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seriousficSorry this is late. Sienna Miller has been nude in a lot of movies.
Peter wasn’t moving when Mary-Jane found him. He was in his apartment, halfway in the process of winding a bandage around his arm, but he’d long since just frozen. The bandage had slipped from his hand and was stirring across the floor in the breeze from the air conditioner. She set her things down on his desk, rounded the couch to him, and took the end of the bandage, tying it off at his elbow. He wasn’t crying, though his eyes were red.
There were bloodstains on the couch he was sitting on, and Mary-Jane tried to think of what to say as she checked his injuries. She settled on the timeless classic of “Are you okay?”
“I thought I would be,” Peter said. He rubbed at his nose, his damp eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Doctor Octopus is dead.”
“So… one down, one to go?”
“It’s not like that!” Peter hissed, looking up at her. He instantly softened, regretting the harsh words, and gave her a consoling half-smile that died momentarily. “You didn’t know him before the accident. Ock… Otto was a good man. It was one thing when he sacrificed himself to save us – he was sane and, and righteous. But like this…”
Mary-Jane found a bowl of bloody water with a washcloth in it. She wrung the washcloth out, dipped it in a glass of water, and dabbed at Peter’s more cosmetic wounds. Dried blood and weird bruise striations. “You can’t save everyone.”
“I didn’t even try. I wrote him off. Didn’t even put any thought into it, just…” Peter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I softened him up for the Hobgoblin. He was sick, and I should’ve helped him. That’s what I do, right? Help the weak, the defenseless. Where was I for him?”
Mary-Jane wiped at his split lip, shutting him up. “Otto didn’t want your help. He made a decision.”
“What kind of a choice did he have? Those damn tentacles attached to his body, his wife dead…”
“We always have a choice,” Mary-Jane said. She wiped the last of the dried blood from Peter’s brow. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
She kissed him, gently, and after a moment he opened his arms to let her embrace him. It didn’t hurt, her kneeling on the couch beside him, leaning into his touch, smelling of nature and strawberries and nothing like the smog of New York.
“I don’t deserve you.”
She brushed some hair out of his face. “Yes. You do.” She kissed him again, longer, before drawing him into a prolonged hug. “I know what’ll cheer you up. Harry’s party.”
“I’d forgotten,” Peter said dryly.
“I didn’t.” Mary-Jane picked up a garment bag from the desk. She unzipped it, revealing the velvet darkness of a tuxedo. “Try it on.”
Peter liked the mischievous grin MJ had at the thought of him in a tux almost enough to smile. “Yes ma’am.”
***
Captain George Stacy felt old. He’d felt old since Giuliani was mayor. Gwen was getting to that age where the media insisted she’d be experimenting with… stuff. Going to raves, getting stuff slipped into her drinks, drinking, driving. He just wanted to keep her safe, but now there were freaks of all sorts flying around the city, burning up town…
Well, scratch one off the list. And good riddance at that.
He walked through the busy police station, relaxing with the knowledge that Dewolff would be handling clean-up. She seemed like a capable officer, though they hadn’t formally met yet.
George dodged out of the way of the mayor’s representative, making his way into his office. Harry Osborn was waiting for him, looking antsy. Practically crawling out of his chair. George almost would’ve pegged him for an addict, except the Osborn kid froze and fixed George with a grin that no speed freak could’ve managed.
“How you doing, son?”
Harry neatly folded his fidgeting hands together. “I would like to get back to running my business, if you don’t mind.”
George sat down on the edge of his cluttered desk. “Mr. Osborn, a death threat by Otto Octavius is nothing to laugh at…”
”He’s dead, isn’t he?”
George held up a hand, cautioning the young man. ”That is, as of yet, unconfirmed.”
”Unconfirmed?” Harry slid to the edge of his seat, hands white-knuckled on his knees. “Couple thousand commuters see him getting blown up in mid-air and it’s unconfirmed?”
”We’ll still sweeping the bay. You know how it is. If you don’t see a body…”
Harry stood, cracking his neck. “I don’t need to see a body. He’s dead. Now I would like to attend to more pressing matters. Important people have been invited to my birthday celebration and I’m not going to let some dead maniac intimidate me into rescheduling.”
”Mr. Osborn, I urge you to reconsider.”
”Urge away. But I’m leaving. So either charge me with a crime or get out of my way.”
George tried to stare the kid down. He’d done it before, with a million young Turks, but for some reason this one didn’t back down. His brown eyes, flecked with green, stared into George’s without blinking or wavering. George had seen suspects quail under his will, but Harry just kept staring. And slowly, George began to wonder if a rabbit felt like this when an eagle was staring at it, about to strike.
George looked away, missing Harry’s triumphant smirk. Osborn walked away. George’s phone was ringing anyway.
He picked it up. The voice on the other end he’d heard before, but only in snippets, terse replies, or more likely the sharp quips heard through news feeds. But over the phone, with crystal clarity, it set off a bomb-blast in George’s mind.
”George Stacy?”
”Spider-Man.”
The voice didn’t lighten, or joke, or quip. “Yeah. The Hobgoblin is Roderick Kingsley. Roderick Kingsley.”
“Are you sure?”
Spider-Man barely hesitated. “Who else would it be?”
Dial tone.
George set the phone down. Then he dialed the district attorney. “I need a warrant.”
***
Everything was coming up Kingsley. He’d made a big splash in New York, first with the progressive policies he’d brought to Oscorp, then on the social scene. He had golf with the deputy mayor. He checked his appearance in the mirror for a half-second. Pristine, as he knew it would be. Satisfied and even more self-satisfied, he walked out of his bedroom to go through the living room of his apartment to the front door.
There was an obstacle in his way. Harry Osborn was dressed in unseasonable black clothes, sitting on Kingsley’s favorite chair.
“I know what you’re doing to my company, Kingsley. I don’t like it.”
Kingsley didn’t ask how Osborn had gotten into his apartment. That would just be giving in to these psychotic scare tactics. “Well, the stockholders do. Maybe you can take it up with them.”
Harry stood, dusting himself off. “Your butler let me in,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I have urgent business regarding the future of Oscorp.”
Kingsley pinched his golf clothes. “I tee off in twenty, make it quick.”
”Yes. Quick. But not painless.”
The punch broke Kingsley’s nose in the space of a nanosecond. Blood spurted, flecks of it invading the pristine tastefulness of his living room set. Kingsley went down hard and instantly scuttled back on his elbows and pedaling feet, away from Osborn.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Harry laughed humorlessly, stepped forward, laughed again. His laugh deepening into insanity, into a sound that would be joyful if it weren’t so chilling. He picked Kingsley up by the throat.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
He let Kingsley go, only to kick him in mid-air. Kingsley soared, hitting the top of a towering bookcase and then dropping. Fortunately, he landed on a sofa. Unfortunately, the bookcase tipped over. Books landed like bombshells all around him before the bookcase itself hit, smashing the sofa into tenders. Kingsley had tried to run for it, but not far enough. The bookcase pinned him down, smashing his legs beyond recognition.
Harry walked toward him now, laughter the throttling rev of a chainsaw ready to cut. He stepped onto the bookcase, adding to the weight crushing Kingsley, and pulled a length of webbing from his pocket. Kneeling, he wrapped it around Kingsley’s neck and pulled like it was the reins to a bucking bronco.
Kingsley gagged, gasped, and tried to pick at the webbing with his fingernails, but it was no good. With an agonizing wrench his damaged spine cracked and his upper body scissored upward, vomiting out his last breath.
Harry released Kingsley, the webbing still biting into his neck, and breathlessly adjusted his patent-leather gloves. “Nice doing business with you,” he panted, with a slight giggle at the end.
As he exited, he passed the butler, head twisted around 179 degrees. Harry extended a finger, pushed it around to a full 180, then he was out the door with a cheerful hum.
Peter wasn’t moving when Mary-Jane found him. He was in his apartment, halfway in the process of winding a bandage around his arm, but he’d long since just frozen. The bandage had slipped from his hand and was stirring across the floor in the breeze from the air conditioner. She set her things down on his desk, rounded the couch to him, and took the end of the bandage, tying it off at his elbow. He wasn’t crying, though his eyes were red.
There were bloodstains on the couch he was sitting on, and Mary-Jane tried to think of what to say as she checked his injuries. She settled on the timeless classic of “Are you okay?”
“I thought I would be,” Peter said. He rubbed at his nose, his damp eyes. “It wasn’t supposed to be like that. Doctor Octopus is dead.”
“So… one down, one to go?”
“It’s not like that!” Peter hissed, looking up at her. He instantly softened, regretting the harsh words, and gave her a consoling half-smile that died momentarily. “You didn’t know him before the accident. Ock… Otto was a good man. It was one thing when he sacrificed himself to save us – he was sane and, and righteous. But like this…”
Mary-Jane found a bowl of bloody water with a washcloth in it. She wrung the washcloth out, dipped it in a glass of water, and dabbed at Peter’s more cosmetic wounds. Dried blood and weird bruise striations. “You can’t save everyone.”
“I didn’t even try. I wrote him off. Didn’t even put any thought into it, just…” Peter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I softened him up for the Hobgoblin. He was sick, and I should’ve helped him. That’s what I do, right? Help the weak, the defenseless. Where was I for him?”
Mary-Jane wiped at his split lip, shutting him up. “Otto didn’t want your help. He made a decision.”
“What kind of a choice did he have? Those damn tentacles attached to his body, his wife dead…”
“We always have a choice,” Mary-Jane said. She wiped the last of the dried blood from Peter’s brow. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
She kissed him, gently, and after a moment he opened his arms to let her embrace him. It didn’t hurt, her kneeling on the couch beside him, leaning into his touch, smelling of nature and strawberries and nothing like the smog of New York.
“I don’t deserve you.”
She brushed some hair out of his face. “Yes. You do.” She kissed him again, longer, before drawing him into a prolonged hug. “I know what’ll cheer you up. Harry’s party.”
“I’d forgotten,” Peter said dryly.
“I didn’t.” Mary-Jane picked up a garment bag from the desk. She unzipped it, revealing the velvet darkness of a tuxedo. “Try it on.”
Peter liked the mischievous grin MJ had at the thought of him in a tux almost enough to smile. “Yes ma’am.”
***
Captain George Stacy felt old. He’d felt old since Giuliani was mayor. Gwen was getting to that age where the media insisted she’d be experimenting with… stuff. Going to raves, getting stuff slipped into her drinks, drinking, driving. He just wanted to keep her safe, but now there were freaks of all sorts flying around the city, burning up town…
Well, scratch one off the list. And good riddance at that.
He walked through the busy police station, relaxing with the knowledge that Dewolff would be handling clean-up. She seemed like a capable officer, though they hadn’t formally met yet.
George dodged out of the way of the mayor’s representative, making his way into his office. Harry Osborn was waiting for him, looking antsy. Practically crawling out of his chair. George almost would’ve pegged him for an addict, except the Osborn kid froze and fixed George with a grin that no speed freak could’ve managed.
“How you doing, son?”
Harry neatly folded his fidgeting hands together. “I would like to get back to running my business, if you don’t mind.”
George sat down on the edge of his cluttered desk. “Mr. Osborn, a death threat by Otto Octavius is nothing to laugh at…”
”He’s dead, isn’t he?”
George held up a hand, cautioning the young man. ”That is, as of yet, unconfirmed.”
”Unconfirmed?” Harry slid to the edge of his seat, hands white-knuckled on his knees. “Couple thousand commuters see him getting blown up in mid-air and it’s unconfirmed?”
”We’ll still sweeping the bay. You know how it is. If you don’t see a body…”
Harry stood, cracking his neck. “I don’t need to see a body. He’s dead. Now I would like to attend to more pressing matters. Important people have been invited to my birthday celebration and I’m not going to let some dead maniac intimidate me into rescheduling.”
”Mr. Osborn, I urge you to reconsider.”
”Urge away. But I’m leaving. So either charge me with a crime or get out of my way.”
George tried to stare the kid down. He’d done it before, with a million young Turks, but for some reason this one didn’t back down. His brown eyes, flecked with green, stared into George’s without blinking or wavering. George had seen suspects quail under his will, but Harry just kept staring. And slowly, George began to wonder if a rabbit felt like this when an eagle was staring at it, about to strike.
George looked away, missing Harry’s triumphant smirk. Osborn walked away. George’s phone was ringing anyway.
He picked it up. The voice on the other end he’d heard before, but only in snippets, terse replies, or more likely the sharp quips heard through news feeds. But over the phone, with crystal clarity, it set off a bomb-blast in George’s mind.
”George Stacy?”
”Spider-Man.”
The voice didn’t lighten, or joke, or quip. “Yeah. The Hobgoblin is Roderick Kingsley. Roderick Kingsley.”
“Are you sure?”
Spider-Man barely hesitated. “Who else would it be?”
Dial tone.
George set the phone down. Then he dialed the district attorney. “I need a warrant.”
***
Everything was coming up Kingsley. He’d made a big splash in New York, first with the progressive policies he’d brought to Oscorp, then on the social scene. He had golf with the deputy mayor. He checked his appearance in the mirror for a half-second. Pristine, as he knew it would be. Satisfied and even more self-satisfied, he walked out of his bedroom to go through the living room of his apartment to the front door.
There was an obstacle in his way. Harry Osborn was dressed in unseasonable black clothes, sitting on Kingsley’s favorite chair.
“I know what you’re doing to my company, Kingsley. I don’t like it.”
Kingsley didn’t ask how Osborn had gotten into his apartment. That would just be giving in to these psychotic scare tactics. “Well, the stockholders do. Maybe you can take it up with them.”
Harry stood, dusting himself off. “Your butler let me in,” he said, apropos of nothing. “I have urgent business regarding the future of Oscorp.”
Kingsley pinched his golf clothes. “I tee off in twenty, make it quick.”
”Yes. Quick. But not painless.”
The punch broke Kingsley’s nose in the space of a nanosecond. Blood spurted, flecks of it invading the pristine tastefulness of his living room set. Kingsley went down hard and instantly scuttled back on his elbows and pedaling feet, away from Osborn.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Harry laughed humorlessly, stepped forward, laughed again. His laugh deepening into insanity, into a sound that would be joyful if it weren’t so chilling. He picked Kingsley up by the throat.
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
He let Kingsley go, only to kick him in mid-air. Kingsley soared, hitting the top of a towering bookcase and then dropping. Fortunately, he landed on a sofa. Unfortunately, the bookcase tipped over. Books landed like bombshells all around him before the bookcase itself hit, smashing the sofa into tenders. Kingsley had tried to run for it, but not far enough. The bookcase pinned him down, smashing his legs beyond recognition.
Harry walked toward him now, laughter the throttling rev of a chainsaw ready to cut. He stepped onto the bookcase, adding to the weight crushing Kingsley, and pulled a length of webbing from his pocket. Kneeling, he wrapped it around Kingsley’s neck and pulled like it was the reins to a bucking bronco.
Kingsley gagged, gasped, and tried to pick at the webbing with his fingernails, but it was no good. With an agonizing wrench his damaged spine cracked and his upper body scissored upward, vomiting out his last breath.
Harry released Kingsley, the webbing still biting into his neck, and breathlessly adjusted his patent-leather gloves. “Nice doing business with you,” he panted, with a slight giggle at the end.
As he exited, he passed the butler, head twisted around 179 degrees. Harry extended a finger, pushed it around to a full 180, then he was out the door with a cheerful hum.
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Date: 2009-09-09 07:05 am (UTC)The_Lurker
Date: 2009-09-09 08:06 am (UTC)His death was very nedleedsian lol (yep, you officially made nedleeds a word with that death scene)
Oh, i almost forgot...
NOOOOO!!! Not my Harry, nooo! Please pull a Ethan Hunt and have Harry only be FaceMask!Harry.
Pretty please!