find himself staring at a young man the age he was when his father died, looking -- well -- looking the exact same way that he did. Stark looked down at his phone, shifting his weight as if considering what he ought to do next, before taking a few steps to his left so he stood beside Harry. The phone went away, and from his pocket he pulled out a small, handheld butane torch which he offered over to Osborn. “Hey, careful though, it’s got a good three inch flame on it, I don’t want you to burn yourself.” “Welding emergency?” Looking at Stark out of the corner of bright blue eyes, Harry let his mouth curl in a slight smile, sufficiently amused by the offering to forget for a moment that he was trying to maintain a certain degree of decorum. Of course Tony Stark would have a butane torch in his pocket, and of course he’d bring it to a funeral. “You know, I’ve lit a cigarette with a bunsen burner, but never a butane torch. That’s what I get for taking that Rowing class instead of Physics II, huh?” Accepting the gift with an appreciative nod, Harry held the silver-tipped cigarette gingerly between his lips as he lit the torch, carefully raising the flame to the edge of the crisp white cigarette paper just long enough to watch it blacken and curl before he took a breath. He celebrated this successful ignition with a slow, deep drag, closing his eyes and holding the smoke in his lungs for a long moment, then releasing it with a sigh of an exhale. The early June humidity caused the smoke to linger in the air like a thin fog, which seemed much more suitable weather for the occasion than the bright midday sun. All funerals should be accompanied by truly miserable weather. It’d be easier, then, to feel like you were supposed to. And not just… sort of empty. Incongruous. Angry. By the time he passed the torch back to Tony, his smile had faded significantly, but he still looked grateful for the opportunity to talk about anything else. Tipping the lid off of the slim aluminum tin, he tilted the pack in Tony’s direction. “How well do you hold up to peer pressure?” “I guess that depends what you mean.” Stark offered, returning the torch to his pocket. For all his antics, his disaster facing off with the Mandarin, his recent weekend in Vegas with the Avengers and all the rest -- he did occasionally play things by the book. The way he was expected to. After all, he’d come to Osborn’s funeral because he knew people would talk if he didn’t. It was entirely self-serving and standing outside with Harry made him acutely aware of that fact, even if it didn’t make him feel all that guilty about it. Pepper was better at towing that particular line. He wouldn’t say that she caved to peer pressure ever, but she knew how to put on the right face and please the crowds no matter how recently Stark had just insulted the very same group of people. And she was still inside, shaking hands and telling people how sorry she and Tony both were for the dramatic blow to the community Osborn’s death was while he was outside, trying to take a few minutes to pretend he was somewhere else. “Usually, I listen to what people think I should be doing, and what people want me to do and uh, do the opposite of that, honestly.” Stark admitted with a bit of a shrug. Sometimes it worked to his benefit, like bringing his identity as Iron Man out into the open almost immediately, other times it didn’t. But he tried not to dwell on what he regretted, instead he just looked at his mistakes as things he could and needed to fix. “It doesn’t always work. Case in point: I’m here, aren’t I?” It was a risk, telling Harry he didn’t want to be at the boy’s father’s funeral, and there was a slim chance it was the wrong thing to say and end up being another mistake on his long list, but Tony didn’t think so. There was something too familiar about the entire situation. The genius, reclusive scientific father, the time spent away from home at boarding school -- the absolute solace Harry seemed to take in that cigarette. All of it told him that Harry was probably there for a lot of the same reasons he was. “And so are you.” For a moment, Harry just looked at Tony in an attempt to determine what angle Stark was working, before shrugging his shoulders and casting his eyes downward. Tony would know wouldn’t he? He’d only been 19 when both of his parents died. Also sent away to boarding school. Also the son of a brilliant industrialist who probably spent most of his time in the office. But of course, Tony had been luckier than he was. Tony Stark had arrived at Stark Industries with a few degrees from MIT under his belt, and no immediate personal health crises to deal with. Harry -- he might be as ill-equipped as everyone seemed to think he was. “Yeah. Well. ‘Hard-partying socialite Harry Osborn named Oscorp CEO at 21! Was Norman Osborn losing his mind near the end?’ was one thing. The board wasn’t about to stand for, ‘Osborn Heir conspicuously absent from father’s funeral.’ I’m sure he put enough of my trust in Oscorp stock to disincentivize that sort of behavior.” It was meant to be a joke, but despite the self-deprecating smile, the tone was a little too bitter to really sound like one. Money had always been the primary tool in Norman Osborn’s arsenal. He’d never met a problem that didn’t respond to a check, an envelope, a few bills folded up in his palm. It was inevitable that it would become the primary tool in Harry’s, but of course, it had never really worked on Norman. “It’s... funny, sort of. This week? This is by far the most I’ve ever seen of him. I’ve never even met most of the people who spoke.” He knew his father had died, but after years of absence, it felt like he left. Like he gave up on Harry one more time, and left him alone holding the bag. Stuck figuring out what the fuck he was supposed to do without any direction. “Got any advice about running a company by yourself at 21? Maybe with only a vague understanding of what that company did, and a pack of shareholders who are gunning to eat you alive when you screw it up?” “My Dad -- you’ve heard about the refugees? Potts Tower. All of that? Yeah, my Dad was among them. So now I’m paying his and his new girlfriend’s rent which -- yeah. He was here for just over a year before we had anything like an actual conversation. It’s a mess, no matter how you look at it. But -- ” Stark ran a hand through his hair, trying to think about how best to address Harry’s question. He didn’t want to tell him it was all going to be okay, or dismiss the kid’s worry because he knew better than anyone that it was incredibly well-founded. He knew, from all his experience, that it probably wasn’t going to be okay and that Harry might as well be diving head first into a tank of sharks with an open wound. “Obadiah Stane.” Stark began, almost wishing that he had a cigarette or a drink in his hand so he could drag this conversation out long enough to get his thoughts in order. “My dad’s best friend. He took over a lot of the operations when I inherited the company. I did the work, the designs, the -- weapons. I built them, he sold them, he sold me, he made Stark Industries happen in a lot of ways that I never could have, had I been on my own. I trusted him, honestly. I trusted him and he felt more like a father to me than my dad ever had.” If there was any way for Tony to turn this around, he would have. If he could tell Harry to find someone like that in Oscorp, invest in them and everything would turn out right, it would have been exactly what he would have said -- if for no other reason than to give the kid some kind of hope. That was probably what he needed, standing outside his father’s funeral, looking at a life that he hadn’t thought about a couple weeks ago. Hope that the future wasn’t going to be as bleak and scary as he imagined it. “But, the second I tried to question him -- challenge him -- take back control of my company he --” Stark winced. He was just a few days away from the surgery that he and the other Tony Stark had set up for him, to take out the faulty arc reactor and replace it with something better, more powerful and more reliable. But he couldn’t think about Stane and not think about the night the man had literally ripped the reactor out of his chest and left him to die. “He tried to kill me. He co-operated with terrorists to make sure I died in a cave on the other side of the world. The guy I trusted did this. So I guess -- and I hate to tell you this, kid, I really do. But I guess my best advice to you would be not to trust anyone who could benefit from your failure, that’s a given. But it’s the ones who stand to benefit from your success that you’ve really got to watch out for. Because they’re the ones that are going to stick a knife in your back.” Harry still didn't look sad. Now, he mostly looked terrified. His wide blue eyes stared into the middle distance, vision slightly clouded by the halo of smoke that curled around his face. The ever-present tremor in his hands seemed to be exacerbated by the combination of anxiety and nicotine. Plucking the cigarette from his lips to exhale, his fingers shook so badly that he almost dropped it when he tried to tap the ash from the end. He crossed his arms over his chest in an attempt to anchor them, to steady himself, but he could still see the way his fingers trembled whenever he lifted them from a resting position. Maybe Tony wouldn't notice. Billionaire executives were notoriously self-involved, but then, they also had a nose for blood in the water. "I think I recognize that speech from one of those 'It Gets Better Campaign' videos," Harry offered mildly, chewing on the inside of his lower lip before he sucked in another breath. A pause. And then a searching glance in Stark's direction, as if he was deciding whether or not to say something. He had the sudden impulse to offer Stark the company -- to put on his best puppy dog eyes and plead with Stark to buy him out. But then, it had been Stark who just told him not to trust anyone who might benefit from his failures. Maybe that had been an expression of intent. "I imagine I don't have to point out that that's everyone I know." Harry shook his head, clearly at a loss for how to use this advice. "The last friend I had who didn't stand to gain something from me -- probably the last one who wasn't clearly after something -- is a kid I haven't seen since middle school. I don't even know if he'd want to hear from me after all this time. But it was-- you know. When you know you're not coming back, it's just easier to forget." “Funny thing, usually when you really forget someone, they’re not the first person you think about when your life turns to shit. Maybe he wants to hear from you, maybe he doesn’t -- but he can answer that, you can’t.” Tony wasn’t really built for handing out advice, and he didn’t know how well he was doing now. He knew that, had he not been lucky enough to have people like Happy, Rhodes and Pepper in his life he would have combusted a long time ago, and if this middle-school friend that Osborn was mentioning was anything like them, than the best thing he could do was find him. It might be the only thing that saved him. He’d noticed the tremble in Harry’s hands and his heart went out of him. After a quick glance around to make sure that no one was going to get a photo opportunity he stretched an arm out and dropped it around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him slightly to make the conversation as private as possible, to make the teenager look at him and block out everything that wasn’t this moment and what needed to be said. “Listen.” Stark said, running his tongue over his bottom lip for a moment’s pause and then narrowing his eyes at Osborn. He almost stopped talking, almost slapped the kid on the back and backed away from this situation. Tony knew he didn’t need to add Norman Osborn’s son to the list of things he thought about every day. He already had Stark Industries contracts, the Avengers, SHIELD, the refugees and Steve Rogers to be endlessly concerned about. And yet -- And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about how badly Harry’s hands shook. “Listen,” he repeated, “I know what I just said. so I’m not going to offer you help -- because you shouldn’t trust me any more than you should trust anyone else, obviously, based on what I just told you but -- Well. I’m not the CEO of Stark Industries anymore. I’m just a guy who spends so much time in a garage that he brings a butane torch to funerals. And if you need anything -- if you -- just -- you can call me. Okay?” Harry could only nod. He would have liked to think that his attempts to forget Peter had been mostly successful. It had been almost half a life time since they'd last seen each other, and they'd both changed immensely since then. And anyway, Peter probably hadn't really thought about him in years, especially with everything else he'd been through lately. But Harry couldn't deny that he'd wondered about Peter since they parted. That he'd been closer to Peter's Aunt and Uncle than he was to any of his own family members. That he'd unfavourably compared all of his new friends to that kid from Queens he'd connected with back home. That he'd almost named a blue beta fish he kept in his dorm room after him before deciding that finding Peter dead when Harry inevitably forgot to feed him probably wouldn't make him feel any better. Maybe there just was no forgetting the first person who really loves you. "Maybe," he acknowledged, taking another drag from his cigarette to give himself a moment to think before responding. Then, with a wry smile, "I don't know if he's got time for me these days. He's a big name now. Official Daily Bugle photographer for Spider-Man, last I heard." When Tony put his arm around him, Harry's muscles tensed slightly. He wasn't really used to being touched as an overture of friendship or an expression of sympathy, nor was this his first thought when Stark had invaded his personal space with a sense of purpose. (It wasn't exactly the first time a guy twice his age had slung an arm around him and told him to call any time, though it was truly a rare occasion when the context didn't make Harry want to punch them in the teeth.) But Harry quickly relaxed his shoulders and eased into the contact, more puzzled by the gesture than agitated. Lowering his cigarette to his side, Harry went still as Tony spoke, giving Stark his full (if slightly uncertain) attention. For a moment, Harry said nothing, letting the words sink in or perhaps trying to determine what it was that Stark wanted from him. "Okay." With a tight nod, Harry dropped his gaze to ease the tension of this prolonged intimacy, only meeting his eyes again a few moments later. "I-- yeah. Okay." "Okay." Stark echoed, straightening up and letting his arm drop away from Harry's shoulders. They were still standing close enough together that Tony could smell the smoke Osborn exhaled. "I've just -- I've got a tower full of people who don't belong here, and I am helping them. Actually throwing money at them, and I imagine about five of them are actually grateful for the effort." Probably less than that, considering the fact that SHIELD sent refugee agents to raid Stark Industries not all that long ago. "And I don't mind doing it. This isn't a complaint. I'm doing this because I can and because it's the right thing to do." He said, shaking his head. "But those people don't have a future here, or a past. You do. And with any luck, maybe I can help you cut out a lot of the crap, a lot of the mistakes I wasted my life on, and get you in a better place faster because -- I don't know. Because when I was in your shoes, I deserved that and no one gave it to me. So I'm giving it to you." Harry guessed that was about as good and honest an explanation as he could have anticipated from Stark. Giving someone else the help he should have gotten in an effort to make up for — or perhaps vicariously retcon — his own remarkably similar history. It was a motive Harry could understand, although he himself had found spite to be a much more compelling catalyst. If power was Norman Osborn's primary motivator, spite was probably Harry's. It hadn't always been that way -- there was a time when he really just wanted love, kindness, approval, things his father had never given him and probably wasn't capable of giving -- but you can only kick a dog so many times before it stops feeling sorry and starts to bite. Maybe Tony internalized that guilt a little more than he did. Or maybe Harry was just better at telling himself he didn’t. “Okay. I guess... that would be all right.” He considered, but chose not to mention that Stark’s assertions about his future here were a little overly optimistic. Topping things off with, by the way, I’m dying would have prompted one of two likely results, neither of which were desirable. Either Stark would have thought he was full of shit, or he would have marched back into that cathedral and forced Harry to live out the plot of A Walk to Remember. Admittedly, he could probably do worse. “I’m not going to have to... grow a goatee or anything for this mentorship program, am I? I don’t think I really have the follicles for that.” “I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who can pull this off.” Stark smirked, gesturing to his face. It was probably a bad idea for too many people to see the two of them smiling at Norman Osborn’s funeral, but he really couldn’t help it. And he’d gotten himself out of a lot more PR trouble than this in the past. People were used to him being inappropriate. “No seriously, I met this guy once. He had my face tattooed on his arm. Had the facial hair thing going on. Had that Kathy Bates in Misery sort of crazy happening. If I ever go missing, it’ll probably be that guy.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and gave a final nod, before turning slightly to look back the way he came. He’d left Pepper alone and he figured if he didn’t make an appearance soon to relieve her from whomever it was she didn’t want to talk to, he’d probably have to hear about it later. She wouldn’t complain, of course, she knew what funerals did to him and what one like this could stand to do to him, but still -- it was nice to not leave her hanging. “I’d better head back.” He said, looking at Harry once more as if to confirm he’d done the right thing and then taking a step backwards to turn and head off. “But this isn’t funeral talk, okay. You call me. Whenever. We’ll work it out.” Maybe he was just feeling more responsible these days. Taking in Bruce Banner had just kind of started a trend, really. After Banner came the refugees, then the Avengers, and now this. He’d never think of Osborn as simply a charity case and he didn’t feel sorry for him. He just wanted to show the kid a little bit of compassion, and not take anything from him to do it. He’d half turned back around when something that Osborn had said clicked in the back of his mind. Pictures of Spider-Man. He stopped, and looked over his shoulder before pivoting back to look at Harry. “Wait -- Parker? It’s -- you were friends with Peter Parker?” "I guess I should probably head back in, too." Harry conceded, but he made no move to do so. Instead, he leaned back against the row of colonettes and took another slow, unsteady drag from the cigarette that dangled between his fingers. Maybe people would assume he'd left because he was too distraught by the death of his father to face the influx of sympathetic faces. Or maybe one of the board members would find him and drag him inside, but he wasn't going to make it easy for them. As he saw it, he had done more than anyone should have expected of him by showing up. Asking him to stay, to shake the hands of his father's competitors while they secretly rejoiced in the market share left by his demise, to listen while complete strangers told him what a good man his father was, that was far too much. He exhaled evenly through pursed lips, watching the thin plume of smoke disperse in the still summer air. "Once I finish this... pack." Or maybe he'd just stand around outside until it was time for him to load up the long, black limousine that held his father's body in the trunk. All planned in advance -- to the minute -- by Norman Osborn, of course. He'd even chosen the color of the flowers that would adorn the his coffin in the overwrought mausoleum where Harry's mother and grandparents were already interred. Where Harry might soon end up, though there would be no one left to bury him. If it had been up to Harry, he would have put purple azaleas on his father's grave. Norman had always hated those. Harry perked up at the mention of Peter's name, turning towards Stark. "Yeah, we were once. In another life." He gave a wan smile, fond and nostalgic, but marked by a growing sense of loss. And then, curiously, "You know Peter?" “I know Peter. He works in my building, space rented out by -- you know what, that’s a bit complicated. Another version of me -- but I do know Peter. Science research assistant, chums around with Banner’s intern all the time. Came to a Ghostbusters party I had one time.” Tony hesitated for a minute, looking back toward the building and frowning as he shifted his weight and dug into his pocket to pull out his phone. He took a half step back towards Harry and smiled a little. “Listen, I have an internal network. The refugees use it, the Avengers use it -- my employees use it. Peter is on it, so if you don’t want to make a Peter Jackson quest out of finding each other again, I can set you up on it so you two can cross paths. What’s your email?” He knew this was probably not the best idea. The network was occasionally filled (recently, actually) with his antics in Vegas, Super hero refugees lamenting their lives and things that were a bit sensitive in nature. Letting the new head of Oscorp poke his head around in Stark’s private sandbox was probably a bad impulse decision, but he didn’t care. He wanted Harry to have a chance, he wanted him to find his friend and he’d promised to do whatever he could to help. This, at least, proved that. He hoped it would be enough to buy some measure of loyalty out of the kid. If nothing else, it certainly showed Stark’s willingness to go out on a limb. "Really? He works for you?" Harry's lips spread in a slightly incredulous grin; he had a remarkably pleasant smile, really, when he wasn't up to something. "Small world." Of course Peter was hanging out with Stark at Ghostbusters parties. Stark would probably never hear the end of the iron throne jokes. He briefly considered asking if Peter was still using his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy email address, but decided against it. After everything the two of them had been through, he really didn't want to out Peter to his boss as a former Yahoo user. Harry wasn't sure how much use he'd really have for the internal Stark Industries facebook, but he had to admit that his curiosity was piqued. He'd heard tell of the refugees living in Potts Tower on Stark's dime, but he'd never met any of them. That, coupled with the promise of running into an old friend, was enough to warrant a nod of assent from Harry. "It's--" he paused for a moment, trying to decide which email address to give him: the one from the boarding school he'd begrudgingly attended, or the one from the company he now reluctantly ran. "It's harryosborn@oscorp.com, I guess." The word still left an odd taste in his mouth. Oscorp. He would have to get used to that - to the surreality that was being the new CEO of his father's company without a lick of experience, without ever having spoken to his father about the company's aims, or it's direction. But perhaps Norman's unique combination of ruthlessness and business sense was heritable. |