The night that Otto returned from the other universe, he spent the night at a seedy motel at the outskirts of Queens, not because it was all he could afford (he still had a fair amount of his ill gotten gains), but because he absolutely wanted to avoid attention. The last thing he wanted tonight was to have to flee from the police. Not only was he desperately tired, but a stunt like that would hardly instill confidence in his sincerity in his promise to Peter.

In the morning, when the sun rose, when he had gotten a few hours of precious sleep, there was no question about where Otto had to go first.

Harry.

Peter had told Otto with solemn heartbreak in his voice what would happen to the boy. To Norman’s only son.

Thinking back to the confrontation between them; to Harry’s demand to bring him Spider-Man. The pain and anger twisting his face… Otto could more than believe it. The young man was on the road to ruin.

He would turn Harry from that road if he could. For Norman.

He lay wearily in the dirty motel sheets, staring up at the water-damaged ceiling, mind focused.

The first step to changing the past was to change the future.

Otto had seen Norman in that other universe. Seen. him. Touched him. Held him in his arms.

And he wasn’t about to let him go. Otto was bound and determined to find some way to get him back.

And it was clear now that Harry had been as crushed by Norman’s death as Otto had. Surely if he could convince the boy of his sincerity– of his ability– to bring his father back from the dead, that would help turn Harry from his disastrous future.

It had to.

Otto couldn’t bear the idea of bringing Norman back into a world in which his son had died.

No, if Harry was lost, it would all be for naught.

The first step in making things right was to start by making them right with the boy.

---

Harry almost hadn’t bothered to come into the office that morning. The crushing weight of the previous night’s revelations weighed heavy, like a great boulder on his chest. A weight that he had tried to ease with the bottle of Maker’s Mark that sat on his father’s desk. Of course, the bottle that had been there on the night of his father’s death was long gone. But Harry kept replacing them. Drinking them, and replacing them.

The whisky hadn’t done a thing to ease the weight.

Not of his father’s death.

Not of his best friend’s betrayal.

Not of his father’s secret, finally revealed.

Harry hadn’t slept a wink that night. He had, instead, been violently ill that morning.

Only his father’s phantom voice had been able to convince him that the company was more important than laying there half naked on his stomach on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor.

Harry wore a pair of thick, opaque black designer sunglasses to hide the hangover. He wore his best suit, freshly pressed. He shaved. He wore his father’s cologne.

He still looked like death warmed over.

“Mr. Osborn, there’s a message for you!”

The secretary waved him down as he passed; he’d hoped to walk straight into his father’s office without stopping, but that was just his luck.

He slowed, and turned back. Were his hands shaking? His hands were shaking. He willed them to stop.

“Yeah?” He looked through the sunglasses at a point just above the secretary’s head. “Is it important?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” she replied, reaching out to hand him a folded memo. “The caller said it was about your father.”

“About my father.” Harry’s hands were definitely shaking when he took the little note from his secretary.

“Yes, sir. He didn’t say much, I’m afraid. It’s all on the paper.”

“Thanks…” He forgot her name. “Thanks. Hold my calls.”

Harry managed not to stumble as he pushed his way back to his father’s office door, and shuffled inside. He sat down heavily in a large leather office chair that spun gently, and still, after more than a year, smelled like his dad.

He sighed and twisted the note in his fingers, staring at it. What would it be? Some belated condolences from some family friend that he hadn’t seen since he was five? Unpaid bills looking to collect? Another old acquaintance of his father’s trying to weasel money out of Oscorp?

Harry had seen them all, and they all left a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Now a worse feeling set in. After what Harry had seen in his father’s…. Lair… last night. What if it was blackmail?

• For: Harry Osborn
• Caller Information: “he’ll know”
• Message: “I have a lot of apologies to make. Let me start to make amends. We need to talk about your father. I can help you fix things. Meet me on the balcony again. Same time. I promise to be more polite.”

Harry stared at the slip of paper, incredulous.

“Octavius? Seriously? Again? Now?!”

He crushed the paper in his hand. What the hell kind of game was that mad scientist playing? Hadn’t he taken enough from Harry? It was a good thing that he’d heard that Mary Jane was alright, or else he’d be going feral just at the idea of Octavius daring to try to speak to him.

What did he even want? The note said something about apologizing?

He uncrumpled it again and stared intensely at it.

What the hell was it even supposed to mean? Amends? Harry ought to have the police waiting for Octavius when he showed up!

He stared at the desk that still, after even a year, was arranged the way Norman Osborn had always liked it.

The crumpled note went into his pocket. He didn’t want some  janitor finding it in the trash, no matter how little it said.

Get the police involved? And potentially incriminate his father?

No, screw that. Whatever the mad doctor wanted, Harry would handle it on his own. Like a man.

Harry stood on the balcony with a drink in hand, just as he had the night before. He swirled the melting ice around in the empty bottom of the glass, and poured himself another, watching the amber liquid tumble and splash.

It was different from last night. Last night he’d only been drunk and brooding. Now he was drunk and brooding and anxious, trying not to pace the balcony as he waited for Octavius. He wondered idly if the man was going to kill him. Harry probably couldn’t stop him if he wanted to. There was a distinct part of him that probably wouldn’t bother to try.

There was the sound of metal scraping against stone. Harry had missed it the night before, deeply absorbed in his own thoughts. Tonight though, tonight he was on high alert for it. His head whipped up, and oriented on the noise, almost spilling his drink. He held it tighter in his hands.

Don’t show weakness. Never show them your soft underbelly. That’s what his father would have said.

Harry took a breath, closed his eyes, and put a haughty and unconcerned mask over trouble and anxiety. He stepped forward to the edge of the balcony, where the scraping, clawing sound was getting louder, coming closer.

Doctor Otto Octavius pulled himself over the edge of the balcony; something seemed different about him, but Harry wasn’t able to place what it might be.

“Harry… I’m glad you’re here.”

Harry glared imperiously at him, his lips twisting almost into a snarl. “You have a hell of a lot of nerve coming here again after last night’s debacle! If it’s more tritium you want, I have two words for you, Octavius. Fuck. You.”

“More tritium?” Otto put his hands up in a pacifying gesture, and shook his head. “No, no Harry, I promise, that’s not why I’m here.”

Harry’s sneer faded slightly into a dubious frown, brow furrowed. “What is it then? And it better be good. That was my ex-girlfriend you kidnapped last night!”

“Your–”Octavius seemed caught off guard, and shook his head. He folded his tentacles down, setting himself more gently on the balcony proper. The tendrils hung back, a sharp contrast to their threatening and snapping the night before. “Harry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. Especially for threatening you. I was– I was not in my right mind.”

Harry stared at him incredulously, now seeing how much more controlled, and frankly wilted, Octavius was in comparison to the night before. Huh.

“Not in your right mind?” he demanded. “I’ll say! You fucking dangled me over the balcony! You could’ve killed me! After everything I did helping you get that damned grant?”

“You’re right, of course you’re right,” Octavius said breathlessly, still holding up his hands. “And I am so sorry. I am here to apologize. What was wrong with me– it’s done now. I’ve been… restored.”

“Restored. Right.” Harry’s voice was flat, and full of bitterness as he guessed at what might have happened. His teeth clicked together. “I guess Spider-Man must have slapped some sense back into you, huh?”

“Ah… in a sense,” he admitted. “Could we possibly discuss this inside? We have quite a lot to chat about, and this balcony is probably not the right place to do it.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him, brow furrowed. “You want me to invite you inside. That’s rich, Octavius. Okay. Give me one good reason I should listen to a single thing you have to say.”

“I want to help you get your father back.”

For a moment, Harry Osborn was struck dumb. When he could find his voice, there was only one thing to say.

“My father’s dead.”

“I know, Harry. But I meant what I said. Can we talk? Please?”

Harry stared at him. He could feel his hands starting to shake again, and he couldn’t manage to steady them.

---

The high backed leather chair in the study was conspicuously empty; Otto and Harry sat in smaller chairs, each with a glass of whisky, neat, in hand. Otto could see the boy holding on to his glass tightly, like it was a lifeline, as he tipped another generous pour into his glass.

Otto had just spent the better part of forty minutes explaining to Harry as much as he could about his time in the other universe. Well… that wasn’t quite true. Otto hadn’t told Harry anything about what he had heard of Harry’s fate. Not yet, at least. He hadn’t yet calculated the best way to tell him. Whatever he did, he certainly didn’t want to unintentionally make things worse than they already were.

Harry took a long sip of his drink, his dark eyes glassy and distant. “So let me get this straight, Octavius. You got pulled into an alternate dimension, where you met three other Peter Parkers, a bunch of science guys with super powers, a wizard. And my dad. And the Peters ‘cured’ all of you, and then sent you back.”

Otto nodded. “To put simply, yes. And I do understand how profoundly insane that sounds.”

“Good, that makes two of us,” Harry huffed. He took another long sip, and leveled an accusing finger at Otto. “So if you sent my father  back– why isn’t he here?”

Otto felt a sting in his heart at the question. If only it could have been so simple.

“Time doesn’t seem to work that way,” Otto sighed. “You can’t truly change your own past, just create–”

“Branches,” Harry huffed. “String theory, right? Pete must have explained it to me fifty times.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s exactly right. So, while your father returned to a time before his own death, we have unfortunately not.”

“Yeah.”

Otto could hear the rough bitterness in Harry’s voice when he answered. More and more it was clear to him that Norman’s absence had broken something in the boy, as sure as it was threatening to break Otto himself.

There was an awkward silence between them.

“So what did you come here for then?” Harry demanded finally. “You just said the past can’t be changed, and my father is dead, so what the hell do you think you can do?”

Otto took a breath. “I think that I can break the rules. But I need your help.”

“My help?” He frowned deeply, young brow furrowing in a way that was very similar to his father. “Oh I get it. You just want me to fund another one of your crackpot science experiments! Well sorry, Octavius, you can get some other patsy to bankroll you.”

He winced at the accusation, and almost tripped over his own tongue trying to explain. “Harry, no, I promise you. I understand why you would be skeptical, but that isn’t what I meant at all.”

“Yeah?” Harry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, balancing his drink on one of them. “My dad always told me, when something doesn’t make sense, follow the money. Then tell me, doc. Why the hell do you even care? What makes you give a single shit about bringing back my dad?”

Otto felt time stretch around him. How he answered this question was important. It might make or break everything he intended.

Despite how hard it was, Otto settled on honesty.

“Harry, I was in love with your father.”

“Harry, I was in love with your father.” It was difficult for Otto to say out loud, and he held his breath as he waited for Norman’s son to respond.

Harry’s brow knit. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you. I thought you said you were in love with my father.”

“That’s…. Yes, that’s what I said,” Otto confirmed. He couldn’t keep himself from wincing. He’d been afraid to imagine how this conversation would proceed, but he had the feeling that it was not going well.

Otto was just about to find something, anything to say just to fill the awkward silence, when Harry finally spoke again.

“A lot of people would consider my father a difficult man to love.” There was almost no inflection in Harry’s voice. With the leaden tone, Otto didn’t have a clue how the boy really felt about what he was saying.

“…A lot of people would say the same thing of me, I suppose,” he answered finally. It was nothing but the truth. Otto had always put his work before his relationships, and his childhood long past hardly offered any more evidence of his own lovability.

“So were you…. Together?” Harry asked after another moment of strained silence.

“For a while, when we were in college,” Otto admitted with a mix of embarrassment and nostalgia. “We drifted apart after that. We were both busy people. And of course, your father met your mother, and I figured that was that.”

“Oh. …I never knew my father…” Harry trailed off. Maybe that was all he intended o say.

“I… suppose one’s college age dalliances aren’t something one discusses unless they come up,” Otto murmured. He wasn’t particularly hurt to know that Norman hadn’t spoken that way of him. Image, after all, was important, and it was only in the last few years that that sort of thing was even beginning to be tolerated. But he did feel bad for Harry, who clearly felt it must have been one more way he’d been isolated from his father.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry mumbled, staring down at his lap. “Might have helped to know about it when–”

“When?” Otto urged him to continue when he cut himself off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he snapped, looking back up at at Otto with a fiery look in his eyes. “So, you were in love with my dad, and now that you met a wizard from an alternate universe, you want to try to bring him back to life.”

“It sounds absurd when you put it like that, I realize, but–”

“I’m in,” Harry announced. He knocked back the last of the drink he’d been holding and clicked his teeth together. “Let’s take a chainsaw to the natural order. See where we get.”

Otto hesitated. Harry looked… unwell… when he agreed. He had almost the same wild look in his eyes as Norman did when the Goblin overtook him. Otto couldn’t shake thoughts of concern; where would this road lead them? Was it hubris to think that bringing back the dead could do more good than harm? What kind of damage might even the mere attempt do to the young Osborn’s psyche? Perhaps what they both really needed was a therapist, and grief counseling.

No! Otto refused to accept it. Norman was out there! He was real! He had seen him, touched him! And god help him or damn him, he would do so again! He would bring the boy’s father back and help them mend whatever rift had so terribly ripped Harry apart in his absence, and until that time, he, Otto Octavius, would take the boy under his wing. After all, if he and Norman were able to reunite in the way Otto wished, wouldn’t he be like a second father to the boy? Certainly! Well, they were in this together!

“Chainsaw the natural order…. Yes. Well, I am willing to, if that’s what it takes, Harry.” Otto felt a rather intense little smile spread on his own face and he offered the boy his hand.

Harry shook it. His carefully manicured nails only dug into his palm a little bit.

“Round two of the Harry Osborn and Otto Octavius partnership,” Harry said, with an answering rueful grin. “Let’s hope this one doesn’t end the same way, huh?”

“I should certainly hope not,” Otto agreed, grimacing. “Thankfully, I have learned from my mistakes, and intend to put my hard won education into practice.”

“Oh yeah? Any hot tips to lay on me for avoiding a flaming dumpster fire?”

While it was obvious that Harry was being facetious, Otto chose to answer earnestly.

“For the first, I’d like you to work more closely with me on the project when possible. I’m aware that you lack the background in science, and that you have other matters which may require your attention, but I think it will be valuable to have you in the lab.”

“Look, if you need a lab assistant I can find you one who’ll turn a blind eye to you being a wanted felon and all, easy.”

“It’s not about that, Harry.”

---

“Not about that huh? Well, what is it about?” Harry’s mind was on fire. It was too much at once. Way too much. Otto was talking about wizards and alternate universes and three Peters, and bringing his father back from the dead, and apparently he was also gay with his dad? Harry would have loved to have known about that when he was hitting puberty. Might have helped with some of the guilt and shame and inadequacy. Or maybe it wouldn’t have. No way to know.

Unless Octavius *really* fucked with the timeline, anyway. Hell, maybe that’s exactly what he was intending.

It felt like his brain was throbbing inside of his skull. He needed another drink, pronto. He started to pour one while Otto answered him.

“It’s about helping one another, Harry. And keeping one another on track. This project is about one thing, bringing back your father, and I don’t want to find I’ve gotten distracted from that by the science of it all.”

Harry tipped the Makers Mark into the glass, and tipped the glass into his mouth. It burned on the way down, and he took a breath through his nose.

“So you want me to keep you on task, is that right?”

“For starters, yes. I think there are any number of reasons why your continued presence on the project would be beneficial.”

‘Your continued presence on the project’, he made it sound so businesslike. So normal. Was that Otto’s way of coping or was he just *like* that? Harry had no idea.

“So what would have have done if I said no?” he asked, changing the subject abruptly. “What would you have done if I said I thought my dear old dad was better off dead?”

“I’ll be honest with you, I hadn’t considered it, but he spoke so fondly of you when I saw him, that it didn’t even cross my mind.”

Harry froze mid-sip of whiskey. He felt like his blood froze too.

“He talked about me?”

“Yes,” Otto nodded. “We didn’t have long to talk about anything in particular, but asking about you was one of the first things he did.”

Harry drained his second shot of whiskey. He needed it just to restart the heart in his chest. It felt like it was skipping beats all over.

“Alright. Let’s get this started,” Harry said, thumping down his glass with a little too much force. “You can use his private lab at Oscorp. I’ll get you whatever upgrades you need.”

His father had asked about him.