172. Meal After the Cure. (Patreon)

Harry POV:

I came out of the pod gasping.

Not choking. Not clawing for breath the way I’d half-expected after months of feeling like my body was quietly rotting from the inside out.

I was just… breathing.

I blinked rapidly, the world sharpening into focus as the last of the medical solution drained away. My arms felt light. Strong. Normal. I flexed my fingers, then my forearm.

Nothing hurt.

Nothing felt brittle.

Nothing felt like it was counting down.

“Oh,” I breathed. “Oh... holy...”

Before I could finish the sentence, a towel was draped around my shoulders. Peter was already there, efficient, calm, like this was just another Tuesday and not the moment my life stopped being a slow-motion funeral.

“Easy.” He said. “You’re good. Sit before you decide to sprint naked around my lab.”

“I wasn’t going to...”

“You absolutely were.” Deadpanned Peter.

I laughed. Actually laughed. It came out shaky, disbelieving but real.

Peter helped me dry off, the towel absurdly large, like something meant for a giant rather than an emotionally wrecked billionaire heir. Gwen hovered nearby, arms folded, watching me with that sharp calm she always had for as long as I knew her.

“So,” I said, once my breathing settled. “Is that it? Am I… cured?”

Peter’s expression softened. Not pity, not hesitation, just honesty. He guided me onto a bench and sat across from me.

“Not cured.” He said. “But saved.”

I frowned. “That sounds like lawyer wording.”

“It’s surgeon wording.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Retroviral Hypodysplasia is too deeply embedded in your genome. If I cut it out entirely, your body, your cells reset. New physical structure. New neural map. You wouldn’t be you anymore.”

I swallowed. “You mean I’d...”

“Man-sized toddler.” Peter said flatly. “Different face. Blank slate. You’d have to relearn language. Motor skills. Memories gone.”

Gwen winced. “Not exactly ideal.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

Peter tapped the air and a translucent hologram of my DNA popped up. Sections glowed blue, others dimmed.

“I isolated the markers.” He explained. “Sealed them. They’re inert now. You’re a carrier not a victim. It won’t affect you, it won’t affect your kids, and it’ll never activate unless...”

“Unless I procreate with another carrier. Like Thalassemia.” I finished.

“Correct.”

Peter smirked. “So no Sweet Home Alabama shit.”

I barked out a laugh, sharp and relieved. “Wow. You cured my death sentence and insulted my hypothetical incest. Multitasking.”

“You’re welcome.”

I got dressed, hands steady, body obeying me without resistance for the first time in some time. No ache in my bones. No fatigue clinging to my muscles like wet wool.

Peter clapped his hands once. “Alright. You’re alive, not dying and I’m starving.”

“Already?” Gwen asked.

“I burned three million calories fixing his DNA.”

“You made that number up.” Gwen said while rolling her eyes.

“I'm hungry.” Says Peter with a shrug.

Gwen POV:

Harry Osborn had always been different from us.

Peter and I knew it. Not in a bad way, just… different. He grew up wrapped in money, expectation, absence. While Peter learned how to survive by moving forward, Harry learned how to drown quietly in silk sheets and excess.

But the friendship?

That part was real.

Which made watching his face when we walked into Dorothy’s Diner absolutely priceless.

The bell over the door jingled. Warm air hit us immediately. Coffee, cinnamon, bacon grease, fried butter. The kind of smell that wrapped around you and refused to let go.

Harry froze.

He was still in designer clothes. Tailored jacket, perfect hair, shoes that probably cost more than the diner’s grill.

He looked like he’d stepped into greasy hell.

He leaned toward Peter and whispered, “You’re joking. A trillionaire eats here?”

Peter scoffed. “What, were you expecting linen tablecloths and pathetic portions in a bougie place?”

“I was expecting plates that don’t come with cholesterol warnings.” Harry shot back.

I grinned. “Oh, relax. This place will change your life.”

"Pulmonary blockage isn't something I want in my life." Harry says exasperatedly.

Harry eyed the cracked vinyl booths, the truckers nursing coffee like it was medicine and a biker gang in the corner silently demolishing plates of eggs and bacons.

“…Are we safe?”

Peter didn’t even slow down. “Harry, we’re not in danger.”

I chimed in sweetly, “We are the danger.”

He blinked. “…Right.”

We slid into a booth. I leaned back, smiling as the memory washed over me.

“You know,” I said, “this place saved our sanity once.”

Harry looked at me. “I’m afraid to ask.”

“Right after Parker Defense Solutions landed the NATO contracts.” I continued, ignoring Peter’s groan. “We went to this ultra-fancy restaurant. Four courses. Five thousand nine hundred dollars.”

Harry’s eyes remained normal. “Sounds about right.”

“And we were still hungry.” Peter added darkly.

“So we stumbled in here,” I said dreamily. “Pancakes the size of hubcaps. Real butter. Maple syrup that didn’t taste like regret.”

“The chocolate chip pancakes are delicious. I would commit murder for them.” Peter said with a grin.

“And the Basque cheesecake.” I added. “Eggs Benedict. Bagels with scallion cream cheese and smoked salmon.”

Harry stared. “That’s… a lot for a diner.”

I shrugged. “They also do Afghani-style lamb biryani and shawarma.”

“…I take back everything bad I thought.”

The waitress came by, smiling. “The usual?”

Peter grinned. “When the hell did we have a usual? I'm gonna have a chocolate chip pancake stack, vanilla cake milkshake, chicken caeser salad gyro.”

I chimed in immediately. “Fluffy pancakes, maple syrup, vanilla soft serve on top. Strawberry-blueberry milkshake. Eggs Benedict with extra parmesan sauce.”

She wrote it down without blinking. “Of course.”

Then she turned to Harry. “And you?”

He hesitated. “…Classic American breakfast. Cream coffee.”

“Coming right up.”

As she left, Harry leaned back. “Your orders are… chaotic.”

She called over her shoulder, “They’ve been regulars for three years. Never ordered the same combo twice.”

Peter smiled. “Consistency is overrated.”

Harry glanced around again, lowering his voice. “You two really feel comfortable here?”

Peter met his eyes. “Harry, if someone tries something, they won’t finish regretting it. Plus being rich doesn't mean I have become something untouchable or unreachable. The Wakandans thought like that and all it took was a few thousand land lease requests per second from fast food franchises to humble them.”

Before I could answer the food arrived. Plates piled high. Steam rising. Butter melting.

Harry took his first bite.

Paused.

Then another.

“…Oh,” He said quietly. “Oh wow.”

I smiled. “Told you.”

Between bites, Peter’s tone shifted. Gentler, serious.

“You’re the CEO now.” He said. “Oscorp’s smaller than before but still dangerous. Board members will circle. Shareholders will try to swallow you.”

Harry nodded. “I know.”

“Don’t be reckless like Tony.” Peter continued. “Unlike him you’re not indispensable. Your father was indispensable because he built things. You need to learn when to push and when to hold. You need to be clever.”

Harry swallowed hard. “For three years, I just… partied. Drugs. Models. Anything to feel something.”

He exhaled. “If I knew you’d waterboard me with truths, I’d have come back sooner.”

Peter snorted. “You’d have hated it.”

“I hate it now.”

Harry looked up. “So how do you deal with your board?”

Peter took a sip of his milkshake. “I am the board.”

“…What?”

“Tony has five percent,” Peter continued calmly. “Uncle Ben and Aunt May combined five. Captain Stacy five. Gwen five.”

I waved. “Hi.”

“The rest is mine.”

Harry stared. Then sighed. “Yeah. Guess you won't take orders considering how you used to badmouth Leeds even when he beat you up.”

We ate. We joked. We talked about nothing and everything.

And for the first time in a long time, Harry Osborn ate breakfast without feeling like time was chasing him.

And that was enough for him.