#I already know this is going to lead to a god tier emotional hitter and I cannot be more excited

[blackberry-gingham]

HEY IF YOU LIKE MY WRITING AND ALSO NORMAN OSBORN, READ THIS RIGHT NOW AAAAAA

I'm privy to the basic course this fic is on and it's going to be LEGENDARY AAAA

The Notes Upon the Page (Norman x Reader) pt. 1

As the caretaker of Harry, you discover one of your many talents is also one of the greatest restrictions upon the Osborn family. And it drives you to answer a simple question: where did it all start from?

Hello everyone! I haven't written a proper reader insert in nearly 9 years and thought "hell, why not do it again?" Well, this took about 2 months to work up the courage to post, so a massive thank you to @softimaginescity for being my no. 1 supporter through the entire process!Sorry there isn't more Norman in this! I wanted to set up a couple things first.

I made a playlist! YouTube Spotify

If you'd like to be added to the taglist, please let me know!

"My father hates music."

The phrase blindsides the ears. A stark contrast to the otherwise suggested, given the instruments lined upon the walls and tucked into the corners of the room. One quick count reveals 16 instruments, each organized and arranged in what could be interpreted as orchestral form. Even the grand piano stands center and forefront to the door, adding to the aesthetic pleasure.

But the observation also begs the question: “Why does he have so many instruments?”

Harry’s hesitant eyes turn upwards until his gaze meets yours. He’s got a thousand words to say, but none which find their way to his mouth. And for good reason. He doesn't need to explain his father's arrogance and pride in the monopoly the Osborn family rests upon. The instruments are for show; a mixture of eastern and western to reinforce the subtle musical intellect Norman Osborn hopes to convey to any visitors. Some are even custom designed by overseas companies.

What does become vocalized is a change in description as Harry searches for better phrasing. "I guess he doesn't really hate music. He just doesn't want to hear it. I think it reminds him of Mom 'cause she used to play.”

It's a sombre story, tucked inside dismissal. Moreover, it seals off an entrance to the one world where the remnants of Harry's mother’s memories lie. Space and time repeatedly prove no competition against a timeless tune, and Emily's legacy is likely no exception. Waiting to be unlocked. But the bridges to reach her remain unbuilt. Each time Harry tries to lay the planks, his father destroys them.

It pains the younger Osborn to look at the instruments, his desire to understand their magic and his mother so apparent upon his face. So much so he's fallen quiet in favor of thinking. Ignoring you, as though he's forgotten he's not the only one in the room.

By no means is your presence unvalued. That you know. Your reasoning for stepping deep within Oscorp territory comes with a job acceptance to become the Osborn family's personal caretaker. What the full job description entailed, Norman Osborn never clarified; a classic Osborn conundrum, now that you’ve had nearly a year to investigate how he operates.

While Norman found your occasional flustered confusion and aimless wandering around the giant Oscorp building amusing, he never lost sight of the only blatant request he gave the first day you arrived: watch after his son when he couldn’t. Part of you expected Harry to protest against the idea of a “babysitter”, given he would turn 10 in the Fall. To an extent, Harry does show signs of frustration should you overstep his boundaries, his Osborn pride and Lyman stubbornness getting the better of him.

But the latter half of the months you’ve spent as his caretaker have been with the fullest of acceptance. Not just by Harry, whose childhood no longer slodges through complete loneliness, but by Norman, who has shockingly complimented your efforts once. According to the older Osborn, you’ve settled into the perfect balance of parent and friend, filling the emptiness pitted within the son. “If it weren’t for Peter, you might be his best friend,” Norman had said.

It’s that same bond that leads Harry to show off the music room. A room that probably shouldn’t be as easy to unlock with the swipe of a single keycard if Norman's restricted access inside. Now, as you study the wall of membranophones, you have to ask: "Your mother played all these instruments?”

"Oh yeah,” Harry says immediately. “At least that’s what Lucille told me. Oh yeah, you’ve never met Lucille. She was my mom’s maid; she works for Dad somewhere else now and doesn't visit me often. But she said Mom made a bunch of recordings of herself, then layered all the recordings to make a song. And then she put them on tapes. Hey, wait! I have one! Wanna hear?”

You agree, prompting Harry to skip to the piano bench. Sunbleach has overtaken the giant instrument from years of neglect, the sight a stab to your heart. Norman not only has one of the nicest pianos in the world made by an overseas company, but he’s decided it’s not worth his time to protect the hardwood. Cast to the side like a toy. In contrast, Harry remains unconcerned and unaware of the poor instrument’s condition, having become too wrapped up in retrieving a cassette tape from inside the bench. He holds it up as though he’s found ancient gold, then shuts the bench and drags it to a shelf with a stereo, where he places the tape in the cassette player ever so delicately.

Perhaps you expected to hear the piano, given where the tape was kept. Instead, the shrill trill of a tin whistle greets your ears, each note played with ever so select precision despite the rapid speed. A single guitar accompanies the tune, deepening the jig with cheerful chords just as exuberant as its partner. Yet never does the melody never becomes lost, accented notes keeping it organized and understandable in the chaos.

It's almost incredible. You’ve seen pictures of Emily scattered about the penthouse, all portraying her as a rather petite and dainty woman, even if she's the taller one between the Osborn adults. All of them deceiving, now knowing just how much power she put into her performances.

“Your mom played both parts?” Your voice may have given away your astonishment more than intended.

“Yep! Lucille says she even wrote this piece.”

“She really knew how to play,” you comment as you glance at the loopy cursive on the spine of the tape's case. This particular ensemble is named Don’t Fret About It.

It’s another minute before the song ends. Rather abruptly, as most jigs would, with only two notes and one chord to lead out the end. Only after it finishes does Harry speak again.

“I wanna learn how to play that someday, but I don’t know how to play an instrument. Mom tried to teach me when I was a kid but I didn’t care.” To be fair, Emily also died when Harry was 3. Most children wouldn’t care about instruments yet. But those thoughts are brief, for Harry has more to say, the words drawing a frown to his lips though his exact thoughts never surface to transparency. “Do you have any regrets? Because that’s what I regret. I wish I had paid attention."

Perhaps this is opportunity knocking. One that you’re meant to seize...which you are before you’ve had a chance to consider your words or their consequences.

“Would you still like to learn?”

“If my father will let me have lessons.” Harry wanders over to the piano and opens the fallboard, studying the ivory keys.

Right. Always down to Norman. The man whose idea of parenting could be described in one word, yet takes an essay to explain. To Norman, Harry’s life lays in detail upon an invisible planner, calculated out year by year, month by month, day by day. And if the plan ever goes awry, there was always a backup plan.

The one thing Norman doesn't calculate for is you. Nor could he ever have, for your name isn’t the most well-known when it comes to leaving a record of your musical career. What is out there is only known by word of mouth. Which gives you the rare opportunity.

You join Harry’s side in standing at the piano, raising one hand and pressing a few select keys and encouraging him to copy. As expected of the sunbeaten beaut, the piano is out of tune and impersonates a saloon instrument far more than its concert hall design suggests. Dust which collected upon the keyboard now touches your fingertips with a gritty consistency. The pedals cry in dire need of oil, prompting you to choose to forget their existence for the time being. Yet none of these imperfections take away from the sheer joy upon Harry’s face as he realizes he’s playing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

He's a fast learner, faster than you prepared for. Within a few playthroughs, Harry understands not only the keys to press, but which fingers to use and where to position his wrist. All from a few few visual demonstrations upon your part. And it prompts you to ask another question:

“Maybe I could teach you?”

You can’t remember the last time you’ve seen Harry beam until he could pop, but what’s there to blame? The gleam in his eyes confirms he's wished for this moment for years, but never found the pathway to make it a reality until now. “Really??” He asks, unable to mask his feelings. “When do we start?”

“Which instrument do you want to learn first?”

“I wanna learn how to play the guitar! That was Mom’s favorite instrument because she always has it in pictures with her—” His words screech to a halt, his eyes adjusting to the stiffness that settles upon the atmosphere over your shoulder. The joy that captivated him drains just as easily from his face as it arrived.

“Hi Dad.”

Only then do you turn to face your boss standing in the doorway of the room. If there’s disappointment upon Norman's face, it's well hidden behind the frustration. The stoic businessman isn't known to be friendly, but now knowing the father's hated for music were far beyond an exaggeration makes the older Osborn’s sharp cold glare even more intimidating, green eyes burning through your head.

"Harry, aren't you supposed to be focusing on your studies?" He wonders aloud. A routine, passive aggressive question he's used multiple times in various scenarios, and one that only codes as fatherly worry when in front of strangers.

Not before you. You've been around Oscorp for far too long to be an acquaintance. Although one could argue you’re still an amateur, given you know very little about the man's personal endeavours. What you do know is that it’s summer, and Harry doesn’t have school, nor any summer camps to attend.

But you have no say in the matter, and Harry doesn't either. Nor does he fight back. Or even attempt to. "Yeah," is all he says, head turning down. He starts for the door, pausing as he passes you. “Can you get the tape?" And then he's gone, shoving past his father as he runs away. Norman attempts to make eye contact, but it’s futile.

You let Harry go, knowing he’ll likely head upstairs to his room. Your next step is towards the stereo, Norman’s eyes following your every move as he sets a small black box upon a nearby shelf. Only when the cassette tape is back in its case does he speak.

"I didn't know you could play the piano."

“A little,” you say as you shut the stereo. Under your breath, you mutter, "It's easier if the piano is tuned.”

"What?" Norman asks, stepping closer and tilting his head so his right ear leads.

You wave his question off, moving towards the piano. Your eyes meet as you place a little more enunciation upon your lips. "Nothing, I was just talking to myself."

Recognition flickers across Norman's face as he glances at the tape. And not in a positive way. "Where did you get that?"

"I found it," The gears in your mind immediately suspect something else is on Norman's thoughts. Something that causes you to tuck the tape in the corner of the bench, opposite of where a stack of bleached papers sit. Perhaps it’s counterintuitive, showing the man exactly where the tape is instead of taking it with you for protection. Yet part of you doubts he would have the heart to snap it in half or throw it away, as it's one of the few memories left of his late wife.

Closing the piano’s fallboard is the last task you complete before turning to study the man. He's emotionless, motionless, and unreadable. It makes for an intriguing combination, given his usually eccentric and motivated desire to banter. It also doesn't help deducing his intentions.

"Is there something you need?"

He's tempted to answer with detail. Instead, he ignores voicing it in favor of prodding his pet subject. "How’s Harry?”

"He’s good. Hasn’t changed since yesterday.” The snark isn’t met with approval. “It’s about his snack time. You're welcome to come if you want.”

"That isn't my job.” His voice sharpens as he switches topics again. “I thought I told you this room was off limits.”

“You did.”

“And you disobeyed my wishes.”

“Under the better interests of your son. As you obeyed me to do.”

Silence fills the space as Norman scans you over with great scrutiny. From your very eyes, down your face, to the shoulders, then falling through your torso and beyond before his gaze is back to your face. Like he’s assessing you, questioning why you’re not challenging him, and yet forcing him to hear what he doesn’t want.

And that’s what frustrates him most. All he can do is raise a hand and flick a lazy thumb over his shoulder. “Get out of here.” And you obey, stepping by him very similar to how Harry did just moments earlier. The only difference is that you keep your head up and your face always in view of his sight as you pass. Norman shuts the door behind you. He casts one more warning glance your way before heading to the penthouse elevator, pausing in his step when his fingers fail to find the item he needs in his pocket. Briefly, he pretends nothing is wrong to hide the level of concern he feels.

Too bad a year of working from him leaves his body language easy to deduce. “Norman,” you call, giving him a second to register your voice and direction it came from. “You left it on the shelf in the music room.”

Norman doesn't bother to thank you, swiping his Oscorp card to enter the room and return with the black box, which he pops open. The last thing you see of the man is him replacing his hearing aids before entering the elevator. Only then do you head to the third floor to find Harry setting up a board game.

Harry’s not in a mood for too much discussion, but he has the energy to mumble, “Do you know how to play Mahjong?” Shaking your head opens the opportunity for the youngster to boss you around and teach you the rules, regardless if you know the game or not. Within seconds, he’s forgotten what he was even angry about.

But while a smile accompanies your struggling to understand the rules Harry’s gleefully over-complicated in explanation, your mind remains elsewhere. You can't wrap your head around Norman's thought process. On one hand, he refuses to listen to Emily’s work despite it being possibly the closest memory of her soul. On the other, he keeps her instruments around, as though he expects her to return and play them again.

And it makes you wonder.