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vigilantehunter

Jun 28

“UNDER THE MASK”

— Chapter 6, New Perspective

relationships; platonic!batfam x neglectedbatsib!reader, Harry Osborn x neglectedbatsib!reader

⋆.˚summary; A freaky spider bite incident made your life a whole lotta messier.

tags; spidey!reader, angst, gender-neutral pronouns, not proofread, reader is Tim's age

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Harry Osborn had only three priorities throughout his entire life.

One: make his father proud.

Two: be the best CEO he could be of OSCORP.

Three: be a good son.

Those three priorities defined him. Without them, he wasn’t sure what would be left.

Then again, they were never really different. They all led back to the same thing—making his father proud. Proud to call him his son, his only heir.

So, he was a bit—no, more than that—confused when you slowly began climbing his list of priorities.

If anyone asked how the two of you met, you would say he came to your rescue like a knight in shining armor—and even fixed your camera.

If they asked him, it was a completely different story.

Harry looked into the tall mirror, letting his childlike mind wander. He wondered how he would soon outgrow this version of himself—and how he would become the boss of everything, just like his father said he would.

The boy imagined what he would do once he was older: eating candy whenever he wanted, going on random vacations, and being regarded as a genius for his future inventions.

He adjusted his bow tie—one of the maids had put it on him earlier—wanting to look picture-perfect, even though he already did.

It was his first charity gala, and his father had drilled into him that first impressions were everything—even if it meant enduring annoying questions from adults.

The door opened slowly, revealing his father in a suit tailored specifically for him.

“Harry, my boy,” Norman said, smiling down at his son.

Harry blinked, shifting his gaze from his reflection to his father. “Yes, Father?”

With an exaggerated, heavy sigh, Norman knelt down to his son’s height. He removed the bow tie and pulled a small necktie from his pocket.

As he tied it neatly under Harry’s collar, he began, “First impressions are ev—”

“First impressions are everything. I know, Father,” Harry interrupted, already tired of hearing it.

Norman paused, his hands stilling against the fabric. For a moment, Harry thought he had said something wrong. The maids had told him before that he had a careless mouth.

Then his father chuckled lightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Harry let out a small sigh of relief, staring at his father’s gel-slicked hair and wondering if his own looked good enough.

“Good,” Norman said, smoothing down the tie. “That means you’ve been listening.”

He gave the knot one final adjustment before standing to his full height, immediately looking more imposing. Then his phone buzzed.

Norman glanced toward the door, then back at Harry. “We’ll be leaving in ten minutes.”

Harry straightened at once, nodding. “Yes, Father.”

“Make sure you’re presentable and polite,” Norman added, his tone sharpening slightly. “There will be important people tonight. I expect you to behave accordingly.”

“I will,” Harry replied quickly. A small thrill of anticipation slipped through him—the gala was being held at that massive manor everyone had been talking about.

Norman studied him for a moment, as though inspecting something Harry couldn’t see, before giving a small, satisfied nod and closing the door behind him.

Harry recited his introduction in his head (that was six words, mind you) while pacing around the room, checking his wristwatch every few seconds. Three more minutes.

He could feel the pressure settling in his chest, tight and familiar. He exited his room and headed for the stairs.

Father would kill him if he arrived late. Not literally, of course—but close enough.

Norman had always taught him that there were rules every man should follow, and punctuality ranked somewhere near the top.

Harry stopped mid-step, noticing his father by the door, still on the phone. He descended the stairs slowly; from the tension in his posture alone, it was clear his father was more irritated than usual.

He only caught a few words—“Parker” and “Don’t let them know”—before the older man hung up and turned to him, the scowl on his face vanishing as if it had never been there.

Harry remembered moments like this clearly. They meant his father could still soften—for him.

Even if the smile he wore was a little too perfect.

“You’re on time, son.”

Just like Harry expected, the party was boring. He’d imagined something like in the books—people laughing too loudly, splashing red wine on each other.

But this wasn’t that. The businessmen and women spoke in low voices, each word slipping out like it had a snake’s tongue.

When he and his father entered, the adults did swarm him with questions—Norman helping him here and there.

I mean, who wouldn’t have questions for the kid genius that Norman plastered on every front page of the newspaper?

The excitement around him died down, and he ended up on the sidelines, right by the food section.

The boy watched his father charm potential investors effortlessly. Honestly, he should have been right by his father’s side, learning the tricks of the trade—but he was hungry. (And didn’t feel like it.)

Harry reached out for a pastry when a small hand tugged at his ankle from underneath the table.

Goosebumps prickled across his skin. He’d thought the manor looked slightly haunted before, with all its Renaissance portraits and antique relics—

Oh gods.

The hand retreated beneath the table, the long tablecloth falling back into place as if a hand hadn’t just slipped through it.

Harry gulped—the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” repeating in his head like a mantra.

He looked around. Everyone was in their own bubble—and his father was still too busy conversing to notice.

The uneasy boy circled the table and dropped to one knee, reaching to lift the cloth. His heartbeat thrummed like sirens, his mind scolding him even as his body moved anyway.

Harry blinked. Underneath the table wasn’t an ogre. Nor a ghost-person.

It was an ordinary person. Wearing pajamas. Underneath a table at a gala.

His eyebrows raised, and after three disbelieving blinks, he opened his mouth—only to close it again.

You were curled up, knees pulled to your chest, a dopey smile on your face as you absentmindedly brought a finger to your lips, trying to find the right words—something that wouldn’t scare him off.

“I live here. Don’t worry.”

Harry found that hard to believe.

A crease formed between his brows. “You… live here?”

He paused thoughtfully. “Underneath the table, or in the manor?”

Harry was torn between the possibility that you might be a fae—or a Wayne, a name he had recently heard thrown around a lot.

“In the manor, silly. Can you get me one of the pastries?” you asked, pointing upward.

“What the—whatever, fine.” He stood, giving the room a quick once-over before swiping two pastries (might as well have one himself), then bent down again and lifted the cloth.

Is this what pillow forts feel like? he thought absently.

“Here.” Harry handed you the pastry, eyeing you suspiciously. A million questions raced through his head.

You gestured for him to come under the table, patting the space beside you.

Harry bit his bottom lip, hesitating. Was it really safe? What if you were dangerous?

But you didn’t seem like it.

He sighed, shifting upward just enough to peek out from beneath the table—only his eyes visible—as he made sure his father wasn’t looking.

Then he ducked back down and crawled into the space. You shifted to make room, and he settled cross-legged beside you, your shoulders lightly touching.

The boy cleared his throat. “I’m Harry. Harry Osborn.”

He took a small, half-hearted bite of his pastry, as if it might quiet his nerves. Part of his mind scolded him, but another clung stubbornly to his maid’s words—that it would do him good to make friends.

Even if it meant befriending a weirdo under a table.

You licked the frosting off your lips. “Cool, nice to meet you, Hare.”

“Hare? It’s Harry,” he scoffed. He wasn’t some dumb, scary-looking rabbit.

He was Harry Osborn. Son of Norman Osborn. Heir to Oscorp. For God’s sake.

You shrugged, that same dopey grin turning teasing.

He couldn’t help but stare at the apples of your cheeks and the crinkle of your eyes—your expression warm enough to make it hard to focus on anything else.

For a moment, he wondered when he’d last seen a smile so… real.

He snapped out of it, noticing the silence between you. “Right… so you’re under the table because…?”

“I’m not supposed to be here—” he raised an eyebrow at that, “but I wanted some pastries, so…”

Whatever. He could work with that.

“Okay, um. How’d you know that I, uh… that I was good?” His mind scrambled—gone was the perfect, composed Harry from an hour ago.

“Like, y’know… you could’ve tugged some weird old man’s ankle.” He shrugged, trying to play it cool.

You laughed, which tugged the corners of his lips upward too.

“There’s a small hole in the cloth, big enough for me to peek through. I thought you looked about my height. I don’t know any grown-ups that small.”

Harry huffed out a quiet breath, something between a scoff and a laugh. “I’m not that short.”

The two of you talked a while longer, until his cheeks ached from laughing and both your pastries were gone. He hadn’t expected to grow this comfortable with you so fast.

You went on about a book you’d read with your older brother—who, from the way you spoke about him, sounded annoyingly doting, even if he hid it behind crude remarks like older brothers tend to do.

Then again, maybe Harry shouldn’t judge. He didn’t have any siblings.

He found himself hanging onto every word, like there’d be a test afterward—and he really needed to pass.

“—and then he tried to explain the ending, but I think he just made it more confusing,” you finished.

Harry blinked, like he’d been pulled from somewhere else. “Wait—no, uh, go back,” he said quickly. “What do you mean he wasn’t actually the villain?”

You tilted your head, amused. “He was the villain. He just didn’t think he was.”

Harry frowned, trying to piece it together, brows furrowed in that serious way of his—like he was solving something important.

“…That’s stupid,” he decided.

After all, what kind of person doesn’t know they’re hurting people? An idiot, that's what.

You laughed softly, nudging his shoulder. “It’s layered, ’s all. Or at least that’s what Jay told me.”

“It sounds stupid,” he insisted, though there wasn’t much bite to it.

You narrowed your eyes at him, smiling. “You just don’t get it.”

“I do get it,” he said quickly—too quickly.

You gave him a look.

Harry faltered. “…Okay, maybe I don’t.”

That made you laugh again, softer this time.

He didn’t realize how quiet he’d gone until the sound of it filled the space. Talking to you was easy.

“So,” you said after a moment, tracing shapes into the carpet, “what about you?”

Harry blinked. “What about me?”

“You’ve just been listening,” you pointed out. “What do you like?”

He opened his mouth, reaching for something polished—something neat, something his father would approve of.

His gaze dropped to his hands instead.

“…I like building things,” he said quietly.

He fiddled with his cufflinks, unease settling in his chest—the kind that usually came with his father’s presence. But this time, it wasn’t as suffocating.

Harry hesitated. His fingers stilled for a moment before resuming their slow, absent movements against the cool metal.

What if you thought he was one of those rich know-it-alls—just bluffing his way through everything?

“…Just stuff,” he muttered. Then, “Things that work. Or don’t—and then I fix them.”

You hummed, like that made perfect sense. “That’s cool.”

He blinked. “…It is?”

He knew it was. His father had always praised him for it—always said it meant he was smart, useful, worth something.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “You make things better.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His grip loosened, thumb tracing the edge of his cufflink.

“…I guess,” he said, softer now.

You smiled at him again—warm, easy, real—and Harry found himself looking away first this time, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the carpet beneath you.

Out of habit, he checked his wristwatch.

Harry straightened slightly, the small, quiet space under the table suddenly feeling a little tighter. “I—uh…” He glanced toward the edge of the tablecloth, “I think I’ve been gone too long.”

You tilted your head. “Trouble?”

He huffed softly. “Something like that.”

Harry hesitated. He wanted to say one last thing, but didn’t know what.

“…I should go.”

You nodded easily. “Okay. I have to go too. My brother’s probably looking for me.”

There was a hint of disappointment in your voice, which made it harder for him to leave.

Harry lingered a second longer before ducking out from under the table. The noise of the party rushed back all at once—voices, laughter, the sharp clink of glass.

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his suit, schooling his expression into something composed.

He hoped to see you again.

Past the cluster of guests, weaving through the crowd, past the glow of chandeliers—until the table became just another blur behind him.

By the time he reached his father’s side, there was no sign of where he’d been.

“There you are.”

Harry straightened immediately.

Norman didn’t look at him at first, still mid-conversation. When the other man left, his father's eyes settled on Harry.

“I was wondering where you’d gone,” Norman said smoothly.

“I was just… speaking with someone,” Harry replied carefully.

“Oh, I see. Stay close.”

His father didn’t question it. There were other boys at the gala—older by a year or two—and Norman assumed his son had been speaking with them.

Another man approached, smile too practiced. Their conversation went over Harry’s head as he stood stiffly beside his father—physically present, but with every thought circling one thing.

Harry hadn’t gotten your name.

—🐰

It was the first day of middle school when he saw you again.

He remembered his father suddenly joining him for dinner—which was a rare occurrence.

Norman sat at the head of the table, a slice of steak already cut into neat portions, with some greenery on his plate.

“You’ll be attending a private school this year.” His father stabbed a fork into the steak, the motion sharp and deliberate.

Harry’s heart sank, his earlier excitement at his father finally joining him fading just as quickly.

It returned slowly—a mix of nervousness, dread, and, if he was being honest, excitement.

Would he finally make new friends? Would he see you again?

You were at a gala—under a table, in pajamas, and uninvited, but nonetheless… at a gala.

Which meant there was a chance you’d be attending whatever prestigious school his father decided on.

He’d gladly take those odds.

“You’ll start next week. Is that clear?”

Harry’s body moved on autopilot while he was lost in thought, a piece of steak hovering in front of his lips.

“Yes, Father.”

In the past two years, you looked more content. Happier, even. Harry sat a few rows behind you, watching quietly.

He was glad he’d taken those odds—more glad to be seeing you again, this close.

One by one, the students introduced themselves.

Your introduction was brief, but everyone’s eyes widened slightly in surprise when they heard your last name.

He already had a suspicion, of course—but hearing it from you made it feel somehow different.

A quiet ripple moved through the room—whispers just low enough to pretend they weren’t happening.

Harry made a quiet mental note of your interests—the teacher had insisted everyone name at least four. The ones that stood out to him were photography and science.

When it came to his turn, he felt unexpectedly nervous.

He impressed people older than him—who’s to say people his age wouldn’t?

“Good morning. I’m Harry Osborn—” The boy immediately glanced your way, searching for your reaction, but you were busy drawing on a piece of paper already filled with doodles.

Whispers rippled through the room again, hushed voices buzzing about having two “hotshots” in the same class.

You didn’t remember him.

Harry swallowed the disappointment and carried on.

When he finished, he made his way to his seat, passing by you—still focused on your drawings.

He dropped into his chair with a quiet thud, folding his arms on the desk and resting his head on them, his cheek squishing slightly against his wrist.

How could you have forgotten him?

You were his first friend. But that didn’t mean he was yours.

Harry spent the rest of the class period sulking, only snapping out of his thoughts when the bell rang.

He’d make you remember then. Simple.

The boy was about to go stomping over to your desk, but a crowd of classmates surrounded you—and him—making the distance between you even greater.

“Excuse me—” he tried to weave through the crowd, but the barrage of questions and overexcited middle schoolers was too much.

Harry sighed, smoothly putting on a strained version of the Osborn smile (not like they’d notice the difference) and patiently socialized with his classmates.

His father would approve—the kids here were from the right kind of families.

He stared past the shoulder of some blonde boy, watching your face—one that clearly wasn’t used to this kind of attention.

Harry was confused. Weren’t you a Wayne?

Then again, you’d had to sneak into one of the galas… and you had no media presence whatsoever.

“So you’ll sit with me for lunch, right?”

Harry hummed in absent-minded agreement, still watching as you nervously adjusted your glasses.

He supposed he’d have to watch from afar for now.

— 🐰

“You should be more careful,” Harry said coolly.

It didn’t matter how put-together he looked—it didn’t change the fact that his ears were tinged red.

Either from irritation that Flash had the audacity to shove you to the ground, or because he was standing so close to you.

It had been six months and twelve days since the first day of school. Harry wasn’t counting. Definitely not.

Every time he tried to talk to you—actually talk to you, instead of just staring like some creep—he’d back out at the last second.

You were a stellar student, naturally. But you didn’t quite fit in with the rest of the school’s crowd. Not like he did. Not like he was expected to.

He’d heard the rumors about you, but he paid them no mind.

You were also the school photographer for the newspaper, and Harry found your photos charming.

He definitely did not sign up for the debate team just because he heard you’d be taking their picture.

Nope.

Of course not.

Harry felt his heartbeat thrumming in his ears—time to leave. Now.

But then you did something he didn’t expect.

You tugged on the sleeve of his blazer, pulling him back before he could take another step.

“Do you wanna, um… have lunch together?” you added hastily. “As a thank you. For standing up for me—and fixing my camera.”

Harry turned around slowly, watching your hand fall back to your side. He cleared his throat—he really didn’t want his voice to go all falsetto just from talking to you.

“Yes, of course.”

— 🐰

To say Harry was worried would be the understatement of the century.

You hadn’t gone to school for a week.

You also hadn’t answered his messages or calls.

It had only been a year since you two became friends, but you’d grown closer faster than he ever expected.

His brows creased as he bit the tip of his pen, staring at his math homework—which was the least of his concerns.

He hated how he couldn’t be by your side. Especially during a time like this.

Harry could never imagine losing a sibling so abruptly.

But he knew what it was like to watch someone slip away, piece by piece.

The boy swiped a hand across his face before standing up and grabbing a coat.

He slipped out of his room and hurried down the stairs. He passed a maid—then paused, turning back.

“Veronica, tell Father I’ll be out!”

Veronica stopped in her tracks, eyes widening as the twelve-year-old was already sprinting toward the door.

“Young master! At least bring a bodyguard!” she called, but it was to no avail—he was already through the door.

She hurried after him, stopping at the frame of the grand, heavy doors.

“I’m fine! I’ll be in the safe parts of town!” Harry shouted back as the gates opened automatically for him.

“Please—at least call!”

The middle-aged woman sighed. “That boy, really…” she muttered, shaking her head.

Harry raised a hand to hail a taxi, a yellow cab pulling over almost immediately. He slipped inside without a second thought.

“Mister, Gotham Heights, please.”

The driver, a man with a newsboy cap and a mustache, nodded. “Got it, lad.”

Harry hummed thoughtfully, looking out at the Gotham sky that never seemed to brighten—stuck in a dull monochrome.

He thought of a gift that might lift your spirits. Not a lavish one, surely. You were always against him using his money to buy you things, even something as simple as a snack.

The driver glanced at him through the mirror. “What’s a young lad like you doin’ out alone?”

The “young lad” scoffed. “What’s it to you, mister?”

The older man looked amused, keeping his eyes on the road. There was something haunting behind them, like he had seen things no one should.

“Jus’ askin’. Gotham ain’t exactly safe, but at least you’re headin’ to the better parts.”

Even then, Harry didn’t sense any malicious intent from him. Or maybe he was just being a trusting idiot.

“Say, mister, you don’t sound like you’re from around here?”

“Moved to Gotham not too long ago. Big difference, but it is what it is,” the man shrugged.

Harry found it odd that he already seemed to know every road like the back of his hand.

He shook his head. He was getting distracted.

A gift… music? No, you had enough of those.

“Mister,” Harry started, then hesitated.

The driver glanced at him through the mirror. “Yeah, lad?”

“…What do people usually get someone when…” He trailed off. “When they’re not doing so great?”

The man hummed, thoughtful this time. “Flowers are the usual. Food too. But that ain’t really it, is it?”

Harry frowned. “No.”

There was a pause, the quiet hum of the engine filling the cab as Gotham’s dim skyline slid past.

“Best thing I ever got,” the driver said slowly, “wasn’t expensive. Just someone lettin’ me know they weren’t goin’ anywhere.”

“That’s it.” He shrugged. “People remember who stayed. Not what they bought.”

Harry leaned back into the seat, staring out the window again. Your face crossed his mind—smiling, tired.

His fingers tapped against his knee as an idea formed.

— 🕷️

“Go away,” you sniffled, pulling your legs closer to your chest.

The butler outside the door sighed. “As you wish, young master.” You heard a soft thud against the floor. “I’ll leave the package your friend got you outside.”

You waited until his footsteps faded.

You stood up from your nest of blankets, opening the creaky door and taking the box into your hands.

It wasn’t very big.

Light, too.

You opened it.

Inside was a bracelet with a charm hanging from a small silver chain, and a tiny hand-sewn Superman plushie.

Your lips trembled slightly as you carefully took the letter tucked behind the trinkets.

Dearest [Name],

I tried my best. My hand got pricked numerous times making Superman (if you like, I’ll make Batman so we can match). I hope you liked the charm.

I’m not very good with words, like you said, I’m only good at bad jokes and senseless mumbling.

But I wanted to give you something anyway.

It’s not perfect. And the eyes look uneven if you stare at it too long, but I figured you wouldn’t mind that much.

You say things don’t have to be perfect to be good.

I think you’re right.

Anyway, you don’t have to wear it or anything. Just keep it, I guess. Or don’t. That’s fine too.

My days at school are boring. Come back soon. I miss you.

— Harry

You blinked away the tears, only for them to spill down the swell of your cheeks.

You picked up the bracelet and slipped it onto your wrist, turning it slightly to admire the beads and charm.

Then you leaned back into your pile of blankets, hugging the Superman plushie tightly to your chest.

— 🐰

“It’s okay. Flash is just an asshole.” Harry carefully swept away the strands of hair clinging to your forehead—something his mother used to do to comfort him.

You continued crying. “He—my hair!”

He sighed, leaning back against the wall as he kept an arm around you. You’d had to get your hair cut because Flash chucked gum at it during fifth period.

It was the last year of middle school, and Flash didn’t seem to be changing anytime soon.

“What do you say we get back at him?”

You rolled your tearful eyes. “We already got in trouble for getting into a tussle with him.”

“That we won?”

“It was two against one. What did you think was going to happen?”

Harry scoffed. “He’s training for the football team! I expected better—not getting beat up by two nerds."

“It was barely a win. We threw pens at him.”

“Whatever, schmatever. The point is—” His eyes gleamed, and you immediately knew he was thinking of trouble. “He needs to grow up. And this is around the time he’s in the showers after practice.”

You didn’t comment on how the two of you also needed to grow up—or how he knew Flash’s shower schedule.

“…So what do we do?” Your eyes were no longer glossy, now glinting with mischief.

You sat on Harry’s shoulders, his legs wobbling slightly under your weight.

“Eugh.. You could lose a few,” he whispered.

Good thing Flash was busy singing about the blue sky—the loud rush of the showers drowning out your hushed voices.

“Shut up, you said my legs would break if you sat on my shoulders!” you whisper-shouted, fumbling of trying to open the bottle of shampoo Harry got from God-knows-where.

“IT’S A BEAUTIFUL NEW DAY! HEY!”

Harry grimaced at Flash’s horrendous singing. “Hurry up!”

Your eyes squeezed shut as you clung to the top of the shower divider.

“How do I even know where to aim it?”

Harry scoffed, tightening his grip just above your knee. “His head, duh.”

You decided to let whatever higher power existed take the wheel and squeezed the bottle—shampoo spraying everywhere.

You did not want to know what a naked Flash looked like.

“MR. BLUE SKY—! ugh, wh—”

Looks like it worked.

Harry giggled from below, his shoulders shaking.

“WHY WON’T THIS SHAMPOO GET OFF?!”

The bottle was now empty, and you heard Flash’s frustrated groans echoing over the steady rush of water.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” you urged, about to slide off Harry’s shoulders and tossing the empty bottle at Flash’s head for good measure.

“AUGHH!”

The two of you bolted out of the boys’ showers, hands clamped over your mouths, trying not to burst into laughter.

— 🐰

Harry’s gaze lingered on your features, your brows slightly furrowed in concentration, your eyes fixed on the paper filled with scattered formulas.

“So here, you have to—” you started explaining again, probably using your pen to point at the numbers—Harry wouldn’t know. He was too busy staring at you.

At times like this, he didn’t know whether to be jealous or to admire you.

With his father constantly breathing down his neck about college applications and internships, he couldn’t help but feel… something.

You, who were always smarter than him.

You, who seemed better than him in almost every way.

You, who had people who cared about you.

You, who had always been genuine.

Harry could almost turn green with envy.

But it never twisted into something as distasteful as hate. That was an ugly, ugly word—one he would never place beside your name.

He was just stressed about his father and everything going on right now. That’s all.

That had to be why he felt this way.

He swallowed. “I think… I’ve got it,” he said, nodding at his notebook now filled with circled notes.

You smiled at him—a smile full of fondness.

There was a very thin line between being impressed and feeling like he was falling behind.

Harry wasn’t quite sure which side he stood on whenever you looked at him like that.

“Yeah, you learn fast.”

He looked away bashfully. “Nah, it’s because you’re a good teacher.”

It was true. Whenever he was confused about something or needed someone to bounce ideas off, his first choice was always you.

Not like there was anyone else.

You sweatdropped. “I wish people thought the same.”

“Huh—what are they saying—”

“Alright, take your pens out,” the teacher cut in.

While writing down his answers at an almost abnormal speed, his thoughts swirled.

Harry knew you were unpopular for some godforsaken reason—you were kind, you were pretty, and a little hotheaded sometimes, but still!

Worst of all, their words actually got to you sometimes.

But maybe it was better that they didn’t.

That way, he got to keep that part of you to himself.

— 🐰

“Osborn, I’d like to discuss one of the academic competitions coming up soon.” The teacher pushed their glasses back up the bridge of their nose.

Harry had been entered into far too many contests to count on his fingers this year, and he honestly just wanted to tone it down—especially with the year almost over.

And then there were the lessons his father insisted on—about how to run a company. (Seriously, how hard could it be? Apparently very, if his stoic mentor making him write reports every night was anything to go by.)

“Sorry, miss, but I—”

Then his father’s words rang in his head—“A good businessman never misses an opportunity.”

Harry sighed, scratching the back of his head. “Okay, miss. I’ll see to it when I get home.”

The teacher smiled at him, then looked past his shoulder. “Can you tell Wayne to come over? I’d like to see the photos for the paper.”

Harry was about to ask why she couldn’t do it herself, but the rasp in her voice answered the question for him. Teaching privileged high school kids all day would do that to anyone, he figured.

“[Name]! Teach wants to see the photos!”

He watched your form in slight curiosity fumble for a bit, a slight wobble in your step as you walked over.

—

The field trip ended a little early after the spider lab—something about an emergency. The class was disappointed, but it was nearing nightfall anyway, so they made their way back through the building toward the bus.

Harry, however, watched you—a dazed look lingering on your face. He frowned.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

You tossed the wrapper of the sandwich he’d given you earlier into the nearest trash can—the same one you’d initially refused.

“Fine. Just… hungry, I think,” you replied, your hands buried deep in your jacket pockets.

“You ate two of my sandwiches…” Harry grumbled.

You nearly bumped into the two girls walking ahead of you, but Harry caught your arm just in time, steadying you before you could knock into them.

“Uh, you’re really out of it,” he said, studying your face—cold sweat beading along your forehead, your lips drawn into a tight frown.

You shrugged off his hand. “I’m fine, I swear.”

—

You weren’t fine—judging by how you nearly fell stepping off the bus when they dropped you off at the stop.

Harry scoffed. It was ridiculous—dumping a bunch of high schoolers at a bus stop this late.

Though, judging by the number of sleek, expensive black cars already lined up nearby, most of them had rides waiting.

He pulled you closer, an arm around your shoulders. You were strangely cold despite the sheen of sweat on your skin, and this was the best idea he had to help.

“S’cold,” you murmured, your voice breathless, like even speaking hurt. Your eyes were squeezed shut, a crease forming between your brows.

“Yeah? Only just a bit more, and you’ll be home,” Harry reassured, gently brushing the hair stuck to your face aside.

His chauffeur, Jake, glanced at them through the rearview mirror. “Lad, wouldn’t it be better if we brought them to the hospital?”

You whined at the word hospital, shooting Jake a look that said, See?

The older man huffed. “Ya should message their family. Probably worried sick by now.”

Yeah, right.

Nevertheless, his other hand fished your phone out of your pocket. Harry punched in your password, then opened your messages app.

The only people pinned were your aunt and uncle, Alfred (with a monocle emoji), and him. In any other situation, he would’ve found it endearing—but you were sick. Horribly sick, even.

He pressed Alfred’s contact.

[You]

Good evening, sir. This is Harry Osborn, [Name]’s friend. They’re not feeling well, so I’ll be dropping them off at the front gates of their home.

The butler replied surprisingly fast.

[Alfred 🧐]

Good evening, Master Osborn. I’ll open the gates at once. Thank you for bringing [Name] home—rest assured, they’ll be alright.

- Sincerely, Alfred Pennyworth

He turned your phone off—it had been on the verge of dying—and slipped it back into your jacket pocket, pulling you a little closer to him in the process.

When the car pulled up to the front of your manor, Harry opened the door and helped you out.

“Good evening, sir,” Harry said, offering a polite smile to the elegantly dressed butler—his hand resting at the small of your back as he gently guided you toward Alfred.

“Allow me, Master Osborn,” Alfred said, draping a coat around your shoulders as you blinked a few times, still trying to process who he was.

“Please—just Harry,” he added.

Alfred smiled softly. “Thank you again, Master Harry. I’m sure your father will be worried—you should be on your way.”

Harry looked over at you, your eyes struggling to focus on any one thing.

“It’s really no problem, sir. Good night,” Harry said with a small nod, stealing one last glance at you before returning to the car.

Jake drove in silence, leaving the teenager alone with his thoughts. He was worried—obviously. But you’d been out of it even before the field trip.

You were more paranoid than usual-going as far as nearly screaming his ears off when he snuck up behind you.

Normally, you'd just shriek or something.

The dark circles under your eyes were becoming more noticeable.

Were you stressed about academics? Or something going on at home? Was it about him?

If it was about him… you would’ve said something, right? You were always understanding—especially when he couldn’t make it to—

“So are ya two, like—y’know?”

Harry flinched, only then realizing he’d been tapping against the car door for a while.

“What?” he asked, glancing up to meet his driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

“In a relationship? You two are around that age—I wouldn’t be surprised—”

“N—No. Nope, just friends,” he stammered quickly.

Jake just shrugged, his gaze returning to the road.

Harry would be lying if he said the thought had never crossed his mind—not even once or twice.

— 🐰

Harry's forehead rested against the emergency door, his usually well-styled hair a mess, strands sticking out in every direction.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His pupils were blown wide as he tried to calm himself down, counting the seconds that crawled by.

His phone felt unusually heavy in his jacket pocket. He'd had to end the call with your aunt and uncle early, convinced he was going to throw up if he listened to their distorted voices over the line for even a second longer.

Had it not been five minutes yet? Why were you taking so long? Why were the police taking so long?

Fucking Gotham and its shitty criminals—

Thwack! and another loud Thump!

Was that you?

You could be dying in there while he stood outside like a worthless dumbass. Why did he even listen to you?

Leaving you to die alone—

He jerked his head away from the door, pounding his fist against it twice before reaching for the handle.

Bile climbed up his throat as his breathing grew more erratic.

Harry wouldn't know what to do if he ever found your lifeless body lying in a pool of blood.

The emergency door burst open and pure adrenaline made him instinctively step back to avoid getting hit.

The weight crushing his chest vanished in an instant.

Harry didn't think.

He closed the distance and threw himself at you before you had any chance to react.

The young man held you as close as he possibly could, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

His hands trembled where they rested on your waist, still unable to believe you were really there.

His eyes fluttered shut as he held you close, content just to have you in his arms.

He would've been crying by now if not for the words his father had drilled into him since he was young—

"Boys don't cry."

You patted his back.

“I'm sorry.”

You were sorry?

For saving him? For being a hero?

He'd save the gentle scolding for later.

For now, Harry only shook his head, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles across your back.

Eventually, he pulled away, though his hands remained on your arms—not ready to let you go just yet.

“So much for a quick errand run, huh?” you joked.

Harry was not in the mood.

You'd risked your life, and you were quipping?

Harry would've been lying if he said it didn't ease the knot in his chest, even if only a little.

“Don't ever do that again, moron—” Harry started, ready to lecture you about how reckless that had been—how he genuinely didn't know what he'd do if you died.

Before he could finish, a police officer approached, cutting him off.

— 🐰

“Ya weren't hurt, kid?” Uncle Ben asked, patting his shoulder.

Harry smiled softly. Even though he and Uncle Ben had gotten off to a rough start because of the old man's distrust, Ben had come to regard Harry as family.

“Luckily, just sore feet, sir.” He'd accidentally stepped on his own foot while running to the emergency door earlier. It was pure luck he hadn't tripped over himself.

Uncle Ben chuckled softly, though concern still lingered in his voice.

“Always so polite, huh? I told ya to call me Ben. How many times has it been now—a million? But ya seriously not hurt?”

Harry laughed. “Yes, sir. Don't worry.”

He cleared his throat, his gaze drifting toward you.

“Actually… I have your grandchild to thank for that.”

Coincidentally, you caught his gaze.

Harry felt his breath catch in his throat.

He quickly turned back to Uncle Ben, only to find the older man smiling at him—like he knew something Harry didn't.

The ride to your house was suffocating. For Harry, at least.

He couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done and your words from earlier—

"I know you would've done the same thing for me if you were the one in my situation."

Would he have?

Would he have had the courage to save your life the way you'd saved his?

His hands rested loosely in his lap, already itching to fidget.

He stole a quick glance while you were looking out the window, as if you hadn't just faced a group of men carrying guns bigger than you.

You're so amazing.

He wasn't.

“…Hey,” he said after a brief pause, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

You turned your head slightly. “Yeah?”

“I just wanna thank you... for what you did for me back there. You were really brave, and...” He looked away for a moment, as if the words had suddenly become harder to say. “…I don't think I could've handled that the way you did.”

It was true.

He couldn't have done what you just did.

His fingers tightened together in his lap before he finally looked back at you, his expression more earnest than before.

“…You didn't have to put me first. But you did.”

All his life, he'd been taught to be selfish. To take, and take, and take—until there was nothing left to take.

Kindness, according to his father, was a weakness people exploited. Trust was a liability. Love was something to be earned through usefulness, not freely given.

So why...

Why had you chosen him?

He wasn't the smartest person you knew.

He sure wasn't the strongest.

He wasn't even particularly easy to be around these days.

Half the time, he was stressed, snappish, or too caught up trying to meet expectations that never seemed to end.

There had to be someone more deserving of your loyalty.

Someone kinder.

Someone easier to love.

Yet every time Harry looked over his shoulder—

It was always you.

And every time he stumbled, somehow—you were still there.

He didn't know what he'd done to deserve that.

Part of him wondered if one day you'd realize you deserved better.

You studied him for a moment before responding, your voice just as soft, “You're my best friend. I'd always choose you—no matter what.”

He went quiet.

Of course you would.

His gaze fell to his hands again, trying to stop the grin threatening to spread across his face.

Those words, they're so you.

You always believed there was something worth choosing in him.

That, that made him want to become someone who deserved it.

Someone better.

Better, for you.

“…Yeah,” he said softly after a beat.

— 🐰

Norman turned back his gaze to his son. “Harry, it amazes me that you haven’t invited your fiancée to dinner.”

The young man fell silent.

Ever since the phone call, it was clear his father had held some sort of interest toward you. Not the weird kind, obviously.

Norman joined him for dinner more often, asking how his day went. Asking what you did.

Harry sputtered, “Dad—what? How?”

It wasn't like he explicitly told his father, “Hey! Me and [Name] are engaged!”

So, how could he have come up with that? As a matter of fact, a lot of people had been assuming. Jake was just one of the first ones.

His father looked even more confused than before, a crease forming between his brows.

“Mr. Norman, Harry and I—we’re just friends, sir.”

Then, Norman laughed. Like, loudly. It sounded so real that Harry almost shivered in fear.

When was the last time he heard his father laugh like that? Maybe it was when Harry made a mess of his hair when he was five or something.

“Oh! I’m sorry for assuming then!” He still looked amused, wearing that picture-perfect smile.

Norman shook his head with a grin, looking younger. “I just assumed that if my son doesn’t call you his partner, then you must be his fiancée. He can be rather formal sometimes.”

Harry scoffed. In hindsight, all he'd ever done was tell his father stories about you—never once mentioning that the two of you were just friends.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Ugh, Dad. Seriously?” he muttered under his breath, embarrassed.

“But still. Come by for dinner sometime.” He gestured to the sleek black car. “Would you like us to drive you home?”

Dinner and being with you instead of being stuck with his dad? Sounds like a gold mine.

Harry still doesn't know what the hell his dad is doing at his school. Norman had never personally picked up his own son.

It raised some alarms in his head. Maybe he had done something stupid again.

“No thank you, Mr. Norman, sir,” you smiled. “I have my own ride—just got caught up in traffic.”

Ugh. Of course. Harry doesn't get why you can't just ditch your siblings.

The older man nodded. “I see. It was nice meeting you, but we have to get going now.”

“It was nice meeting you too, sir.”

The older man nodded again and finally retreated into the passenger seat.

Harry looked downcast as he heard your refusal. “I’ll see you next time, [Name].”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t make your dad wait up.” You lightly pushed him toward the car door.

The next conversation that ensued was far too embarrassing for his liking. What the hell had gotten into his dad?

—

You were being weird again, but it went away quickly.

By weird, he meant staring off into the space next to him—being paranoid around him.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, you became normal again.

Normal as in, the way you act after the field trip sickness incident. You've been out of it for a while now.

Things that never used to bother you before bothered you now. Like how loud everything was, the weather, and sometimes you'd point out something that couldn't even be seen from that far away.

Why was everybody so weird lately?

You had been ranting about your brother who used to have a bowl cut. Tam? Was it?

He had broken your project, and Harry was angry on your behalf. Who bumps into a person, ruins their project, and doesn't say sorry? An asshole.

Suddenly, you walked in a different direction. Harry was about to redirect you, pointing you toward the cafeteria. Maybe you'd gone crazy from your siblings.

Then, he heard loud cheering and noises.

You continued walking toward the loud cheers, while Harry wondered how you had heard it from so far away.

The thought was pushed to the back of his mind as he saw the situation in front of him, though.

“Flash! Cut it out!” Harry yelled, his brows furrowed.

That blond idiot just doesn't know when to stop. Seriously, what pleasure does he find in this?

Before he knew it, and before he could stop you—you were already face to face with Flash. The roughed-up kid took this chance to flee.

Harry's eyes widened. You're gonna do something stupid.

“Puny Wayne! Just what we needed!” He made a show of arrogantly spreading his arms.

“Came to play hero?” Flash tilted his head, stepping closer to you. Harry couldn't even imagine the diabolical stink.

Crap, you're gonna get beat. Two against one big, burly football player seems fair enough.

“Back off, Flash.” Harry barely made it a step forward before two of Flash’s goons slipped behind him, grabbing his arms and yanking him back.

Gods, he's gonna have to stand here and watch you get punted by Flash.

“Hey—what the hell? Let go!” Harry struggled, twisting against their grip, but they only tightened it, laughing under their breath.

“Stay out of it, rich boy,” one of them muttered.

Shit, shit, shit—

Without warning, he swung. A wide, cocky punch meant more to impress the crowd than land clean.

You dropped low, leaning your upper body downward as the punch cut through the space above you.

Harry looked down at your upside-down, surprised eyes. He could feel his jaw slacken.

What?

Flash tried to land another punch on you.

And you dodged every single one of them.

You were moving too fast for Harry's eyes to track, Flash getting more and more frustrated by the second.

Harry smiled, the concern he had felt earlier fading into pride and giddiness.

Then, you punched Flash. Square on the nose.

It was so hard that he could hear the bone crunch.

Harry's smile faded into a jaw drop. “[Name]!” His voice went unheard beneath the crowd's shouts.

What was that? The strength looked madly unnatural for someone like you to possess.

Flash's henchmen released Harry from their hold.

The young man's incredulous gaze remained fixed on you as you were dragged to the guidance counselor's office—completely desensitized to the chaos happening around him.

Something's going on with you.

And Harry plans on finding out what.

A/N: SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG OMGG.. Yay! Harry POV hope yu guys dont scream at me with pitchforks

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