46Unreasonable Addiction
Chapter 10: Homecoming
By Yumegari and LRH, ed. Skylanth
Clair was awake when they crossed the line into New York, but barely. She watched the landscape slide by outside her window, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. She took a long sip from her bottle, feeling her head swimming. The fever had gotten worse.
"We've finally crossed into New York," Octavius observed with an audible sigh. "It shouldn't be much longer if we keep going as we have." At least the inside of the car wasn't quite so unbearably hot, now, but he found himself wondering when the last time he'd slept was. Stubbornly, he'd driven the whole two days through, having only stopped for a two-hour nap once. Every nerve crackled on the caffeine he'd been steadily drinking, and his eyes burned, not only because of the sun. He looked at Clair when she made no response. "Clair?"
"Mmm?" She looked around at him slowly, her eyes bright with fever. "I'm awake. New York, right? Good. We're almost home."
He reached out a hand, touching her face. "It's gotten worse, hasn't it? Your fever." He returned his eyes to the road. "Hnnnn," he said, a thoughtful sound.
She nodded, pulling away from his hand. It was too hot. "I think so. Penny for your thoughts?"
He returned the hand to the steering wheel. "Things will be easier once we reach the city," he said. "I can control my actuators almost from the other side of the city. I can have them ... meet us halfway, if you will."
"Ahh," she said softly, smiling and putting her head back against the glass. "I almost forgot about them. They'll make things easier?"
"Much easier," he replied. "I tire of all this driving and navigating the city streets will prove nothing more than a waste of time."
"Mkay," she said, rubbing her eyes. "I need to wake up. Sleeping all the time isn't going to help me get better." She leaned forward and turned on the radio, twisting the knob until she found a local station. "We're what, an hour from the city?"
"More or less," he replied. The radio provided at least some kind of stimulation, because Clair seemed more awake. Though whether it was because she enjoyed the music or because it grated was unclear. It grated on Octavius, though, but he realized that Clair had left her CDs in the SUV and whoever owned this car apparently believed that driving music was something that happened to other people. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel and he began to grow impatient.
She sat up, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. The irritating pop song on the radio ended, and a newscast came on, complaining about the traffic. "All routes are moving extremely slowly, because of FBI checkpoints on every artery into the city. The search for Dr. Octopus continues to intensify, and police are checking every car coming in on these routes for the criminal. The FBI asks you to please have patience with these necessary measures and to cooperate with any officials. Traffic is moving smoothly through most points, with no more than a one-hour wait anywhere."
"Oooh," said the female DJ sympathetically as the music started again. "I'm glad I don't have a commute, Dave."
Octavius turned to look at Clair, one eyebrow raised. "They've gotten their act together, haven't they?" he observed drily.
"Took them long enough," she answered, but she'd gone paler than she was already. "You're not worried? Even if we're on the smaller roads, there are going to be police everywhere." As if to prove her point, they passed a squad car at the side of the road, lights flashing and its driver peering in the window of a large SUV parked in front of it.
Octavius frowned at that. "I'm too far out of range," he said cryptically.
It took her a second, but she realized what he meant. "Well, get closer. Just, drive carefully. Don't do anything to attract attention."
"Yes, I'll bear that in mind," he said, eyes all over the road. Several more minutes passed in this fashion, and they passed a second pulled-over SUV before Octavius frowned, making a low sound in his throat. His brows met.
"They never found the car," she thought aloud. "They think you've still got Brandon's car. That's something, at least."
"Mmmhmm," he said, his eyes straight ahead. They went unfocussed. "There," he said carefully.
She looked over at him, saw that he wasn't watching the road. "Hey! Pay attention, you're still driving!"
"Give me a moment," he said slowly, still concentrating. The car began to drift.
She lunged across the front seat and grabbed the wheel, steadying it. "Park the car first, then do this!" she hissed as her head pounded from the sudden movement. "Look, there's a lot there."
He seemed to come out of it a little, and turned into the parking lot. But as soon as the car stopped, he grew still and unresponsive again, his eyes unfocussed, his breathing slow and deliberate.
Moving slowly to save her head, Clair reached behind her seat and re-packed the duffle bags, snagging Frank and zipping him into one too, ignoring his protests. He'd been a pest these last two days, always wanting attention when she just wanted to sleep, and then hiding under Otto's legs when she snapped at him. She was just packing the gun from the bar into the last pocket when someone knocked on the window. She spun around, then grabbed her head, trying to keep it from falling off. By the time her eyes could focus gain, the young man outside, a parking attendant, had obviously recognized them. Before he could shout out, she brought the gun up, leaning back so she could hold it out at arm's length between her and the window. She locked her elbow to keep her arm from shaking too badly. "Otto," she said warily. The young man stayed frozen where he was. "Otto, come on, come back. I don't know what to do!"
"Just... hold your aim," he said slowly, sounding as though he were in a trance. "No matter ... what he does..."
She brought up her other hand to help support the weight of the gun. Can't look weak. "Hurry up," she muttered to Otto. "I'm going to drop this gun any minute, and then he's going to scream and the police will come." The shaking got worse, but at least the boy didn't move. He seemed hypnotized by the barrel of the handgun.
Octavius, however, had fallen silent, his eyes half-lidded and unfocussed, lips parted. He still breathed slowly, and occasionally his hand twitched, or his eyes would dart.
The gun grew increasingly heavy in her hand as the standoff continued. "Don't scream," she said to the boy, not caring if he could hear her or not through the window. "Don't scream, don't scream." He must have heard her, because he blinked slowly and took in a deep breath. She tightened her grip on the gun. "Otto, come on!"
She could hear him take in a long breath. He reached around her and curled his hands around the gun, holding it up. His eyes still hadn't completely regained their focus. "They're almost here," he said.
She breathed in deeply as well, sagging against him, leaving the gun in his hands. She felt so weak... But the boy was still standing there, and his shoulders were relaxing, and he was about to scream... Octavius raised the gun and his sunglasses slipped down, revealing his unfocussed yet direct stare. The boy refroze, holding his hands up slowly. His mouth worked as if he were trying to say something, but no sound reached them.
"How much longer?" Clair asked. Once the arms were there, she reasoned somehow, everything would be alright.
"Soon," he said, the gun never wavering, his gaze never moving.
A moment longer, and Clair could hear ... something. A rhythmic percussive sound, just at the edge of hearing. Outside the car, the boy obviously heard it too, for his eyes darted around, searching for the source. The sound grew louder. People ran down the street behind the boy and he turned to see what was causing all that commotion.
Crawling over the nearby building was something that resembled nothing more than a huge metal daddy longlegs, glinting silvery in the winter sunlight. They leapt from the building and made their way to the parking lot and toward them, the sound growing even louder, claws gouging dents in the asphalt.
Octavius breathed and his eyes regained their focus. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes!" They drew closer and were revealed to be splattered and festooned with webbing, the reason for which became abundantly clear the moment Octavius left the car and reached for the arms. An all-too familiar red-and-blue-clad figure swung in, a kick sending Octavius toppling before the arms reached him.
"Otto!" Clair shouted, climbing over the driver's seat and out the open door, holding the door to remain upright.
Octavius snapped to his feet, his real arms up to block the next few punches as his artificial arms struck with blinding speed. Spider-man leapt out of the way of the striking claws, flipped, and grabbed Octavius from behind, pivoting and throwing him where he landed with a bone-jarring thud. The actuators struck again, only to miss and Spider-man cast a web-line, swinging on the harness in a wide arc that slammed his foot against Octavius' head just as he'd made it to his knees. Octavius' head snapped back and he fell again. One actuator whipped through the air, tangling the web-line and sending Spider-man flying, but he soon came leaping back in a diving tackle that once again knocked Octavius over. The actuators reached for Spider-man who rolled, bringing Octavius up with him, who wasn't able to stop them in time. One claw struck his head with a sickening crack and he went limp, flopping onto the pavement.
Clair screamed, losing her grip and falling to her knees. She could hardly see, her head hurt so bad. She braced her hands against the ground, unable to bring her head up. Her vision swam, filled by a geometric shape that took a moment to resolve. The gun. Otto had dropped it when he left the car. She gripped it and pushed herself up, raising it with both hands. Red and blue made a brilliant target that even she could see. "Leave him alone!" she screamed. "Leave him alone or I'll shoot you!"
"Huh?" came the witty reply as Spider-man turned to stare at her. "Waitaminute... aren't you Clair Holmes?"
He took a step toward her and was broadsided by the actuators, which still ran on the last command that Octavius had given them. They situated themselves between Clair and Spider-man and swiped at the other whenever he drew near, slapping him out of the air when he tried leaping. He webbed them and they sliced and writhed their way free, always between Clair and anyone else.
She held the gun up, her strength buoyed by desperation, aiming through the weaving actuators at Spider-Man. "You leave him alone," she said hoarsely. "Don't touch him."
He stopped, watching her between the actuators. "Okay," he said, lifting one hand. The snap of a claw caused him to lower it again. "Okay. He's down. You can come with me, now. I'll take you to the police. They've been looking for you."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," she said, her eyes darting past him to Otto, laying on the ground. Her chest felt horribly tight. The gun began to droop, and she snapped it back up, aiming as well as she could at his chest.
That brought him up short. Usually the response was something more like, Oh, Spider-man, please save me! or something along those lines. But then again, she certainly didn't look well, her eyes fever-bright, her face pale. Her hands, which still held up the gun, shook violently and her breathing sounded laboured. He lifted a hand again, holding it out to her. "You're sick. I'll get you to a hospital."
"No!" she shouted, and then coughed harshly, doubling up, but the gun stayed aimed in his direction. "Get away from him," she said when she could speak again. "I'll kill you if you touch him again, I swear it!"
For all his genius, Peter Parker was a simple, straightforward kind of man, and this bizarre loyalty of a very sick hostage to Doc Ock was confusing him to say the least. He looked back at Octavius and saw him stir.
Octavius forced his eyes open, blinking, and rolled onto his stomach, pushing himself up, getting his feet under himself and swaying slightly. The actuators stepped over Spider-man and approached him, one tentacle rubbing against his cheek. "Yes," he murmured, running his fingers along it. "It's good to see you, as well." As he unbuttoned his shirt, Spider-man took a step toward him.
"Spider-Man," Clair yelled in warning. Her finger tightened on the trigger, and she stabilized her aim with her other hand. "Don't move. I mean it!"
Spider-man froze and turned to look at Clair. Were his face visible, she would have seen disbelief written on it.
Octavius secured the harness around himself, clasping it fast. The needles penetrated his spine again, making him shudder, and he gasped. He'd almost forgotten how ... powerful those actuators made him feel. Strong and alive and ... strangely euphoric. They lifted him up and, effortlessly shifting their balance, picked up the unsuspecting Spider-man just as his Spider-sense caused him to turn, and threw him so far that he disappeared behind a building. They lowered him to the ground again beside Clair.
She dropped the gun and looked up at him, breathing heavily, her eyes unfocused. "Are you... okay?"
One actuator reached into the car, snagging the bags and the cat, who yowled indignantly. Another handed her his shirt and he put his arms around her. "I'm fine," he said, almost vaguely. "But you aren't." With that, he picked her up in his arms, his real ones, his still bare skin hot against hers. An actuator dropped the cat in the bag into Clair's arms and then she felt herself lifted into the air, his arms tight around her.
Holding the cat in one arm, she wrapped the other around Otto's neck, putting her face against his shoulder. The fever had eaten what little spare flesh she had. "Your head," she mumbled, trying to stay conscious. She'd over-exerted herself. "How's your head?"
"It's all right," he replied as they swayed, a fast and smooth movement, over the rooftops. "Don't worry about me. Save your strength." She felt him shiver, but they continued at the same pace. His gaze stayed forward, but his fingers curled in her hair. "Stay conscious," he said.
"'M trying," she said. "It's the fever. I think... it needs to come down. Soon. Anything over 106 causes brain damage. I don't know how hot I am. Gahh..." She broke off coughing again. Blood flecked her lips, and she wiped it away.
He looked down at her, seeing the blood on her lips, and his grip on her tightened. If at all possible, the actuators moved faster, the swaying motion became a little jerkier. Suddenly, his head whipped to the side and he lurched to the right just in time to avoid another stream of web-fluid. "Stay out of my business!" he growled, one actuator grabbing Spider-man's head before he could dodge and throwing him like a 90-mile-an-hour fastball. The swaying and lurching continued until they suddenly dropped and the actuators pushed them both through a window.
The place was vaguely familiar to her. He dropped to his feet and ran heavily, kicking open the bathroom door and turning on the water with one actuator. He set her down next to the tub and knelt next to her, peeling of his coat from around her and starting to work on her clothes.
"Ngghm," she moaned, protesting the cold air against her skin, but she helped what she could. Her hands were too weak to close around the buttons.
He finished with her buttons and pulled her shirt and bra off, one actuator curling around her under her arms to pull her up so that he could pull off her trousers and her shoes and socks, tossing them aside. She felt herself lifted up and placed in the cold shower water. He held her up by her shoulders, his hands quickly growing cold under the water.
She arched up, trying to escape the cold water as it drove what breath there was from her lungs. But once the shock of it passed, she relaxed against his hands, feeling the unbearable heat inside her begin to leech away. The pressure behind her eyes began to ease.
One hand pushed her wet hair away from her face. "Clair," he murmured, his face next to hers. "Open your eyes." Cold water spattered on his face, beading on his sunglasses and washing away the blood that still oozed sluggishly from the wound dealt him by his own actuator. It stung his ear but he didn't move, his hand still smoothing her hair back.
She did, slowly. The light seemed very dim after the fever spots that still danced behind her eyelids. She was still too warm to have to shiver, but there was already an improvement. "We're here?"
"Yes," he said, nodding. "We're here." That breif smile again, and she could see him looking at her over the rims of his sunglasses.
She smiled back, but it faded. "You're bleeding." One hand rose out of the water to touch the wound gently.
His hand touched the same spot, came away red. He blinked at it as though failing to understand why it was there. "I am," he said after a moment. He put his fingers under the flow of water, washing the blood away. "It'll heal," he said. He put the backs of his fingers against her face. "Your fever's gone down," he said, effectively changing the subject.
"Mmhmm," she nodded. She tried to stand herself, but her head rebelled and sent the world spinning around her. "Unnn. I should probably get out. Wrap up in something warm."
He shook his head, a vaguely amused expression crossing his features. "You need to be warm, you need to be cool, you need to be warm again... How much longer is this back and forth going to continue?" he asked, lifting her out of the shower and wrapping her in a towel, an actuator turning the water off. He rubbed her dry with the air of someone perfectly comfortable with taking charge of the situation, even rubbing her hair so that it stuck out in damp spikes.
She blinked as he rubbed her head, trying to keep it as still as possible. She was incredibly dizzy. "My body's going to have trouble regulating its own temperature for a while," she explained. "The fever needed to be reduced, but mostly I'm going to have to keep warm."
He nodded, wrapping her in the towel, and realized that he was shirtless. Again. He curled his arms around her, his fingers in her hair. "Why am I shirtless more often in your presence than anyone else's? he mused, apropos of nothing.
"My seductive influence," she mumbled, only a spark in her eyes betraying the seriousness of her voice.
There was a pause, then he snerked with laughter. As with every time she heard him laugh, it sounded as though it was something to which he wasn't accustomed. It died down quickly, but a slight smile still played around the corners of his mouth as he picked her up again, though not without some difficulty. The actuators held them up as he made his way to what appeared to be a bedroom, if only by virtue of the fact that it held something that could be mistaken for a sleeping surface-a nest of blankets and pillows, decorated with books and papers which the actuators cleared away. He knelt, laying her down in the squashy mess of bedding.
She shifted, dragging a blanket over herself, rolling onto her side. She coughed weakly, still bringing up blood, but smiled. "That'll stop soon," she reassured him. "Just an infection." Her voice was soft and slurred, and she was falling asleep again. "'It's not fair," she said almost silently. "You're supposed to be my patient."
An actuator pulled the blinds, making the room quite dim indeed. She may have heard a series of snapping sounds, quiet but heavy clanking. She probably felt him crawl under the blankets behind her and wrap his arms around her, pulling her close. Maybe she heard him sigh and then murmur, "Despite the name, I'm not much of a doctor." His fingers traced aimless patterns along her forehead and cheek. "But I promised I would take care of you. I keep my promises, if nothing else."
"Mmm," she agreed. Something cold inside her chest uncurled, and she eased into sleep, warm, safe, and protected.
"Well, that was unproductive," said Johnson as they left the PD. He and Hanover had just met with the witness to Ock's return to New York, a pimple-faced parking attendant who couldn't describe the woman who had held a gun on him, but was full of stories about how Spider-Man had been, in his words "Smackin' that freak down!" until the girl had threatened him with her gun too. All the description he could give was that she "looked like she was half-dead." He shrugged, turning the collar of his coat up to cover his neck from the wet snow that was falling greyly. "Do you think it's Dr. Holmes?"
Hanover sighed, feet slogging through half-frozen slush. "It could be," he replied tersely. "I always thought there was a little too much complicity there." He gave a short laugh. "Hell, they could be lovers by now for all I know. Add more confusion to the mess that this case already is." He hunched his shoulders against a sudden wind. "I need a coffee," he grumbled. A café provided a solution to at least that much and they entered it, finding a booth. On the next booth was a copy of a newspaper and Hanover reached over the seat and grabbed it. The front page held a large picture of Spider-man and the headline "SPIDER-MAN, DOC OCK CONTINUE TO TERRORIZE CITY." Hanover raised his eyebrows. "Spider-man, huh?"
"But why would she be his accomplice?" Johnson asked rhetorically. "He cut off her effing ear. We found it in her fridge. That's just messed up.
"Wow" He looked at the paper. "That's a pretty good picture. The photographer was awfully close to the action."
Hanover blinked and looked down at the photo again. "Yanno, you're right," he said. "He was pretty close to the action." He peered at the article and the bylines. "Peter Parker, huh?" He looked back up at Johnson. "Forget the coffee," he said, bringing the paper up to his line of sight, finding the office address. "I'm gonna pay the Bugle office a visit. Talk to this Parker guy." With that, he stood, rolling the newspaper up and sticking it in the pocket of his coat.
Peter Parker was a scrawny kid with too much light in his eyes for his own good and nondescript features that would blend in anywhere. The perfect junior reporter. The fact that the kid had a camera slung around his neck only sharpened the image into something that almost seemed deliberate were it not for his awkwardness.
"You Peter Parker?' Hanover asked, rather unnecessarily.
"Yeah," he said, nodding, and his voice was all cracking fresh testosterone. "Uhm, can I ask what this is all about, Mr... uh..."
"Agent Brian Hanover, FBI," he said, flipping his ID in and out of his pocket with practiced ease. "You were there for that fight between Octopus and Spider-man?"
"You could say that..." Parker replied vaguely.
"Did you see the woman there? Short brown hair, thin, missing an ear?"
"Uh, the one who pointed a gun at... Spider-man?" Parker asked, almost stumbling over the name.
"Doctor Clair Holmes. Did you hear anything she or Octavius might have said?"
The kid practically blanched. "Uh, no, sir," he said, his eyes darting nervously. "I wasn't that close... " he held up the camera and its hypertrophied lens array. "Telephoto lens, you know. And I kinda... split after I took the picture."
"Understandable," Hanover grumbled grudgingly. "Anyone who might know? Like maybe Spider-man? Word around here is you know him."
"Uhm, yeah," Parker replied, sounding a little more at ease, but not much. "I know him."
"Think you can snag him long enough for me to talk to him?"
"Gee, Agent Hanover, I ..." he stopped at the intense stare he was receiving from Hanover. "I can probably get a hold of him soon. Maybe have him meet you somewhere?"
"The lobby here would be good," Hanover replied evenly, his gaze never leaving Parker's.
"Hey, Parker!" snapped J.J. Jameson, leaning out of his office and chewing on a cigar. "I'm not paying you to stand around and yak! Get out there and get me some more pictures of that web-head or you're fired!"
"Uh," Parker jerked a thumb toward the slamming door. "My boss. Gotta go. I'll get ahold of Spider-man for you, Agent Hanover. Just... just wait in the lobby or... something... yeah." He practically scurried from the room.
The hustle of the newsroom swirled around Hanover for another instant as he stood there, hands in his coat pockets, and thought. Then he turned and left the room, walking down to the lobby.
Johnson followed him down to the lobby, lost in thought. "Anything strike you as odd that the FBI can't track this bug down, but some scrawny kid with a press pass can find him?"
"I have a few theories," Hanover replied, "Each more ridiculous than the last. I think the kid's just got too much eager about him. The kind who follows people because he's obsessed with finding out all he can." He didn't say anything more until they reached the lobby, a metal-and-glass affair. He sat on a bench facing a huge plate-glass window that comprised most of the street-facing side of the building, and waited.
"Maybe we should offer him a job," Johnson replied half-seriously, sitting down himself, his feet stretched out in front of him.
"Heh," Hanover snerked. "Kid would replace us in about five years."
"Maybe not, then." said Johnson, smiling. "I should have brought a book."
"Plenty of newspapers about," Hanover remarked, looking at the stacks of newspapers piled carefully on the small tables.
Johnson snagged one reluctantly. "The Bugle's a rag, and everyone knows it. Entertainment, not news, is what you get out of here."
Hanover shrugged. "It's something to read, anyway." He lapsed into silence for an unmeasurable amount of time, staring about the place and apparently thinking. The stillness was broken when he sat bolt upright in the chair at the sight of something blue-and-red flashing past the window. "'Ja see that?" he asked.
"What?" Johnson asked, looking up from the article about an alien's head found in a trash can in Queens.
"That," Hanover pointed. "I think I saw him." Sure enough, two seconds later, the spandex-clad one walked into the lobby as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world, nodding to the receptionist, who stared unabashedly. He strolled up to the two agents.
"Spider-man," Hanover said.
"The one and only," Spidey replied. He perched on a nearby chair and cocked his masked head attentively. "So, what brings you to call me here from an otherwise productive day of foiling madmen and counting my hair?"
"One madman in particular," Hanover replied, holding up that day's paper. "Doc Ock."
"Life of the party," Spidey replied. "But that's not what you wanna know, is it?"
"I want to know what you heard during your confrontation with him the other day."
"Oh, lots of whack and urrgg and crash, and a crazy woman with a gun telling me to stay away from Ock."
Hanover perked up at this. "She told you to stay away from him?"
"Yeah, and refused to let me take her to the police or to a hospital. Left pretty quietly with him, though."
"I thought as much," Hanover growled, tossing the paper back onto the table where it upset the entire carefully arranged stack.
Spider-man looked at him cannily. "You seem to know what's up with this case. Is there something between them? He almost seemed to be looking after her."
Hanover sighed, pushing his hand through his hair. "Just something that complicates things even further, is all. I'd suspected she wasn't his hostage at all, but this just proves it."
Johnson shook his head. "He went an awful long way to prove that she was his hostage back in Seattle. I can't imagine anyone volunteering to have her ear cut off. Think we've got a Stockholm here?"
Hanover sighed. "It could be. It would go a long way toward explaining their behaviour."
"Am I missin' something?" Spider-man queried, looking between them.
"I'd suspected that she was doing more than just complying with Octavius. However, I had no evidence to support it concretely, and he did cut off a portion of her ear in apparently an attempt to show that it truly was a hostage situation."
Spidey shuddered, but recovered, looking out the window as though in thought. "I dunno, women who end up too closely associated with Ock tend to find themselves wanting to stay."
Johnson nodded. "We've got the files on Dr. Trainer."
"Trainer... Stunner... probably others, too," Spider-man elabourated. "He even suckered some poor innocent old lady into almost marrying him. Turns out it was because she inherited an island with a nuclear reactor on it."
"May Parker, yes," Hanover said, thinking. "Any relation to that little dweeb photographer?"
There was an infinitesimal reaction to this, the barest grain of a snerk. "Yeah, she's his aunt."
"And you saved her and that's why he follows you around?"
"You could say that."
"Officially, you know," said Johnson dourly, looking at his feet. "We're not talking to you. The Bureau in no way, shape, or form condones vigilantes like you." He looked up, smiling lopsidedly. "Officially."
"Heh," came Spidey's reply and it almost seemed as though he grinned under that mask. "And officially, vigilantes like me have no truck with G-men like you. Officially. Anything else you needed to know?"
"You wouldn't happen to know where his hide-out is?" Johnson asked with good humour but no real hope, setting his own newspaper back on an intact stack, folded back the way it had been when he first grabbed it. "Where he might have stashed her?"
"Wish I knew," Spidey replied frankly. "Ock changes his hideouts like most people change their socks and in much the same manner- leaves 'em smelly and useless."
"Hmm," was Hanover's reply. "Well, we'll be in town for another couple days. Send word with your little photographer friend if you find anything else out."
She was running.
She wasn't sure why, but she was running away from something. And whatever it was, it was faster than her. She could hear it catching up by leaps and bounds, a quiet, stealthy hunter, and she didn't dare look back to see what it was for fear that she might trip over the tangled cords that snaked across the ground, all of them leading somewhere to her left. All she could do was look ahead, to where she knew salvation waited in a forest of metal-branched trees. A black, menacing shadow waited there, and she was running her heart out to reach the safety of that shadow before whatever it was behind her caught up.
A merciless light shone from the follower, throwing a black shadow of her own in front of her, jolting and wavering across the ground, getting steadily shorter as the light caught up. But she knew that the only safe places to step were in the shadow; if it disappeared, she would fall through the floor and disappear. The light came closer, closer, shrinking the shadow until she had to shorten her steps to keep it under her feet, and then it burst into her mind-
She woke up abruptly, gasping. That set off her abused lungs and she began to cough, curling in on herself as the spasms wracked her throat, already raw from three days of slow recovery.
She heard a sleepy "Hmmnnhh?" beside her and an arm wrapped around her, big and warm, the hand smoothing her hair. "D'jou have a nightmare?" he murmured into her hair.
She nodded, getting the coughing under control with effort. "Haven't had a dream like that... since med school."
He rubbed her back absently, still half asleep. "What kind of a dream?" he mumbled.
She rolled over so she was facing him, her head pressed to his. "The type where something chases me... until I fall." She opened her eyes, watching him in the dim light.
He lay next to her, just as shirtless as before, the blanket under his arm and covering part of his chest. His hair surrounded his head and shoulders in a draping mass of slightly tangled black locks, rumpled and strangely soft-looking. He must have woken up at some time earlier, because the beard was gone, now, and a bandage covered part of his forehead. His eyes were half-open, regarding her sleepily, and his face carried the tiniest hint of a smile. "What was chasing you, I wonder?" he murmured. "Some dreadful tentacled beast?"
"Mmm, no," she said, smiling and playing idly with his hair. She was vaguely disturbed to find that she couldn't make a fist, but the lassitude of the moment kept her from dwelling on it. "A ... light. A harsh light. I was running to reach the shadows, but my own shadow disappeared and I fell."
"Hnnn," he said after a moment. "I'm sure someone could find a dozen meanings in something like that-" he yawned cavernously-"But I'm not one of them." His fingers twined in her hair. "How are you feeling, by the way?"
"Better. Not great, but better," she said after a moment's consideration. "My head's attached to my neck again. But I'm really thirsty. How long have I been asleep?"
"I'm not sure myself," he replied. "But I think... maybe three days. I'd been sleeping the whole time as well."
"You shaved," she said, running her thumb along the line of his jaw. "The beard didn't suit you."
He smiled lazily at that. "No, not really. And it was dreadfully itchy." He kissed her forehead. "I'll get you something to drink." A pause. "As soon as I get up."
She sighed, noting the spongy, wet feeling inside her chest, and curled against him. "No hurry. I'm not all the way 'wake yet.""
"Mmm," he replied, curling his arms around her. "If we keep this up, we'll simply fall ... asleep again..." His fingers curled in her hair again. "Not a good thing... is it?"
"Probably not," she murmured, her eyes closed. "Dehydration would not be a good thing."
"Hnn..." He slitted his eyes open, then pushed himself up off the mattress. It took some time, but he made it out of the room. Strangely, the actuators followed after him like a bizarre pet. A few moments passed, and they returned, carrying two glasses of water and he dropped himself onto the bed again, sitting hunched forward. He looked back at her.
Clair struggled to sit up against a mound of pillows and reached for the water. She could barely hold the glass, and it rattled against her teeth as she drank. "This is frustrating," she growled, steadying it with her other hand.
He reached out, carefully pulling her hands from it and steadying it himself. "Just relax," he said quietly. "It's probably not a good idea to hold anything if your hands are that weak."
She closed her eyes and breathed out through her nose, then tried to take the cup back. "I'm sick," she protested. "Not helpless."
"Actually, right now, you're as good as in this state," he replied, persisting. "Sit back and enjoy being taken care of. It doesn't happen often."
"Doctors make the worst patients," she pointed out, but leaned back against the pillows and took a long sip, then pushed it away. "Not too much at a time."
He raised his eyebrows at this. "Yes," he said. "Yes they do." But he went more slowly with the water, then put it on the table, taking a long gulp from his own. He tucked the blanket up more closely around her, fluffing her pillows, then placing the backs of his fingers against her cheek.
She was still abnormally warm to the touch, but without the dangerous, dry heat of before. What was more alarming was the way the bones stood up under her skin. Already skinny, now she looked like an anatomical reference illustration. She passed a hand over her face, rubbing her eyes, and looked around. "Where's Frank? Did we leave him behind?"
He shook his head. "Your cat is currently curled on my chair and happily shedding."
"Heh," she said apologetically. "He does that. Well, I'm not going to be as worthless as him. Could you please bring me my notebooks? I can work on that, at least, if I'm going to be stuck in bed for a while."
"Hnn," he said, looking down at her frowning face for a moment before smoothing back her hair. He stood and found the rucksacks, bringing them back to the bed and opening them, pulling out their contents.
She pulled the one she wanted onto her lap and flipped it open, fumbling a pen out of the spiral binding, and promptly dropping the pen. Retrieving it, she glared at her hands, which were still shaking, willing them to obey her. She dropped the pen again. "This is intolerable," she hissed.
"Sounds familiar," Octavius observed, lying down next to her and looking up at her where she sat against the pillows. In the rather dim light, his half-open eyes looked amused, even more so as he smiled slightly.
She coughed, and finally got the pen to stay in her hand, but couldn't write anything legible. Her hand was shaking too hard. "This will pass," she told herself through gritted teeth. "Not the most severe symptoms I've ever seen. I just need to give it time..." She growled and shoved the notebook away, leaning her head back against the pillows. "I haven't been sick since I was a kid."
He reached up, warming her hand with his. "Not in this condition" he agreed. He sat up again, finding the cup of water again and bringing it to her lips. When she made to protest, he said only, "Shh."
Swallowing her objections, she drank deeply. When he took the cup away, she reached out for his other hand. "You'd better be careful," she quipped sleepily. "If someone sees you, they'll think the great Doc Ock's gone soft."
"Then it's a good job no-one can see me, isn't it?" he murmured, leaning forward and kissing her, reaching past her to put the cup back on the table. He lay down in the squashy nest, his arms reaching up and circling round her. "You'd best get some sleep. Even I know it'll be difficult to get your strength back if you don't."
"I've been sleeping for three days," she pointed out. But that didn't stop her from yawning and sliding down to lie with her head pillowed on his arm. "Much more and I'll turn into Rip Van Winkle."
He made an amused sound, his fingers slipping through her hair. "A few hours at the most, then you ought to eat, and I won't take no for an answer." He huffed. "Gone soft, indeed..." but his fingers relaxed against her head and he sighed sleepily after another moment.
"Right, food," she said, without enthusiasm. Idly, she rubbed her ear, exploring its new shape. It was almost entirely healed over now, and the scar tissure was sensitive. "Mmm," she mused aloud. "Wonder if Brandon's checked the fridge yet?"
A sleepy, amused sound resulted at that. "It'd be a surprise, that's certain."
She smiled, and kissed him, pulling the blankets up more tightly over her shoulders. "See you in a few hours." That said, she closed her eyes, a smile half-formed on her lips.
"Mmmm," he replied, his fingers curling in her hair again before going still. He sighed again and soon could be heard snoring quietly. The cat appeared out of nowhere, picked his way across the bed, and curled up next to Octavius' head, purring.
Hanging outside the window and peering through the blinds, Spider-man blinked. "That's no Stockholm syndrome there," he muttered to himself, climbing back onto the roof. Far from thinking Ock had gone soft, he realized his old enemy had simply become even deadlier. Now he had something to protect.
The hours since the encounter with the vigilante hadn't been any more productive than the hours before, and the two agents were taking a break at the hotel. Johnson was stretched out in the chair by the window when the phone rang violently by his head, startling him out of a half-sleep. Looking over at Hanover, he grabbed it and answered. "Agent Johnson here, hello?"
"Uhm, hi, this is Peter Parker," said the hesitant voice on the other end. "I was told to give you a message from Spider-man."
"Okay," said Johnson, pleasantly surprised. "Just a second." Covering the mouthpiece, he said to Hanover "It's the Parker kid. He's got a message from Spider-Man. Do you want to take this?"
Hanover nodded and reached for the phone, locating a pen and paper in case there was anything he might need to write down. "Hanover here," he said, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder. "You got a message from Spider-man? About Octavius?"
"Yeah..." Parker started. There was a pause in which it sounded like he was gathering notes, or maybe his thoughts. "He found Doc Ock's hideout-"
Hanover leapt on that. "Where is it?"
"He wouldn't tell me," Parker replied. "Said some things stay in the business or something like that, I didn't get it. But he said he found the hideout and took a look inside. He said that Doctor Holmes was there, sick, but otherwise okay."
"What were they doing?"
"Uh, sleeping."
"What, both of them?" Hanover yelped.
"Both of them what?" asked Johnson, who couldn't hear Parker.
Hanover blinked at him as though seeing him for the first time. "Sleeping," he said, then returned his attention to the phone. "Well, did he tell you anything else?"
"He said it certainly didn't look like a case of ... what was it you said, Stockholm syndrome. It looked like Octavius was ... taking care of her."
"I'll be damned..." Hanover said, staring straight ahead. "Yeah, uh, thanks, kid." He hung up, staring.
"So, what's the situation?" Johnson asked. His superior looked a little out of it. "What did he tell you?"
For an answer, Hanover burst out laughing. "That slick bastard!" he chortled. "Looking at him you never would have thought he had it in him!"
"What did he say?" repeated Johnson, slightly annoyed. "I wasn't privy to the conversation, remember?"
Hanover calmed his laughter. "Apparently Spider-man found Octavius' lair, though he didn't tell the kid where it was, and found them inside. Sleeping. Apparently together. She's in love with him but get this..." he sniggered. "According to the bug, the feeling's mutual." He snerked again and shook his head.
Johnson looked skeptical. "This entire situation makes no sense to me whatsoever, sir. And if Spider-Man knows where they are, why isn't he turning them in?"
"I dunno," came Hanover's reply. "According to the files, Spider-man and Octavius have something of a weird gentleman's agreement going on. Almost as though they figure they know when to leave each other alone. Guess this is one of those times. The trail's gotten so tangled it'd be next to impossible to pursue him now."
"This whole thing's been botched since the beginning," said Johnson soberly. "He should never have been able to find Holmes in the first place, and now she's on his side, two Canadian citizens are dead, and he's back on his home turf, where we have no hope of being able to outmaneuver him." He would have said more, but the phone rang again. He answered, and listened to rapid-fire talk from the officer at the other end. When he hung up, he turned back to Hanover, his face concerned. "That was the bureau back in Washington. There's been a problem. All of Dr. Holmes' research, the stuff we confiscated from her lab, has disappeared."
Hanover blinked. "What we confiscated from her lab... the notes she didn't take with her?"
"Yeah, and the samples, and the resources, and the slides... All of it." Johnson sighed, rubbing his temples. "They were being transferred to a more secure facility to prevent exactly this from happening, and they never got there. The paper-work's missing, no one knows who had them last, and no one's saying anything. This was very smoothly done."
With a sigh, Hanover sat back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Please tell me it was just Octavius being thorough," he moaned. "We've been chasing the man for a week, he couldn't have, but I don't want to think about the alternative."
"Unless he has more accomplices than just Holmes," pointed out Johnson. "He used to work with a gang, though he hasn't lately. Reverting to old tricks?"
"Octavius has been a loner for years, now," Hanover mused. "Though if he's gotten himself a woman again, who knows what he might go back to doing. An Octo-gang is certainly less frightening than the possibility of a second party becoming involved." he finished darkly. "Though I have a sneaking suspicion that's what it is."
"From what I've heard from experts," Johnson said, pulling the file from his suitcase. "The stuff that Dr. Holmes has been working on is in the realms of scary science. All sorts of unethical potential. She was ordered to cease and desist after the first incident with Octavius, but obviously, she didn't. It's being tested officially as a regenerative, but that's slow going and highly regulated. A lot of companies have shown an interest, companies like Oscorp and Wayne Industries, but the FDA isn't releasing anything yet."
"Oscorp," Hanover echoed darkly. "I wouldn't put it past Norman Osborn. And it would explain the clean sweep." He sighed again, dropping his head into his hand. "This just keeps getting more and more tangled..."
"You're not going to avoid tangles when you start with an eight-armed madman and a neurosurgeon, sir," said Johnson dejectedly. "Are we done here?"
Hanover sighed gustily. "I guess so," he said, looking at the other. "There's nothing else we can do here." He looked around again, then out the window. Octavius was out there, free and even more dangerous. Someone else had Holmes' neuroscience advances. And here he was, his hands tied.
"I only hope this won't come back to haunt us."
