Things That Don't Get Said
POV: Tony Stark
Tony wasn't a patient man.
He didn't wait well. Didn't sit with things. He built, solved, calculated. He broke the world into problems with moving parts and figured out how to fix them.
But this?
Harry?
This wasn't something he could build his way through.
The kid—no, the man—was twenty-eight, sharp as a needle, and small enough to pass for someone ten years younger. He walked like someone who didn't want to be noticed but always was. And he looked at Tony like he saw right through him—right past the money, the sarcasm, the fame—to the very uncomfortable truth underneath.
Tony was his father.
And he hadn't told him.
Not yet.
Because the first time Harry came to the Tower, he didn't ask for anything. He showed up in his too-big hoodie and his sharp tongue and made himself perfectly comfortable while acting like the floor might drop out from under him at any second. He moved through the space like a guest, but one who knew the fire exits and memorized the number of steps from door to elevator.
He'd been in survival mode. Stark knew the signs.
Now?
Now Harry came by more often. He didn't live there, didn't sleep over, didn't unpack—but his mug was still in the dish rack most mornings, and there were books left on tables and a pair of boots by the elevator that no one dared move.
And Tony was still silent.
He told himself he was waiting for the right moment.
But truthfully? He was afraid of what would happen after he said it.
Tony found him in the workshop that evening.
Not doing anything particularly groundbreaking—just fiddling with a set of micro-sensors, sorting them like he was organizing his thoughts.
"Stealing my tech?" Tony asked, voice light.
Harry didn't even flinch. "Just rearranging it to be less ugly."
"You wound me."
Harry smirked. "Not yet."
There was a pause. Not tense. Just full.
"You ever consider working here?" Tony asked. He didn't know why it came out then. It wasn't a plan. It wasn't even close to a confession. Just a soft, stupid question meant to buy him time.
Harry didn't look up. "You mean full-time? Clock in, wear the shirt, call you boss?"
"I mean build stuff. Make the world a little smarter. You're not exactly a hobbyist."
Harry hummed. "I don't like being owned."
"I don't do contracts," Tony said. "Just very persuasive coffee and a lot of freedom."
Harry gave a shrug, then looked up with a glint in his eyes. "Maybe."
It wasn't a no.
Later, after Harry left—hood up, backpack slung low, eyes already scanning the street—Tony sat in the empty lounge and stared at nothing.
Jarvis spoke softly.
"You had an opportunity, sir."
"I know."
"He would listen."
"I know that too."
"Then why—"
"Because once I say it," Tony murmured, "I don't get to take it back. Once I say it, I stop being the stranger he tolerates, and I become the father who wasn't there. And I can't undo that."
Silence stretched.
Then Jarvis, with almost too much gentleness for an AI, said:
"You already are his father. The difference is whether or not you choose to act like it."
Tony didn't sleep that night.
He just stared at the ceiling and waited for courage to look like something other than a confession stuck in his throat.