Honestly, he hadn’t intended for the toes to fall victim to his wheels to be those of a friend, but in hindsight, he couldn’t have wished for a better outcome. Strangers had given him sympathetic glances, and he had heard several ‘thank you for your serve’s spread evenly over the time he had been here, but he knew friends wouldn’t treat him differently, disabled vet or not. He didn’t need anyone’s sympathy, or their pity.
With all the Osborn’s riches and experiences, he never thought to see Harry Osborn himself stunned. With the crowd of people surrounding them having faded to nothing but a blur to the veteran, he caught a grin spreading across his features. Adjusting the position of his wheelchair, Flash came to face his friend, the rubber wheels no longer dangerously prepared for another assault on Harry’s toes. He shifted his weight onto one arm that was resting on one side of his chair, eyes looking up to meet his friend’s. “You know, I figured it would…” he agreed, softly nodding his head. “Thought that with these old timers around here you’d be pretty tired of polite gestures.”
His eyes darted down at the suit, the shiny medals an easy eye catcher. Sometimes it has hard to believe he earned all of those with just two tours of duty and one quick decision. Thinking back, he had seen a lot, experienced a lot, that these old, rich people in the room, spoiled rotten, would never even have to worry about. But New York was a strange place, an exception to his previous thought maybe. New York City was a war zone of its own entirely, with the threat of super villains right around every corner.
“Oh yeah, but ‘sir’ will do if you throw in a salute.” His voice was nothing but tease, his face displaying a smile that hadn’t been there in quite a while. The expression, however, didn’t last. He could hear the crowd fall silent, and smooth jazz— a song he recognized, his dad liked this song— taking its place as most dominant noise. From his lower position in the crowd due to his wheelchair, it was hard to see just what was going on until a BANG silenced everything for a while.
After Iraq, twice, and the bombings just a few months ago, you’d think army veteran Flash Thompson wouldn’t blink at a situation much like this, but god, he was speechless. This wasn’t supposed to happen, this was supposed to be easy. How the hell had explosives gotten in here? He almost had gotten trouble smuggling in a symbiote and a tracking device, and this clown had somehow brought explosives. Panic rose among the people, and it barely took Flash a second to try and shield Harry. Moments like these were those in which he truly hated being tied to a wheelchair, and in no position to effectively help out. Instincts and training kicking in, he tore his eyes from his friend to scan the area, get to the bottom of this. He knew he had the power to fix this, he had, and that alone made it his problem, his responsibility.
The man of the hour had arrived on stage. The same guy who had caused the massacre on Times Square, it seemed. His speech hadn’t drawn Flash’s attention right until the mention of vigilantes, which was a mistake, honestly. His head had shot up at an instant, only for his eyes to fall on a suspicious red button. Was that another detonator? ‘You do not want to see what this does.’ Whatever that meant, he had a feeling it wasn’t a surprise he was willing to see.
While the words hit him, they had a hard time sinking in, but it seemed he had no time to let it. Before he could even turn back to see how Harry was doing through all this, the Joker seemed to be on his way out, and there was no way Flash was going to let this guy get away like this. No way. He reached up to softly grab at Harry’s arm, his breather quick and short. “Jesus, man, are you okay?” He looked around another time, a quick scan for a way out before turning back to Harry. “Look I…” fuck, how was he going to word this? “I’m not feeling so hot, I gotta’…” He shook his head, hands shaking. “I gotta’ go outside, get some air. I dunno’ if we can, I think these guys locked some doors, but—” Smooth, good job, Thompson. God, he felt horrible, but he had to do this. If he couldn’t evacuate the building, he had to find the guy responsible. “I’m sorry.”
Without even a last glance at Harry, he pushed his way through the terrified jungle of gala guests. The rate at which his heart beat would almost risk the organ breaking his chest as he took the turn into the hallway that lead to the bathrooms. He’d only seen one other wheelchair user at the gala, so he figured the disability bathroom should be free. A spark of guilt from the way he left Harry behind still haunted him, but wasn’t this why he was here in the first place? The mission came first, always. After all, maybe he could later excuse it all by telling him it reminded him of Iraq? It was a lie, a horrible one that would leave the gang worried, but it would have to do. It took merely a glance or two around the area to check for security cameras, before he wheeled himself into the bathroom, and locked the door behind him.
Of course, there didn’t seem to be a single trace of regret in the way Flash’s grin spread like a kid’s who’d just performed his favourite trick perfectly, no apologetic undertone in his ‘sincere’ explanation. Harry had to fight not to let his own smile follow suit -- or to roll his eyes -- because trading easy banter with his friend gave him more than anything else since Peter and MJ wandered off. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable in the company he’d kept, but subtly promoting one of most well-known international corporations in a room filled with New Yorkers didn’t feel all too beneficial. His father had already laid the groundwork; all people had to do was come to him. The problem, of course, was when that attracted the wrong kind of people -- and though that was most of the, such was life.
Sliding his hands into his pants pockets ( avoiding rumpling the jacket with an inherent grace ), it was evident just how relaxed he was -- how welcome Flash’s appearance was, second-nature rocky start included. Harry chuffed, only just managing to block the twitch in his chest from developing into a real laugh. “Oh, yeah, you got me. I’ve just been dying for someone to straight out punch me instead of simply shaking my hand all night. So conformist.” Arching a brow, the corner of his mouth curled into a treacherously soft curve, defying the bite to his words, “It’s good I have friends like these.”
While he’d politely and diligently kept his gaze in a meeting with Flash’s own blue the moment the man spoke, he allowed it to dip as the veteran regarded his medals. Bad move. The billionaire felt his heart fluttering in its cage, and whether it was from the vertigo he felt realising what his friend must have gone through to achieve all these honors, or how the fitted jacket stretched across his chest, the world may never know. Lips pressing subtly into a line to keep either of those responses from surfacing, he was infinitely grateful that Flash picked up the thread -- until he registered exactly what he’d said. Forget the fluttering -- a swift tingling rush swept through him, convincing him he could have floated if he really wanted to. Released through a breathless laugh, an elation the currently clean addict hadn’t felt in weeks offered words before he even had time to worry about what to say. “Duly noted, I’ll try to remember that in the future, but don’t expect...”
His voice carried a short distance into the encroaching silence, dying along with the withering murmurs of others. What disturbed him most, though, was the shadow that had fallen over his friend’s face, caring little for whatever performance was coming up next. Worry dropping his easy smile, it was obliterated entirely when he turned his head to look towards the stage along with the rest of the unwilling audience. The Joker. Harry could have recognised him in the dark. His blood-red grin had joined another’s, broader and sharper and just as sickening, at the edge of his vision -- always one step ahead, a step too far to pin down and prove they were there at all. He didn’t feel how his teeth pressed together like they were trying to shatter by sheer force, how his breath stopped, tangling tightly in his chest and refusing to move. Gaze locked on the terrorist like to a display of violence too brutal to look away from, as if simply keeping ones eyes on the threat would keep it from attacking, the explosion off-stage shattered the illusion into a thousand pieces.
The tangle in his chest came undone through a rush of air like a man surfacing from deep water, and Harry staggered back. The stoic defense left in a shuddering shock, any composure lost as everything became painfully clear and inescapable. Terrified, his eyes found Flash, who had only seemed to grow where he sat, a calculating quiet in the throng of hysterical people pushing by them. Another explosion deafened the screams, and Harry instinctively flinched, ducking as his hands came to cover his ears -- like blocking out the sound would keep the harm at bay. Realising nothing had hit him, he looked up to see his friend’s arm bent around him, steel gaze trained on their surroundings. Something indescribable knotted in his stomach, gratitude and admiration and shame all wrapped into one. Your friend is in a damn wheelchair, and you’re the one cowering? He knew it was unreasonable the moment the thought crossed his mind -- Flash was an honored soldier for a reason, and it was the role he prefered -- and yet something gnawed guiltily into him.
Rising slowly and carefully, he pulled his eyes from the veteran to the villain, flickering cautiously between the stage and the rest of the room. Nothing seemed to be happening, though, and in the vacuum anxiety struck him like lightning -- God. Peter, Mary Jane -- he had no idea where they were. If they were hurt, or -- oh, no, no. The Joker’s words swam in the background as he turned abruptly, skimming the crowd for a crown of red or messy brown hair, a graceful dress or a suit that didn’t quite fit, desperately wishing to find his own horror mirrored in familiar green or dark eyes. Nothing. God, he felt sick. His attention was pulled back to The Joker as the words ‘twenty million dollars’ drawled from the clown, and fear and disgust clenched his heart. He’d just endangered his friends, and he was asking for money? The anger welling up in him was washed away by worry as Flash called him back to the present, soft gaze falling to the strong fingers wrapped gently around his arm. “What--?” The reply came as if in a daze, and he mentally shook himself to give Flash his full attention. Take care of the friend left to you.
Exactly how he was asked to do that, though, baffled him. Confusion drew his expression as he tried to find the words. “I -- You have to... Now?” Maybe it was the events that made sense seem so far away, but Harry fought bravely to haul it back. Taking a moment to just breathe, he let Flash’s confession sink in, and finally understood it for what it must be. “Oh-- Okay. Yeah, I get it. Just...” He trailed off, unsure what to say to a traumatised soldier -- a friend scared by something he would never know. He wasn’t expecting this. He didn’t like this, but if it was what Flash needed, then... His jaw clenched, and he swallowed thickly around the terror lodged in his throat. “Take care of yourself.” The words were firm, stronger than he felt, and his gaze lingered on the wide span of shoulders as they pushed further and further away from him.
Later, he would be able to recall the next events in vivid detail, but at the moment everything seemed a blur -- one second he’d be taking cover behind animated animal exhibits as bullets ripped through the air, the next watching as some super-powered person tore open one exit after another, but always waiting, always remaining and always searching. MJ had to be there somewhere, if not Peter, who was prone to disappearing when trouble roared its ugly head. Harry didn’t blame him, and he was usually grateful that he got himself out of harm’s way, but Christ -- he wouldn’t have said no to a helping hand. Instantly he reeled at the thought. Of course he was glad Pete had gotten away, the alternative wasn’t something he even let himself consider.
Peeking around the corner of an upturned grand piano, his heart jumped in his chest as he threw himself back behind cover -- bullets whizzing past moments later. He grew up in New York’s finest district, how had he gotten so apt at recognising the mouths of rifles? If only he’d had his armor, and -- no. No, the last thing this place needed was a visit from a long-dead criminal. Tears prickled his eyes as he felt an absurd grin stretch across his face, sobs rattling his chest along with the silent heaves of choked laughter. This was insane. Harry pulled his knees closer to himself, clamping a hand over his smiling mouth to stifle any sound that could easily lead to his death, sharp tears stinging his cheeks. God, when had his life come to this?
Eventually, steadily, his breathing returned to a calm pace ( though challenged by the rapid drum of his heart ) ; inhaling the war zone around him and exhaling the summoned, demonic voices that somehow didn’t belong, even here. His head fell back against the piano, staring at the high arch of the ceiling, unseeing. Breathing.
Please, let them be okay.
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