Merry Christmas @osborncurse <3
Lockhart is making his way into the living room.
Well, one of the living rooms. He chooses a new one every night and so far he has successfully evaded Andrew’s watchful eye. Or he hasn’t and the kid is just pretending not to see him sneaking out. It’s not like there are no tangible results. The nightmares have lessened ever since he moved to Andrew’s room but his insomnia has worsened and his eyes burn as he aimlessly scrolls through his Twitter feed, reading Wall Street articles and 10 Ways To Get Safely To An Underground Bunker, in case North Korea decides to drop a bomb over Manhattan just in time for brunch. He stays like that until the sun comes up and the rays of sunlight filtering through the half-open window alert him that he spent another night sleepless.
He wants a drink, something strong and mind-numbing. He was in his father’s place again, jumping off the bridge, only this time the water was filled with giant, ferocious eels. He saw himself dead, surrounded by them, but he felt the pain as if he was alive as they bit his limp body, immersed in muddy water. He woke up with his chest twinging sharply, brushing his fingers softly against his scars.
He gets up soon after to escape.
He’s opening a bottle of whiskey, taken straight off the bar (because there’s always one), fingers twitching mid-movement, stilling, when a voice calls out to him. He recognizes his own voice, the tone betraying the presence of another double, but it sounds even more condescending than he usually does.
“That bottle is probably worth more than your house. The least you can do is wait for me.” The man says. He makes a pause and though Lockhart can’t see him yet, the lights of the room low, his double standing by the door, he can hear the smile in his voice.
“To share.” He then adds and Lockhart puts the bottle down. Looks at the shadowy figure as if he can find all the answers he needs just by looking at his stance. Arms crossed, leaning casually on the side wall. Comfortable.
“You own this house, don’t you?” Lockhart asks him and the man finally walks inside, flops down on the couch in movements that are neither graceful, nor clumsy. He puts his feet on the glass table.
“Harry Osborn. Yes, I own everything here. And yet … I somehow missed this new arrival. You are?”
Someone who’s been trying to hunt you down for a month, Lockhart wants to say. The invisible man. “My name’s Lockhart. Been here a while.”
Harry nods slowly, humming. “So you have.” He looks back at the bar. “You know, I make a mean Suburban.” He opens the glass doors and starts placing different bottles on the tabletop. Lockhart eyes the rum with interest.
Harry pours them both drinks, mixes them up with the ease of someone who’s done it before and offers one to Lockhart. When he moves to take it, Harry pulls his hand back and shakes his head, smirking. “You gotta win this first."
Lockhart barely swallows down his sigh and says nothing. Harry seems pleased with that and drinks a sip from his own drink. "So, what’s your damage?”
Lockhart blinks. “Excuse me?”
Harry chuckles. “Listen, I’ve seen this before. You can’t sleep, you drink at 5am with no company. Your eyes say you can’t even bare to see yourself in the mirror.” His lips are upturned into a smile but his eyes are suddenly burning holes into Lockhart’s skull. The moment is over as quickly as it began and Harry flops down on the couch again, gaze once more flippant and uncaring.
"So, what’s your damage?” he shakes Lockhart’s drink in his hand, liquid sloshing around, as if to remind him of the prize of his collaboration. Lockhart wants to punch him in the face. He wants to leave the room. He replies.
“Daddy issues, mostly.” A beat. “What’s yours?”
Harry’s expression darkens. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Most days.” He motions at the drink. “Did I win?”
Harry presses his lips together, moving the drink further away, close to his chest.
“Drowned.” He risks the question. “How did you?”
Harry’s eyes twitch. “None of your concern."
Lockhart looks down, smiling to himself. He knows when he’s in a disadvantaged position. "Of course.” He licks his lips. “Anything else?"
"Are you going to cause me any problems?”
“Does draining your alcohol reserves count?”
Harry exhales through his noise in what Lockhart recognizes as a laugh. His smile widens, eyes turning calculating. "Are you going to offer anything to me?“
Lockhart pretends to think about it. "I’m very good at illegal money schemes.”
After a moment he adds. “I was a blue-collar. Wall street.”
Harry hums. “Ruthless, I’m sure. I do admire it. Ruthlessness. Here."
He passes the drink over and Lockhart takes it. "Is the interrogation over?”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “An interrogation? I’m offended. Think of it more like a … job interview. I might have work for you.”
Lockhart takes a sip, the alcohol burning as it travels down his throat. This man is not fucking around.
