Chapter Text
Dodge.
An arc of electricity whizzes past your head and you raise a hand to your ear, investigating for any signs of damage. When your hand comes back clean of any injuries, you take it as your sign to at least try and be careful. You huff, from annoyance or a cracking resolve, it's rather unclear. "That's no way to treat an old friend, is it?"
The night sky's lit up with just about a million different colors–all of which were also infused with a lethal dose of electricity. The thought crosses your mind multiple times, how could something so beautiful be so deadly?
You perch on the roof of a water tower, hands gripping the metal with a vice grip in an attempt to keep yourself steady. The air is alive around you with electricity so thick, your breathing is minimal in comparison. Laughter sounds somewhere behind you and you jerk yourself to the side, masked eyes scanning the rooftop below for any sign of him.
"No reason we can't come to an agreement like the adults we are," you say, uncertainty blooming in your voice–he's either playing the best game of hide-and-seek ever or you're absolutely blind, "You go to Rikers, I live out the rest of my life without ever getting electrocuted, and we both win.
You're beginning to believe it's the latter.
The man cackles, his voice reverberating from all around you and you're still uncertain where he's hiding, "Now why would I do that when all the fun's over here?"
You feel it before you see it. The tingling sensation that crawls up your spine like a wildfire. Goosebumps form under your suit and you're only allowed one moment to breathe before all hell breaks loose.
Behind! Your mind cannot, for the life of you, focus on anything else but behind. You don't risk a look behind, instead throwing yourself away from any airborne conflict to come. Body in a freefall toward the ground, your hands grapple in front of you for an opening.
The opening.
Mid-air, your body contorts to avoid a clothesline. Bending at the waist, you narrowly avoid the petty theft of some poor soul's clothes. The same can't be said for Electro behind you–a stream of profanities escapes his mouth and it takes every fiber of your being not to insult him for it.
Your opening comes in the form of a rickety old fire escape. It isn't pretty–you shoot a web from your wrist, barely a moment's passed when it connects with the fire escape. Half a moment more and you're saved from a fatal drop. White-hot pain flashes across your vision, the momentum of the fall ripping through your shoulder.
Fire ignites in your body and you can do nothing but continue the chase. Surely you've torn something–pulled something–whatever it is, you're too old for this.
"Will you just stay still!" the voice booms from behind you and you take it as your only warning to make your movements more erratic. Body swinging from side to side, webs being your first and last resort.
"Come on, Max!" You shout, rounding a corner–you have a plan, not necessarily a good one but it's a plan, "Here I was thinking all that electricity actually did something beneficial for you. Guess we both have room to be disappointed."
Not necessarily a good plan.
Piss him off enough and burn him out. Or piss him off enough and he kills you. Fifty-fifty odds for either outcome.
Electro fires a beam of pure electricity toward the spot where you were moments before, vocalizing his annoyances when he misses. Another and another. Each one missing its mark, electricity dissolving into the brick and asphalt, leaving scorched streets and buildings in their wake.
"You son of a—"
Attack.
Like a breath of fresh air, you switch it up on him. Body swinging up, your feet connect with his chest sending him backward. With his forward motion abruptly halted, you took advantage of his state of disarray, sending him a flurry of assaults. Electro met each blow with a poorly assembled block, his forearms weakening with every attack.
"Hey, pal, what do you say we call it even?" you say in between attacks, "My back's on the fritz and your whole electricity gimmick is just not working out for me today."
With one final burst of energy, you send him flying into the brick wall of an apartment building, glass shatters and falls to the street below–maybe you didn't think that through all the way. Gods, imagine the headlines that'll be printed in the Daily Bugle. You contort your body to avoid debris, following him into the hole.
You land on even feet, eyes scanning the seemingly empty apartment. Pictures of some family are strewn about on the floor, glass cracked and frames damaged. Where'd he go?
Maniacal laughter sounds from all around you and you take it as your sign to be cautious. You advance down a hallway, eyeing each of the rooms as you pass them. Each and every one turns up empty, only raising your alarm. You're halfway around a corner when a burst of electricity hits you square in the chest.
You collapse in on yourself using the wall for support. Body writhing, you force your hands into the carpet in an attempt at maintaining some semblance of control over your limbs.
Breathing fails you. Your hands rise to your throat, kneading your flesh through the material of your suit to urge air forward. After enough struggle, air enters your lungs followed by a wave of electricity-induced sickness. You cough. You cough again. You cough horrendous sounds that no human should ever make.
You peel the bottom of your mask up past your nose, drinking in the fresh air as fast as it comes in a meager attempt to clear your lungs. It works. A steady stream of air enters and leaves uninterrupted by coughing or other issues.
It doesn't stop the pain from spreading throughout your midsection though. It washes over your body in waves, especially bad over the three or four-second duration where you just know your heart doesn't beat. Every time it does beat, it's loud in your ears, painfully reminding you that you're alive. That you need to get up because you're alive!
"Here I was thinking my favorite pest was immortal." He stands over you, electricity arcing from his body down into the carpeted floor where it teeters off into nothingness. Electro sends another wave of electricity toward you and you barely muster up the strength to move out of the way in time. "Still got some strength in you? Don't worry, I can fix that."
He's on your slumped-over form before you can stop it. Legs straddling your waist and hands around your neck. Electricity courses through your veins leaving black spots across the edge of your vision. You're not sure how much longer you can last through the beating.
It's a meager attempt. When your hands curl around his forearms with as much strength as you can manage.
You're going to die.
Just before black can overtake your vision, he's torn away from you. You breathe again, air filtering through your lungs. Someone pulls you to your feet, they're speaking but it falls on deaf ears. Spider-man–Peter Parker stands before you, hands on your shoulders holding you in place.
Before you can say much else, Electro shoots electricity at the two of you and you both pull apart to dodge the attack. He shakes his head, disappointed at his failure of an attack. "Shame, we were having fun before you interrupted us." He tsks through his teeth, shaking his head in disapproval. "Another time perhaps, I got what I needed anyway."
Electricity dissolves into the ground and you huff–this time it's definitely a cracking resolve–body slumping against the cool frame of the door behind you. "Son of a bitch stopped my heart."
"You alright?" Peter watches you through his mask, specifically the way your breathing has exponentially slowed.
"Should be after a while." You wave him off–he doesn't need to worry about you. "I'll be late for work if I don't leave now." You push away from the door, stumbling for a moment until you catch yourself on some piece of modern art (a statue of an elephant? You dare not question it). "Okay, that might've been a lie but Doctor Octavius made some big advancement last night. Left a voicemail around three in the morning."
"You sure?"
You're really not. In fact, spending a day sleeping away your injuries sounds like just what you need. Or an evening in a hospital room. Either or would suffice.
"I'll be fine, Parker. Little electricity doesn't hurt."
He bites his tongue, you know he does. Peter only nods, words left unsaid. "I hope all goes well with your work then. I won't make you any later than you need to be but please… go to a hospital if you need to."
"In this economy?"
_____
You slip through the doors of the Oscorp facility, patting down your sides for any sign of injury, cringing when your fingers graze an electrical burn on your chest. You bite your lip to hide the gasp of pain before smoothing down the ends of your shirt. If you got through today just fine, you'd be free for the weekend.
That sounds… easy enough, right?
You mumble a quick apology to the woman sitting behind the front desk. Otto's secretary that you're absolutely certain you've never held a conversation with. She says something about how Doctor Octavius was waiting in the lab. A tight-lipped thanks and you're halfway down the hallway before you realize you hadn't grabbed your lab coat from your locker.
Down the opposite end of the hall, you offer a meager wave toward the secretary who doesn't so much as acknowledge your presence. Without wasting more time, you proceed into a room to the side. Your locker's closest to the entrance–and always unlocked–making it an easy task to gather up what you need before returning to the lab.
Or… you were already late. Did it really matter if you pushed off work for much longer?
You peek your head out the doorway, eyes scanning the room. Empty, save for the secretary who certainly wouldn't go out of her way to bother you. You reach for a medical kit velcroed to the wall, pleased to find the items inside were in relatively pristine condition.
You unbutton the fabric of your shirt, peeling the material away from your skin until the burn is visible. The suit protected the bulk of the damage, that much was clear, but you still needed treatment. Enough to at least stave off any threat of infection.
Your hands shake when you pick up the medical kit, eyes scanning the small box for the desired item. Eventually, you spot it, the near-empty container of rubbing alcohol. Okay, that's out of the question. You drag yourself over to the sink on the far end of the room. Medical kit in one hand you place it on the rim of the sink.
Your mind wanders, body performing what has become second nature to you. If you'd been more careful… If you'd thought it through more… You shake the negative thoughts from your mind, wincing when the cold water hits your skin.
So many what-ifs to consider. So many what-ifs to ignore. It really truly shouldn't take Peter's involvement to save you from a near-death scenario. You cough to stifle the groan of displeasure from escaping your lips.
Looking into the mirror, you're finally allowed a moment to get a better look at the injury. It's red and angry, the skin so irritated it hurt to touch. So much better than what could've been if you weren't careful, you remind yourself. You steel yourself for another moment before delving deeper into containing your injury.
_____
"Doctor." You're barely half a step inside the lab before the greeting reaches your ears. You glance up to see Otto Octavius standing amongst a sea of assistants and interns. He's dawned a similar white lab coat that hangs halfway down his shins. "I was beginning to wonder if you weren't going to show."
"Doctor Octavius," you greet with an apologetic smile. You wade through the crowd of people and meet him at the center of it all. "Traffic was… a problem today," you lie, "Won't happen again." It's a promise–not one you're necessarily sure you can follow through with–but it was one you would try and keep.
He believes it. Or that's what he lets on and you're okay to believe that for the time being. Otto leads you through the crowd of people until you stand beside him before the grey of a large chalkboard. So many equations are written on it, it takes your brain a minute to comprehend how and why they work together. "Otto, you didn't…" you trail off in disbelief.
Your fingers graze against the board, coming away white with chalk. "You did it," you say, voice almost inaudible over the chaos of the room, "It's fusion…" you say finally.
"It's fusion," you repeat to yourself, excitement evident in your voice as you read more in-depth into the equations, "Gods above, Doctor Octavius I could…" the words die in your throat, realizing how inappropriate they were. I could kiss you right now. Note to self: never say that to Otto.
"Doctor Octavius," you start again, "you created the equation to—" you abruptly cut yourself off, snapping your gaze to Otto where you finally notice the dark circles under his eyes. "When was the last time you slept? Or had a meal?" Or a shower for that matter. "Doctor Octavius, you look as if you haven't slept in days," your voice is deep with worry.
He's grinning, shaking his head dismissively, "The first long night of many to come. Of course, this wouldn't have been possible without your data, you know that, right?" Your data, you remember spidering it up in the city–brief note to self, never say that again. "We all played our part and we're most certainly not done yet."
You can't help the knot that rises in your throat and renders you speechless for a short moment. Gods, the effect this man has on you. Instead of responding, you simply nod along with his words, eyes flitting over the chalkboard. "Thank you for having me along, Doctor Octavius," you say quicker than you mean to, "I mean it's nice to know we're doing something that'll help the city–hell, even the world."
It's cheesy and partially hypocritical coming from you but you mean every word.
"Doctor," he starts, a voice smooth as silk, "you're one of the few people I can honestly say I'm glad to have along for the ride." You swallow, praying to some god that you aren't red all over. You got the shit beat out of you by Electro earlier, how are his words worse than that. "You good there, Doctor?"
You've been staring forward like a deer in headlights, you realize. In haste, you raise a hand, dramatically brushing the sleep from your eyes. "Long night."
Almost immediately, concern crosses his expression and you fear he's taken you too literally. Instead, your eyes follow his gaze until they settle on the skin of your forearm. Oh. Blood drips from a cut you somehow managed to miss in your brief first aid session. "I should take care of that," you say, your voice slow, eyebrows knitted together as your mind fumbles to figure out how you didn't notice the blood.
Otto hesitates, a hand outstretched as if asking for permission. You oblige and he takes your hand in his own, free hand rolling up the sleeve of your lab coat to get a better look at the injury. It's not terrible per se. The cut only runs an inch or so down from your elbow but it's definitely noticeable.
"May I?"
A nod and he retreats to some faraway corner of the lab before returning with a medical kit similar to the one in the locker room. He gestures to an empty set of chairs and you follow after him in a wordless display. "Would I be out of line in asking what happened?"
"Would it be totally reasonable of me to say I have no idea?" You watch as he splays your arm out across the metal of the tabletop. He's careful and concise with his actions, especially when sterilizing the injury.
You wince when he applies too much pressure and Otto pulls away, silence consuming the two of you until he opens his mouth. "I suppose you have done enough worrying for the both of us. It's only fair that I do the same."
"You worry for me?"
He pauses mid-stroke of the sterile wipe–the prolonged skin-to-skin contact burns–his eyes raise from your arm to meet your gaze. "I worry for all of my assistants and interns."
"I'm not a lab assistant or an intern."
"You aren't." His gaze falls back to your arm where he finishes wiping the blood away from your skin. Setting aside the used sterile pad, he reaches for a small pad of gauze and a roll of medical tape. You watch as he unrolls a generous amount of tape, stopping only to gauge how much he needed for your wound.
He presses the pad of gauze against your skin and secures it with the tape before running two fingers along the surface of the bandage to make sure it's securely attached. "Doctor, you're important to me," he pauses and corrects himself, "to all of us. I don't know what you get up to in your free time but I do know that you can handle yourself with whatever it is."
"Just… stay safe, will you?" He returns the medical tape to the kit. "I'll need you around when we finally get the ball rolling on our project."