Truth, With Honey and a Hint of Chaos
There were exactly three things Tony Stark feared:
1. Running out of coffee during an international crisis.
2. Group hugs initiated by Steve Rogers.
3. Having an emotional conversation with his son, who was currently on the roof, probably plotting something that involved glitter and passive-aggressive sticky notes.
Tony carried a tea tray like it was a peace offering to a god who could smite him with sarcasm.
"Jarvis, how's my hair?" he muttered, stepping into the elevator.
"Acceptable. For a man about to have a midlife meltdown, you look adequately moisturized."
"Thanks, that's so comforting."
"Would you like background music to heighten the tension?"
"Absolutely not."
"Playing Celine Dion."
"JARVIS."
Harry was sitting on the edge of the rooftop couch, legs tucked under him, wearing Tony's favorite hoodie—the really soft one he swore had gone missing "accidentally." His hair was a mess. His tea was already half-drunk. His entire aura screamed smug psychic chaos gremlin.
"You're late," he said.
"I brought tea," Tony replied, carefully setting the tray down.
"I already made some."
"You're impossible."
Harry smiled sweetly. "You raised me."
Tony groaned. "Don't—just—ugh."
"Is this about the blanket?"
"No. It's—actually, yes, a little bit, because that blanket was expensive."
"Price of secrecy, old man."
Tony sat down, barely resisting the urge to throw himself off the building. "You know."
"I'm smarter than you."
"Debatable."
Harry gave him a look.
Tony deflated. "Fine. I'm sorry."
"...For?"
"Being an emotionally repressed, hot mess of a father figure who didn't tell you you were my kid because I was scared you'd hate me and I suck at feelings?"
Harry blinked. "Wow. Did you rehearse that?"
"Yes. In the mirror. Twice."
Harry sipped his tea, said nothing for a full five seconds, then asked, "Were you seriously going to tell me like that?"
"I panicked."
"I could tell."
"You made a glitter trap for Clint last week and you're judging me?"
"That was an act of justice."
Tony rubbed his face. "So, you're not... mad?"
Harry tilted his head. "Mad? No. Mildly offended that you thought you were being subtle? Absolutely."
"I just... I didn't want to ruin this. You're happy here. You're you. And if I said it, it might've changed everything."
Harry set his mug down.
Then leaned over and smacked Tony's arm. Hard.
"Hey!"
"That's for being an idiot," Harry said. Then smacked him again. "And that's for making me wait this long."
"Abuse," Tony muttered. "Jarvis, take notes. I'm filing a complaint."
"Complaint recorded. Category: Deserved."
Harry snorted. "Okay, real talk. Are you going to, like... do anything about it? Or was this just a rooftop confessional so you can sleep at night?"
Tony blinked. "Do... anything?"
"Yeah. Introduce me to people as your terrifyingly adorable son? Make me business cards? Tattoo 'Dad of Chaos' on your forehead?"
"I—what?"
Harry poked his forehead. "Right here. Nice clean spot."
"You're worse than Barton."
"I've learned from the best."
Tony laughed, just a little. "You really aren't mad?"
"I'm relieved, Tony. I've known. You stare at me like I'm a puppy you forgot you adopted and are now obsessed with. Plus, you left the DNA file open on your tablet three weeks ago."
Tony choked. "You HACKED me?"
"You left it open on the counter. I tripped. With my eyes."
"You are insufferable."
"And you're mine."
There was a beat of silence.
Then, tentatively—like the air might break around it—Tony said, "Yeah. I am."
They sat there for a while. Not talking. Not needing to.
Harry leaned sideways and flopped his head onto Tony's shoulder.
Tony froze.
Then slowly—awkwardly—lifted an arm and wrapped it around his son.
Harry melted into the hold like he'd been waiting for it his whole life.
"Okay," he said softly. "This doesn't mean I won't keep stealing your hoodies."
"I expected nothing less."
"And if you ever get mushy and try to hug me in public—"
"I'll do it in front of the UN."
Harry groaned. "Regret."
Tony smiled, for real this time.
"Nope. No takebacks."