170. Ghosts at the Table. (Patreon)

Peter POV:

The Bahamas still clung to me like a warm afterimage. Salt, sun, Gwen’s laughter carried on ocean wind but home had a gravity all its own. Parker Tower breathed around us as December settled in, lights warming the steel and glass, snow beginning to think about falling.

Christmas was a week away.

We were halfway through the quiet ritual of unpacking. Gwen humming while stringing lights along the window. Then the system chimed. Not Clanker. The Random Technology System had a way of announcing itself like a cat knocking something fragile off a shelf.

REWARD PACKAGE GRANTED:

1. Neo-Genesis. (Power to understand, alter, reshape and destroy all forms of life. Organic or inorganic.)

2. Pure Kirbon synthesis and condensation knowledge. (Marvel.)

3. Tri-Carrier schematics. (Marvel.)

I laughed silently, the sound caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. Of course. Of course it would hand me god-tools right before Christmas. Neo-Genesis. Creation and annihilation wrapped in a single idea. Kirbon, refined and solid, the rare metal the universe pretended didn’t exist until the mutants of 616 proved it did. Mysterium. Armour Model 72. And Tri-Carrier schematic because one mega flying fortress wasn’t enough so I get a smaller one. Not that I'm complaining.

“Random.” I murmured. “You’re living up to the name.”

Gwen glanced back, eyebrow arched. “Good laugh or bad laugh?”

“The kind that makes me want to lock a vault and throw the key into the sun.” I said. She smiled anyway because she knew me. Because she trusted that I would.

We were setting the table when Clanker spoke again, this time in the voice that meant people.

“Sir,” He said gently, “there is a Harry Osborn waiting in the lobby.”

The name struck like honey and salt. Sweet memory, sharp pain. Harry. The Harry of my world. Other Harries. Too many versions across too many worlds. Earth-65M was like that. A quilt stitched from familiar scraps, stories overlapping just enough to hurt while also giving a chance.

“Hold him there.” I said, already pulling up the bio-scan.

The hologram bloomed in front of me. Genetic markers flagged red. Retroviral Hypodysplasia. The Osborn Curse. Stage One. Early cell and tissue instability, the first whisper of something that always screamed later.

I exhaled through my nose.

Gwen stepped closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “Peter.”

“He’s sick.” I said quietly.

“It seems so.” She replied while looking at the scan report, just as quiet. “And he’s alone.”

I looked at her. My wife, my anchor, the woman who wore bad humor like armor and nodded. “Let him up.”

The elevator chimed minutes later.

Harry Osborn stepped out holding a box of fruitcake like it was the last normal thing left in the world.

Gone was the loud, laughing D&D fanatic who once argued about alignment charts until sunrise. In his place stood a thinner young man with straightened, side-swept hair and eyes rimmed red from crying or not sleeping or both. His gaze flicked around the lobby like he was afraid the building might reject him.

I crossed the space between us and pulled him into a hug.

For a second, he froze.

Then he broke into sobs.

He hugged me back like he was holding onto the edge of something collapsing.

Harry POV:

Dad died this morning.

Not in a lab accident. Not in an explosion. Not in an assassination. The Osborn Curse took him the way it always does. Slowly, painfully, inevitably, like gravity remembering you exist.

I have, what, twenty years? Maybe less. Stage One is polite like that. It knocks before it comes in.

Oscorp is barely Oscorp anymore. Pharmaceuticals only. Defense sold off. Agriculture gone. Clean energy swallowed whole. Parker Industries ate half the world with a smile and a press release. Stark took the rest and called it innovation.

I didn’t come here for stock tips.

I didn't come here as a corporate rival. I came here as a desperate friend.

I came here because Peter Parker has miracles in his basement and Gwen Stacy has blood that doesn’t obey the rules of nature and if she’s Spider-Woman, then she’s proof that rules can be rewritten.

But I didn’t say any of that.

They were wearing ridiculous Christmas sweaters when I stepped inside. Snowflake patterns. Reindeer. Festive lights twinkled softly around the room. Captain Stacy was setting out plates. Aunt May fussed over the gravy. Uncle Ben told a story I didn’t hear because my chest hurt too much. Metaphorically.

Peter hugged me like nothing had changed.

We sat.

We ate.

And every laugh felt like a reminder of a life I was already losing.

Peter asked about my dad.

I told him the truth.

Gwen’s hand covered mine without asking. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

I nodded, because if I spoke, I’d fall apart.

Dinner ended softly. No one pushed. No one pried. They gave me space like a gift.

But as I watched them. This family stitched together by choice, by loss, by love. I realized something terrifying.

This was what I might never have.

And for the first time since the diagnosis, I felt something other than fear.

Hope.

Because Peter Parker doesn’t let things end the way they’re supposed to.

And I was ready to ask my friends for a miracle.