The day the Advanced Robotics club from Midtown Tech was due to visit the Stark Tower for a presentation- The Mechanics and Dangers of Artificial Intelligence- and a tour of their professional lab facilities was blisteringly hot, strained with a relentless, rude, all-encompassing heat. The type that Tony Stark- someone who had spent far too much of his lifetime freezing to near-death directly after suffering through traumatic experiences- loved to enrobe himself within, to feel it swaddle him like a sultry blanket, sticky and torrid against his skin. How could he have ever been trapped in a frozen, dead metal suit in a Siberian blizzard or mildly hypothermic and lost in Tennessee if sweat slicked his back and dripped down his temples now?
Harley and Peter were marginally less partial to such weather, finding it, as most might, to be stuffy and rather impeding of the necessary human function of breathing.
That is why, as Tony insisted upon opening the garage to the lab to let the balmy humidity pour in like toxic gas, they blatantly ignored lab safety protocol— wearing nothing but cotton shorts and thin socks as they tinkered about with a modification for Peter’s webshooters that would allow them to spit toxified web fluid in emergency situations.
(This particular upgrade had been encouraged by Tony after Peter had to be med-evac’ed from a skirmish with one of those Chitauri-weapon selling bastards, his leg blistered black from a blast that had struck true.)
The poison in the fluid wouldn’t be enough to kill the victim struck by it; Peter would never permit that. It would cause temporary paralysis. Depending on how much fluid one came into direct contact with, it maybe might knock them out. But, if the situation was dire enough and he was in danger of his leg becoming an overcooked mozzarella stick? It could come in handy.
Of course, he would never get to use them if the heat managed to kill him before he could charge the ions of the ethyl acetate in his base web fluid formula so they could be coerced into imbibing the toxin without causing a minor explosion.
“Tony, this is your greatest character flaw,” Peter insisted, wiping a line of sweat from where it was dripping over the curve of his chest. The list of things he wouldn’t give for some functional thermoregulatory abilities in that moment was short.
“Drink your water. Don’t let yourself get dehydrated,” Tony replied, but he was grinning. There was a rare ease to the look on his face- a youthful devil may care type of expression, all cocked eyebrows and loose laughter, almost like his paparazzi mask but far more genuine, creased with smile lines like ravines- so, of course, Peter and Harley weren’t about to force an early end to their near-sauna sesh.
Harley let out a groan of the variety that was more just-vaguely-tampered-down-scream than anything else.
Tony snickered. “Whiny little menaces.”
He was still laughing as he dodged the screwdriver Harley lobbed at his head.
---
The class, crowded in the air-conditioned lobby with lingering sweat along their brows, busied themselves with fanning their shirts, soaking up the blissful coolness, and arguing about whether it was an infringement upon their Constitutional and God-given rights to have to sacrifice an entire June Saturday for a field trip. The secretary at the desk- a college student named Molly with a massive mane of red curls and a pair of green, cat-eyed glasses- was all in a tizzy, trying to collect the proper paperwork for the students to sign— a stack as tall as her shoulders of NDA’s, the protocol for FRIDAY scanning civilians, the proper ID cards so Happy wouldn’t have a cerebrovascular accident.
The curious thing about this particular field trip was that it had been largely forgotten about by everyone other than the security of the tower— mostly because neither the boys nor any of their friends were on it. Not Ned, who was technically in the Advanced Robotics Club but had been coerced into babysitting his six younger cousins by the promise of twelve entire bucks an hour instead. So many new Legos, Peter. So many. We can build the entire Hogwarts grounds with how many Legos I can buy. We can build a wall around the White House while Trump is abroad and lock him out forever so he can stop screwing up the country. Not MJ, who, frankly, didn’t give a rat’s ass about robots unless they were gonna close the wage gap and upend the patriarchy. Abe from the Academic Decathlon team was there, but they were more like glorified acquaintances more than anything else, especially after Harley canoodle-and-dashed on his sister. And the boys themselves didn’t bother with the Advanced Robotics Club— why would they, when their entire house was its own Advanced Robotics Immersive Seminar?
What this meant, in the end, was that no one was there to refute Flash Thompson when he snarked loudly about how sure he was that they were going to expose Parker and Keener for exaggerating their involvement with Stark Industries and, more importantly, with Tony Stark, and with no one there to point out the XYZ as to why Flash was wrong, it fell upon unsuspecting shoulders to quiet him, at the very least.
“Flash, please shut up before you give me a migraine,” grumbled a boy, James, that really hardly knew Peter and Harley except for the time they had frantically neutralized a near-explosion James had caused when he was too heavy-handed with some chemicals in their Chemistry lab. He owed them his grade in that class, and also several of his limbs, seeing as they were still firmly attached to his body and didn’t have to be scraped off of the ceiling of the lab.
Inez, stood proudly at the modest height of James’ elbow but with the personality to make up for it, crossed her arms and harrumphed in agreement. “Merda, Flash, are you stupid or are you blind? Stark picks them up from school, like, three days a week. This is old news.”
Flash glowered at them. “I’m just saying there’s a difference between picking them up at school or- or helping adapt Nanotech, or whatever. Didn’t you hear them telling Ned and Michelle about that last week? I’ve never heard such bullcrap in my life.”
James flicked up an eyebrow. “I can’t think of a single reason they would lie about something like that.”
A sharp clap came from the secretary desk. Molly was stood on her chair in all of her four-foot-eleven glory (represent short girls, Inez muttered approvingly), a blush bright on her cheeks and lanyards gripped in one hand. “Hi, you guys,” she said, shifting her weight nervously. “I’m, uh, I’m Molly, and I’ve got all of your name tags here, so if you could come up and grab yours when I call your name, that would be, uh, cool.”
Everyone mumbled their assent with various levels of enthusiasm. It was Stark Industries, for God’s sake; they weren’t entirely apathetic. They wanted to go on the field trip. They wanted to learn the information, and they wanted to glean any expertise they could from the experience. But it was hot. It was the end of the school year, and they were all too ready for this- all of this school stuff- to end. They wanted an ice pop and a nap while cartoon reruns mumbled in the background. They wanted public pools and games of sharks and minnows and chlorine stinging their sinuses. They wanted cheeseburgers with too many pickles and sour cream and onion potato chips and sleeping until one in the afternoon with no one to tell them they couldn’t.
They didn’t want name tags and the sharp scent of metal and chemicals eeping out from under doorways. They didn’t want single file line, please, or listening to the droning voice of their assumedly boring tour guide for two hours. They wanted the learning, but they didn’t want to be marched around and lectured at like they were training to be in the frickin’ Hitler Youth.
Luckily enough, that was not at all what they were going to get.
The first hint of imminent shitshow was the sharp clatter of stilettos on the tiled floors, a prim yet emphatic voice insisting that no, seven in the morning in Japan is not at all a fine time for a meeting tomorrow, Mister Akiyama, not when I live in New York City and, even if I left right now, the flight to Japan wouldn’t land until much after seven tomorrow.
The woman the voice belonged to looked up sharply when she reached the lobby, offered a polished smile as she said, “Mister Akiyama, for the love of God, stop calling this number,” into her earpiece, and clicked out of the call.
She looked out over the crowd of students— a precursory examination, searching for some secret something that none of them could quite predict. She gave a satisfied nod.
They stared.
“Good morning, all,” she said, holding her clipboard more tightly to her chest. “My name is Pepper Potts and I’ll be showing you to your first stop for the day and answering any burning questions you might have until your tour guides arrive. They were- uh- a little delayed,” Pepper Potts said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and rolling her eyes good-naturedly, as if more endeared than upset by the absent guides. She turned on a heel and raised a hand as if summoning the children, who all- terrified and awestruck and mildly in love- followed like sheep did the shepherd. “If you would all come with me, we can set off— we have a few college interns here that have recently finished their semester and would love to give you some information about the September Foundation, our grants and scholarships, and the intern process here at S.I….”
---
Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanova did not giggle.
Except they did.
And they were. Because- even in their prolific, intense spy standards- they felt quite sneaky.
They had their Saturday pancakes at nine, at their usual diner in Midtown, the way they always did- Bucky had strawberry syrup, Natasha had peanut butter and enough chocolate chips to give a coronary to a blue whale- and had plenty of time to be back to the Tower for the ten-thirty tour.
If Bucky could make a decision, that is.
“Yasha,” Natalia insisted, thrusting her pink Hello Kitty watch under his nose. “Just put the damn glove on. We’ll be late and Pepper won’t let us do it anymore.”
Bucky stretched his metal hand and winced. “It’s the latex, Nata,” he said thinly. “When it’s. Near me. I can still. Taste the mouthguard,” he said, uneven, stop-and-go. Like touch football.
“Oh,” she said. Duh. Good work, Natasha, almost driving your friend into an episode. “Well, that’s an easy fix. Go with the R&D intern look, then, so you can wear the fabric welding gloves. No latex.”
He nodded, blinking hard, and pulled off the glove. A tension released from his shoulders as he did.
She kicked his shin. “Just think about how much fun we’re about to have,” she said, and grinned evilly. “The kids will love us. It will be beautiful.”
“Beautiful,” Bucky repeated, and shed his white lab coat for a protective apron. He pushed a pair of safety goggles on top of his head and adjusted the roundish fake glasses he had perched on his nose.
Natasha tied the brown hair of her wig back into a neat tail and wagged her eyebrows at him. “It’s go time, Yasha.”
He rolled his eyes, but her grin was like typhoid. He caught it, and caught it hard. “Yeah, okay, you punk,” he grumbled, but his lips were twitching. “Mission is a go.”
---
“I am literally begging you to help me figure this out,” Peter said, spinning on the seat of his stool.
“I’m busy.” Harley scrolled lazily through the hologram of Jericho Brown’s Psalm 150 he was reading as he fiddled with a pen, taking it apart and putting it back together again. As he finished the last line, he blinked hard, then texted the link to Steve. reminds me of you & bucky, was the message.
“I’ll do your chores for a week.”
“No.”
“A month? Three months? C’mon, Harls, can’t promise much higher than that because- heh- you never know if I’ll make it that long.”
Harley’s gaze shot up, eyes sharp, pinning Peter like a butterfly to a corkboard. “Not funny. Nope. Don’t even think those words in my presence.”
Peter sighed, stopped spinning, and flopped against the table, burying his face in his folded arms. “I just need you to help me decide which isotope will be more stable when combined with the formula of my web-fluid. I don’t want my webshooters to accidentally burst with no warning.”
Harley smirked, squeezing the spring from the pen. “Erectile dysfunction is a bitch.”
“Gross!” Peter scowled, but peeked out over his arms anyway. “Please, Harley?” he asked, pouting his lip and widening his eyes in the way that he knew made anyone do anything for him. Peter Parker was a little asshole and may no one ever forget that fact.
Harley groaned and closed the hologram, the screen disappearing in a blink of fierce blue. “Fine. If only to make you quit your ballyhooing.”
“What is a ballyhoo.”
“Only my new favorite word!” Harley exclaimed, and gestured noncommittally. “A valiant effort to sway someone to your cause. Add that to your vocab list. Hey. I’ll quiz you while I check this over.”
A small light came to life in Peter’s eyes as Harley hobbled over- still clumsy and crooked and fawn-like on his crutches- and clambered up to sit on the counter just to the left of him. He picked up the stack of Peter’s notes, and smoothed them with a flourish.
Harley pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and began to read. “Succor.”
“A fancy word for help.”
“Serendipity.”
“A, uh, chance occurrence that leads to something good. Like, you seeing Flash whaling on me was a serendipitous moment because now we’re just like this,” Peter said, lifting a hand and twisting his middle and pointer fingers tightly around each other.
Harley peered up over the edge of the formula- he had decided which option was more stable already, but it created some other issues he needed to iron out- and shot Peter a half-grin. “Just like that, Petey. Lithe.”
Peter snapped his fingers. “Like, long and graceful. Like Pepper. Pepper is lithe.”
Harley nodded solemnly. “Pepper is like a tree nymph. But an angry, badass one. Like a nymph whose tree has at least eight wasp nests in it.” He grabbed a- new, not disemboweled- pen from where it was tucked behind his ear and scrawled out the formula he intended for Peter to use, then handed it off to Peter.
Peter skimmed it. “Did you change this equation too?”
Harley hummed. “In order to balance the formula evenly on both sides you had to-”
“Ohh, okay. I follow. And this way we don’t even have to add this part-” Peter scratched it out with Harley’s pen, Harley watching and chewing on the nail of his thumb thoughtfully.
Harley pointed to the messily scrawled, half-crossed-out chemical formula for the toxin. “Get rid of this. It’s stupid and I hate it. Use acetone-”
“And then if we add the-“
“But we need to keep these from touching in the shooter because of-“
“Contamination response, yeah,” Peter agreed, snatching up the webshooter he had pried open and gutted, turning it to show Harley the mouth the fluid usually flowed through. Then he gasped and grabbed some materials from the countertop. “But if we use-“
“To funnel it?”
“Ah! But- wait! If we use this-” Peter pointed emphatically to a chemical formula in the margins of his note sheet, “-to counteract the reaction, then it also-“
“Increases half-life, Peter, you’re a genius-“
“Because the oxygenation process-“
“Exactly! And if we use the sodium- uh, somethingborate-“
“Tetraborate! For the h-bonds-”
“Genius, you’re a fucking genius. I could kiss you. I will kiss you.” Harley grabbed Peter around the neck and smacked a tenacious kiss onto the top of his head.
Harley almost wanted to laugh. For how desperately he hadn’t wanted to get up and help Peter with his little project, he was sure excited about it now.
He grabbed the webshooter out of a gobsmacked-but-pleased Peter’s hand, shifting some wires to point out an exit point. “And if we weld this part here to this little piece right here-“
“No ugly seams,” said Peter.
“No ugly seams,” Harley parroted, positively gleaming.
Tony was staring at them from across the lab, accustomed to the strange way their brains fused when they were deep into the logistics of an idea but still finding it remarkably interesting and ridiculously endearing. His incredible, brilliant boys. That warm thing in his chest- wow, okay, so mushy- yup, that was pride. A lot of it. Like a big summer stew of pride. A clam chowder worth of it, with fresh New England clams and everything.
Tony shook his head. He could hardly focus on Important Work Stuff while the two of them were over there being all scientific and wonderful: he would become far too distracted trying to eavesdrop on them and cause another explosion by mixing an unstable isotope of Nitrous Oxide with his lemonade instead of with his beaker full of distilled water. Pepper could only snicker her way through that so many times before yes, honey, I accidentally singed my eyebrows off again became a point of contention for them.
Instead, Tony crossed the lab and plopped himself down on the floor by his glorious and unnecessary assortment of vehicles, his ass landing hard on the unyielding linoleum, intending to tinker with the engine of his Firebird. He grabbed his tool box and laid himself flat, slipping under the car on a creeper until only his legs poked out of the end.
“Alright, baby, talk to me,” Tony murmured, sticking a flashlight between his teeth and getting to work.
---
“I want to marry her,” Inez murmured, not listening to Pepper Potts as much as watching her coppery pony tail swing back and forth as she walked.
“I will fight you for her hand,” James whispered back.
“James, you’re gay.”
“I don’t care. Pepper Potts and my sexuality surpass the bounds of gender when in the same context.”
“... I don’t think that made sense, but it did speak to my soul, so I won’t question it.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh— finally,” said Pepper Potts from the front of the line of marching teens. “Hey, guys, here are your tour guides: Natalie Rushmore and Jamie Farmer.”
The scrambling of students to get a better glimpse of the guides was just enough to cover the covert oh, fuck you, Bucky whispered to Pepper as she slipped past them, snickering.
“Hi,” said Natasha Romanova, alias Natalie Rushmore- seeing as Natalie Rushman had been revealed in the Insight data dump, that cover was definitely no longer viable- giving a small salute to the crowd of kids. The blunt brown bobbed wig she was wearing swung around her shoulders. “I’m Natalie, as you probably assumed.” She had raised her voice just slightly, making it lilt at the ends of her sentences. She stood with her weight shifted onto one leg, a hip popped.
She was really good.
“And I’m… Jamie,” said Bucky Barnes, alias Jamie fucking Farmer, because Pepper Potts is a goddamn comedian. The frown lines around his eyes and across his forehead were filled in with makeup to make him seem younger, and thin layers of prosthetic skin were stuck across his hollow cheekbones to make him seem more filled out. He shoved his glasses further up on his nose. “We’ll be, like, taking you on your tour now, and your presentation will, uh, follow.” He scratched his ear. “Uh, cool. So, follow us.”
He was actually, believably nerdy.
He, too, was quite good at his job.
The students muttered amongst themselves as they walked, half-listening as Natasha pointed out things like the stellar wifi connection! and Bucky commented on the intuitiveness of the, uh, technology in the labs that, like, keeps bad stuff from happening while we work.
“I bet you won’t go get Natalie’s phone number,” said James from where he and Inez hung at the back of the group, hands buried in the pockets of his slouchy jeans.
“I would,” said Inez, squinting at Natasha as she pointed gracefully at a map that labelled exclusively the vending machines in the tower. “What do you think she is, nineteen? Twenty? That’s doable for a seventeen year old, right?”
“No balls,” said James, leaning over to poke Inez’s ribs. “No balls. No balls.”
She glared up at him and yanked a strand of his coily hair. “Fuck you. I’ll do it. I’ll fuckin’ do it, babaco.”
He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
“Fuck,” she mumbled, and started to push through the crowd.
James covered his mouth to hold in his laughter and started to push after her, whispering excuse me, sorry, passionate portuguesa to restrain as he went.
“... And if you see here,” Natasha was saying, head cocked to the side, grinning, “when I enter this access code, I can show you where all of the best coffee machines in the tower are. Mister Stark keeps us stocked with good quality coffee grounds, but some areas of the tower only have Keurig machines, and they can- by the will of Satan himself, I guess- make any coffee taste like cat pi-”
“So, Miss Rushmore,” said Inez, shoving bodily between the people at the front of the group. “You must have gone to a really good school to get an internship here. I bet you’re super intelligent,” she said solemnly, looking up at Natasha with startling grey eyes. They shone like dimes, especially against the almond shade of her skin.
Natasha flicked her eyebrows up, watching out of her periphery as James stopped just behind Inez, still giggling. “Depends if you consider Columbia a really good school,” she lied easily. “And Jamie here went to Yale, full ride,” she said, slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and squeezing his neck. She kept him in a headlock as they walked, even as he grumbled about abuse and worker’s compensation.
“Wow,” said Inez. “That is definitely impressive. Columbia is an excellent school. Did you major in Engineering?”
“Environmental Engineering,” Natasha said. She lifted a hand and brought everyone to a stop beside an enormous memorial placard on the wall.
Inez turned over her shoulder and scowled at James. This was not going to plan.
“This sign commemorates the work of someone whose ideals and initial discoveries lead to the eventual work of Mister Tony Stark, allowing us to reach a point where Artificial Intelligence is less artificial and more natural with every passing year. In fact, there’s someone we would like to introduce you to,” said Natasha, still holding Bucky’s head against her side, even as he whacked at her white robe.
The students watched them, a little thrown off by the display and the general lack of important scientific information provided in the tour. It had mostly been fun facts or details about the tower so far. They didn’t have particularly high hopes for whoever they were about to meet.
“Hey, FRIDAY? Can you tell us a little about yourself, doll?” said Natasha.
“Who the fuck would name their kid Friday?” muttered Flash.
“Uh,” said Abe from behind him. “Says Eugene.”
“Fuck you,” said Flash.
“Good morning, all,” came a sweet voice from what seemed to be the walls. The students all started, looking around for the source. “My name is FRIDAY, and I am the mainframe Artificial Intelligence of the Iron Man suits and the Stark Tower. I control much of this structure, including monitoring all entrances and exits to and from the tower and acting as the main security feature. I like to listen to Frank Sinatra when the boss plays it, and the Avenger I most enjoy watching get pranked is Sam Wilson— the Falcon. My best job to date has been taking care of the boss, Mister Stark.”
The students were frozen with a special type of awe. It was different than just being impressed with the tech. It was that rare bit of childishness still within them that showed as they stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, looking at someone they knew they could not see. They understood the technicality of it, how difficult it must have been to code and formulate an A.I. sentient enough to make decisions but not so life-like as to rebel against its creator— except, maybe it was that life-like?
Maybe it was, since it explicitly cares for Tony Stark?
It was a complex sort of thing. A monumental sort of thing, the type of thing that takes years and inspires endless debates about morality and living versus being alive, and usually ended with a definitive don’t, because of fear. Fear of the unpredictable, which really lead to the inability to advance.
And here was Tony Stark, with an A.I. that not only acted as a SmartHome, or whatever, but had the ability to monitor her creator like a peer, like an equal, like something more— it was incredible. Indescribable.
There it was. That big discovery moment.
“We love FRIDAY,” said Bucky, finally wheedling out from Natasha’s grasp. He straightened his glasses, then his tie. “She’s, uh, a real help.”
“Why, thank you, Mister Farmer,” FRIDAY said, and, for God’s sake, she sounded cheeky.
Natasha had that feline grin back on her face. “Now that we’re all acquainted, let’s head on into that presentation, mmkay? You can ask your questions in there, get that hot info— the logistics and morality of A.I.! How fascinating.”
---
Peter was snarfing down Cheetos with no regard for the digestive process or sanity of any and all present vegans.
“You’re gonna get cheese dust all over your notes,” Harley complained, grabbing the papers and holding them out of the way.
“No snacks at the lab tables, cucciolo, it’s a contamination issue— which is a rule that you know and continue to ignore because you have a death wish,” called Tony from under the car, voice muffled. It was followed by a hollow bump, and then an emphatic, “fucking ow.”
“You hear like an elephant,” complained Peter, staring at the bag contemplatively, unsure whether he should pause in the middle of his genius or work through the hunger pangs and building headache.
His stomach grumbled horrifically, answering for him.
“Ugh,” he complained, clambering off of his stool and crossing to the couch, throwing himself down across the length of it. He popped a Cheeto in his mouth and hummed in satisfaction. “M’gonna lose my groove,” he said around the mouthful.
“Better than you fainting and hitting your head on the lab table,” said Harley, still in the process of gingerly lowering himself from his perch upon the tabletop, trying to avoid putting weight on his injured leg. “You good, Tony?” he asked belatedly.
“Oh, yeah, just concussed myself on the shock absorber is all. I’m peachy.”
“Good,” grunted Harley, wincing as he landed crooked and his bad leg took some of his weight. “Crap. Ow.”
“You guys ‘r’a mess,” observed Peter through another mouthful.
“Did May not teach you to wait ‘til you’re done chewing to push people’s buttons?” asked Harley, dragging his way over to the couch, crutches loud against the linoleum. He frowned. Peter had left him nowhere to sit.
Oh. Evil idea. Harley smirked his most mischievous smirk.
“Nope,” said Peter brightly, unsuspectingly, still crunching.
“You’re gonna choke if you eat those any faster,” said Harley. He waited a moment before jumping as well as he could off of one tired leg, landing smack in the middle of Peter’s back. Peter wheezed at the pressure.
“You… suck…” Peter said, reaching a hand around to whack at Harley’s arm.
Harley raised an eyebrow and leaned out of the way, wiggling to sit more comfortably against the cushion and Peter’s bony back. “You need a doctor?” he offered. Peter wheezed aggressively in response. “You need a priest?”
“You need a life,” Peter said, wiggling his way out from under Harley somehow without sending him sprawling on the ground. Peter curled against the arm of the chair and scowled. He ate another Cheeto, just to be spiteful.
Harley was still adjusting himself, now in the couch crease, wincing and shifting his weight.
That wasn’t normal.
“Hey,” Peter said, suddenly softer, frowning. He leaned forward. “Is it bothering you still?”
Harley balked. “Nah. I’m fine.”
Peter sighed and dropped his forehead into his hand. “You got a chunk of your calf blown out by a bullet a week from yesterday, Harley; you’re allowed to be in pain.”
Tony poked his head out from under the car. “My Adult Senses are tingling.”
“Don’t call your it your adult senses; we’re seventeen, you can say dick,” Harley snarked.
Peter sighed. Harley was a real asshole when he was in pain.
“Oh, my god,” muttered Tony. “You realize if someone hears you saying that, I’m the one who’s gonna get arrested, right?”
Harley rolled his eyes, but he was still stiff. His injured leg was spread straight out in front of him, heel digging into the ground. As Peter watched him, he could see Harley repeatedly clench his jaw.
“Can you please take an Advil or something?” asked Peter, reaching out and poking Harley in the shoulder.
“I don’t need pain pills,” grunted Harley.
“What you need is anti-idiot pills,” said Tony, pointing at Harley and clambering up from his creeper.
“When Old Man Tony can get up from the ground more smoothly than you can, you know you’re in trouble,” said Peter solemnly.
“Hey,” Tony grumbled, but continued his way to their side. “You’re supposed to be the nice one. Harley is supposed to be the one who calls me old and ugly. You’re the one who goes, you’re not that old, Tony, or, May once called you a silver fox, Tony.” He dropped to his knees in front of Harley, reaching gently out to grab his calf. With the slowest motions Peter had ever seen, Tony lifted Harley’s heel from the ground and placed it in his lap, turning it so he could see the bandage better.
“Hmph,” said Tony.
“What?” said Harley, anxiety immediately flooding in the pit of his gut. He reached out wildly and grasped onto Peter’s hand. “What, what? Are you going to have to amputate it? Am I a goner? Jesus, Tony, don’t leave me hanging like this.”
“Chill, Monica Geller,” Tony said, but his voice had slipped into that lower, soothing register he usually used when one of them was bleeding out or having a neurotic episode.
Or, y’know, in this case. Both.
Tony put pressure over the bandaid, which was wet with fresh blood. “I’m gonna pull off the bandage, okay?” Tony said, looking up to meet Harley’s eyes. “Just gonna give you a little checkup.”
Harley sighed. “It’s gonna rip all my leg hair out.”
“Mm. Good,” Peter quipped, squeezing Harley’s hand. “I was just thinking about how you need a wax.”
“Jerk- yow, okay, cool, good, thanks for the warning,” said Harley, wincing at the sting of the tape ripping what felt like three layers of his skin off.
Tony looked satisfied at having gotten the bandage off without freaking Harley out. He folded it in half carefully and called, “hey, DUM-E, can I get a hazardous waste disposal bag and some sterile towels over here? Thanks, buddy.”
DUM-E trilled and reached around the Uh-Oh, You Fucked Up cabinet, knocking over bottles of pain relievers and stacks of heating pads and many, many bandages.
“Yup- oh, yup. Good job, buddy. You really live up to your name, don’t you?” Tony said as DUM-E rolled over, coasting right over one of those shakeable ice packs and bursting, holding the bag open for Tony to drop the bandage into.
Tony patted DUM-E’s head, then grabbed the plastic-bag-enrobed paper towel roll from his claw. “I don’t know why I don’t get rid of you, really, I don’t.”
“Because we would be so, so sad,” said Peter.
“So sad,” echoed Harley, looking resolutely above Tony’s head as not to see his wound. Tony was fairly certain Harley had refused to look at the thing since he had gotten it, actually. Just his luck to have been the one to get, not just a through-and-through, but an entire chunk of his leg taken out by the thing.
Tony opened the plastic bag, removed the roll, and ripped off a thick stack of towel, looking back at Harley’s gash. The stitches were still in place, but it seemed the healing skin had been somehow jarred and was bleeding anew. Now that the bandaid was gone, the blood was dripping thick and fast down Harley’s calf.
Tony felt each individual year slip off of his life as he watched it.
Tony winced, and let out a cough as his heart palpitated. “Hoo, boy,” he said, then coughed again. “Okay. We’re going to be good little boys and not aggravate my heart condition, right?”
They were looking at him strangely, all wide eyes and mild panic. Tony didn’t know if he should feel touched that they cared even a little about his well-being, or guilty that he had obviously somehow conned them into caring about his well-being in the first place.
Tony shook his head sharply, then swiped the towels up Harley’s leg to catch the trail before it dripped onto the floor. He applied pressure to the gash, trying to staunch the blood flow without agitating the stitches any further.
“You feeling okay, honey?” he asked after a moment, using his palms to hold the towel in place so he could run his thumb along the side of Harley’s knee.
Harley’s jaw was jutted out. “You only call me that when you’re freaking out, so you’re making me even more nervous now.”
Tony winced. “Sorry. It’s gonna be fine, I promise. You just opened the wound a little bit. No problems with the stitches. As soon as it stops bleeding I’ll put on a new bandage, force feed you some Tylenol, and forbid you from getting up from the Nap Couch for the rest of the afternoon for the sake of my weak, weak heart. Sound good?”
Harley scowled and mumbled something under his breath that was probably not an assent but Tony took to be one anyway.
Tony sighed and leaned forward, dropping his chin onto Harley’s knee and maintaining the pressure on his calf. “Crazy day and it’s not even half over, hmm? You guys just like excitement too much.”
“Can we have less exciting days?” said Harley, his head falling sideways onto Peter’s shoulder. “I’m tired of my armpits hurting from crutches, and I’m tired of waking up at the asscrack of dawn for school-” a yawn cut him off. Peter and Tony shared a knowing look. “I’m just way too tired for this,” Harley mumbled.
Peter knocked his chin into Harley’s forehead, trying to bring the mood back to where it had been. “Maybe if you didn’t forget to close the shades last night, we wouldn’t have been woken up by the sun at ass o’clock this morning.”
Harley bristled. “You were the last one to go to bed! Thus, you should’ve closed them!”
“Thus, you’re lazy.”
“Thus, suck my absolute dick, Parker.”
“Thus,” Peter wrinkled his nose. “Thus, basically incest.”
Harley hmphed and scowled. “Yeah, you right, you right. Nasty.”
“Gross,” said Tony decisively, pointing at Harley.
A smile slipped its way onto Harley’s lips.
“There he is,” said Peter cheekily, shoving his elbow into Harley’s ribs.
Harley rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed on his lips, even as Tony wrapped his leg back up and stuffed him with Tylenol and closed all the windows specifically so he could turn on the AC and wrap Harley in a blanket burrito, effectively stopping any movement he could possibly have made.
“Boring enough for you?” Tony asked, tucking the corners of the blanket under him.
“Yes, dad,” Harley said sarcastically, and Tony froze.
He felt his ribs cave in, like whirlpools and the deep sea and swallowing sailors. Like siren calls and depths so far from the sun they turn molasses-black and languid. Like a whale call so mournful it made him want to weep.
“Kay, kiddo,” Tony rasped, then cleared his throat. “I’ll- uh. Be over there. If you need anything.”
“Mmhmm,” Harley said, looking intently at Tony, not a hint of blush on his cheeks.
Tony let a hand fall onto Harley’s head as he walked past him, running through his waves.
He crossed the room like he hadn’t yet found his sea legs. He collapsed onto the creeper, waving away Peter’s look of concern, rolled himself under the car, and laid there, smiling.
---
“Did we love that presentation?” called Natasha once it was over, on the verge of peeling her own eyeballs out and using them as ping pong balls.
But the kids were firmly in disagreement with her sentiment.
“It was incredible,” sighed one of them, and they all nodded vehemently.
Some carried notebooks, their hands smeared with ink from the sheer amount of things they had written. Natasha was positive one or two kids had voice recorded the entire hour-long presentation.
Worst of all, however, was Bucky, who had watched the entire thing with wide eyes and rapt attention. When Natasha questioned him under her breath, he whispered back in Russian, “I used to love science when I was young. Took Steve to Howard’s Stark Expo. When we were on the front, he would let me sit in his lab while he worked and tell me about what he was doing.”
Natasha had never been so disappointed. “I thought you, at least, would have been one of the few non-science brained ones of us. Maybe a writer or something, sending poems back to your beloved while you were on the front.”
Bucky had snorted uncouthly. “Whatever I was writing to Stevie while on the front was far from poetry. Closer to straight-up porn, actually.”
Natasha had faux-gagged so aggressively she feared she might vomit for real. “You guys are nasty as hell.”
Bucky simply hummed his agreement.
But now the kids were all corralled in the lobby once more. Though the itinerary had been fulfilled, their tour was not quite over yet.
Because Bucky and Natasha were evil.
“We have one more rather special thing to show you all before you leave, okay?” Natasha called, grinning ear to ear. “Follow us. I’m sure you’re going to love this one.”
Flash was back to his grumbling. “I don’t see any evidence that Parker and Keener really do work here. None at all. In fact, now that I know how technologically advanced everything is, I’m positive it’s way too complex for them.”
“That is false,” said Abe. “You cannot still be salty that they’re smarter than you.”
“And more attractive,” James added in a tone that implied he believed he was being helpful.
Flash turned and squinted at him. “Dude.”
James shrugged. “Just being honest.”
Inez flat-tired Flash for good measure, relishing in his protests as he pulled his shoe back on.
They wound through hall after hall, packed into the elevator like a bunch of sardines, and rode for what felt like far too many floors considering the speed at which the elevator moved.
“I’m hungry,” Flash commented as they walked, and no one deigned him worthy of an answer. Though Natasha did subtly role her eyes.
“Isn’t that the kid that used to beat the piss out of Peter?” Bucky murmured, slipping back into Russian, his lips moving so slightly that the kids probably didn’t even notice he was speaking.
“Yup,” Natasha breathed back, scowling. “But we’re going to be mature deflectors from the KGB and not garrote him the second the rats are distracted.”
“Boo,” said Bucky. “Lame. You’re lame. What happened to the fun times, huh? Murder by moonlight? Where did the old days go?”
“Uh,” said Natasha. “They went drinking and stabbing their way through Soviet Russia under now-dead pseudonyms and died along with their names, if I recall.”
“Lame,” Bucky repeated.
Natasha rolled her eyes.
They continued to walk.
---
“Please,” said Harley, “let me choose the music.”
Peter shrugged. “I’m fine with it, since you’re slowly dying and all.”
“I’m not dying!” Harley squeaked, then cleared his throat. “I’m not dying,” he repeated. “I’m not even bleeding anymore.”
“Turn on the music,” Tony called from under the car, where he was still laying. He had not touched a tool since returning there.
“FRIDAY, shuffle play Songs About Jane, will you?” Harley said, staring up at the ceiling, where he liked to imagine FRIDAY’s sentience was focused.
“Oh my god, Harley,” Peter groaned, dropping his screwdriver on the table and picking up a welding gun. He flipped goggles down over his eyes.
“What?” Harley said. “It is indisputably the most important album in music history and I dare you to fight me about it.”
“I know,” Peter sighed. “But every time you listen to it, Sunday Morning gets stuck in my head for days.”
As if by a stroke of pure universal coincidence, that very song began to play.
Harley’s eyes lit up and he sat straighter in his seat while Peter slumped with a whine.
“Sunday morning rain is falling,” Harley sang along, painting on a dramatic face and acting out every word. “Steal some covers, share some skin- God, what a good lyric!” Harley yelled.
Tony had peered his face out from under the car so he could watch Harley sing, hair flopping in his face, young and soft-cheeked and grinning as if nothing mattered except this very song, this very moment.
---
Natasha pulled everyone to a stop. “Give me one second to make sure nothing too secret is going on in there!”
She scurried around the last corner and peered across the hall to where the boys’ lab was.
Tony was laying on the ground, half under a sports car.
Oh my god, Natasha mouthed gleefully, watching as Harley sang along loudly with whatever song was playing, waving his arms around and really putting his whole little heart into it.
Peter was perched on a stool, button-up draped over his shoulders but undone, tinkering with something small in his hands, swaying as he did.
It was perfect. Finally, that Flash kid would stop bugging her boys about not knowing Tony. As if they could get any more domestic than this.
This would show them for sure. Maybe, then, they’d stop coming home from school looking so dejected, all tense shoulders and crinkles at the corners of their eyes like tissue paper after a birthday.
Maybe it was a sensitive topic for her, but they deserved to be kids. Nothing and no one should make their days miserable.
She marched back over to the group, grinning fiercely. “Ready? We’re about to show you one of the most important intern labs in the building. Just keep in mind that you all have signed NDA’s; you can’t go spilling any details about what you’re about to see here today.”
The group nodded.
Bucky turned to her, as if making sure they were going on with the plan.
She just grinned.
---
Peter was into it. Damn old Maroon 5. Uniting generations and making souls sing.
He had a screwdriver in one hand and his torch in the other, goggles pushed up onto his forehead, drumming in the air as if he had a full kit in front of him.
Harley was bopping his head, eyes closed, as if the music had somehow seeped into his veins and he was thrumming with it. He got like that, sometimes: that sweet, crooked smile dancing on his lips as he sang, not a hint of embarrassment on his face, as if immersed in music was the happiest place he could be.
DUM-E came rumbling around the couch, with an air of caution that did more to give Peter anxiety than it did reassure him. He reached out his claw with something akin to gingerness and dropped it on Harley’s shoulder. He trilled, and Peter could swear it sounded like a question.
Harley’s smile somehow softened even more. “I’m good now, buddy. Thanks for your help earlier.” He patted DUM-E twice on the arm.
DUM-E positively squealed and spun in quick circles while Harley laughed.
“Oh, you sweet thing. You just need reassurance sometimes, don’t you? We all do. It’s okay. We know Tony is too grumpy and mean to be nice to you, but Pete and I will remind you how great you are.”
DUM-E trilled again before pausing sharply.
“What is it, DUM-E?” Harley asked, reaching out a hand and rubbing DUM-E’s arm.
DUM-E started to roll side-to-side, the way a human might shift their weight. Harley retracted his hand unsurely.
A tremor ran down DUM-E’s arm and then he began to stiffly rotate it, raise it up and down, and jerkily sway.
It took only a moment for Harley to realize DUM-E was moving to the beat of the music.
“Oh, my god,” he breathed. “He’s dancing. Moving and grooving, he’s a bonafide gogo boy.”
“I’m proud of him,” called Tony as he slipped out from under the car, wanting to see what was happening as he was enjoying the narration immensely.
“Looking good, buddy!” Peter called, just as a strange tingle started to build at the base of his neck. He paused. It wasn’t terribly strong, so they weren’t in immediate danger. But something was wrong.
He looked back down at his project, assuming he had fudged up something with the welding gun, and saw that it was past time for him to let the seam rest. It was bright red and molten.
“Ah!” he said, turning off the welding gun and dropping it onto the tabletop. The tingle didn’t quite stop, but he chose to ignore it. There didn’t seem to be anything particularly treacherous around them. This happened sometimes; false alarm Spidey Sense alerts. Peter cracked his neck and willed it to go away.
He lifted his prototype webshooter above his head like Rafiki lifting Simba and then horribly skewed his movie reference by saying, “it’s alive!” in a gravelly voice.
Harley sat up straighter and beamed at him. “Good going, Petey. Are you gonna test it?”
Peter froze for a moment. “Uh, maybe? I probably should.”
“Please shoot it at Thor,” said Tony.
“I’m not gonna shoot it at Thor.”
“Please shoot it at Thor,” Harley parroted.
“I’m not shooting toxic webs at the god of thunder!” Peter exclaimed, spinning sharply away from Harley on his stool.
As his spins slowed, he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He grasped the lab table in one hand to stop himself and had to restrain himself from crushing it as he processed what he was seeing.
Outside the glass window of the lab stood a group of maybe twenty of his classmates, all staring in awe at the inside of the lab.
Danger. Oh, danger. Not a false alarm, then.
Peter sprung to his feet and dropped the prototype he had been working on, his grip slack with surprise.
“This is why we can’t have nice things, Petey,” Harley grumbled as if frustrated with the destruction of the creation, but then he saw the group as well and his eyes went wide and almost guilty- like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar- as he caught a glimpse of what was outside.
“Fuck,” Peter said.
As the implications of their predicament sunk in, a wild, untamed grin started to spread across Harley’s face. “Once more, with feeling!” he crowed, carefully dropping his socked feet onto the coffee table and leaning back against the couch, a perfect mix of his cocky school persona and the truer, less rude but more mischievous one that sat in his heart.
“Fuck!” Peter said, hutzpah pouring out of his ears, pumping a fist in the air.
“Now, that’s more like it,” Harley said, waving coyly at the group of awestruck students on the other side of the window.
Tony snorted. “This snark. I’m so proud. I taught you so well.”
Harley winced and sucked a breath from between clenched teeth. “Yikes. See, the thing is- awkward- I actually learned from Rhodey.”
“Uh, is that Natasha? And Bucky?” Peter interrupted, pointing at the two figures dressed in Stark Industries paraphernalia but with the most insolent of grins painted across their cheeks.
Harley swore and sat up straighter. “Those assholes.” He turned to Peter and snorted. “Oh my god, Peter.”
“What?”
“You gave them a strip show.”
“Oh- oh, shit.”
---
Natasha had never been happier.
It was beautiful. It was wonderful, it was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The looks on the faces of these kids.
“FRI?” she squeaked. “Can you give us the outgoing sound from the lab?”
She obliged.
There was Peter, cackling like a madman while using a literal welding gun, blatantly unsafe, mostly shirtless, far too close to the fire. Harley, half-swaddled in blankets with his crutches at his feet, singing his lungs out to Maroon 5 with more vocal dexterity than Natasha would have expected from him. And then there was Tony, sitting on a creeper next to his car, in grease-stained socks and shorts made of cut-off sweatpants, snapping his fingers to the song and telling Harley he should have sent him to LaGuardia instead of Midtown.
DUM-E, the sweetheart, Natasha’s favorite of the bots, dancing like a sentient rubix cube.
And the kids, the field trip kids. Holy shit. She was wheezing. She was going to cry.
The general sentiment of ??? was shared among them all, whether they had believed Peter and Harley were interns or not. There was a difference, after all, between being an intern at Stark Industries and working alone in a personal lab with Tony Stark, wrapped like a baby in blankets or doing very unsafe experimental things with technology far beyond what someone their age should be able to handle.
It seemed that Flash was the only one who was pissed about it, though. “What the fuck,” he was whispering, a litany of disbelief. “What the fuck? What… the fuck.”
James, on the other hand, represented the majority: slack-jawed, eyes tracing Peter as he danced in place and completed welding his project, practically drooling over the curve of his waist and the swell of his biceps.
Peter lifted the little bundle of metal over his head, giving a fall view of his muscles expanding and contracting under his suntanned skin- and James said, loudly, “now, that’s just profane.”
“I think… I need the name of his personal trainer,” someone whispered.
“I need to go to church right now and confess my sins,” whispered another.
“Have mercy,” came a weak voice.
“If I were him, I would literally walk into school naked every single day. Oh my god. He’s a Renaissance painting? I’m? Hurting. Come on.”
Natasha grinned wickedly at Bucky, who was biting down on his own smile.
“Well,” said Natasha, putting on her best flustered voice. “It’s always a toss-up what you’ll see in here. This is our most prolific lab area, usually used by Peter Parker and Harley Keener- as you can see- who, if I’m not wrong, go to your school, right?”
Someone muttered assent.
“Hmm,” said Natasha. “Isn’t that just the coolest, to see your friends doing such important work with Tony Stark himself?”
As if Peter could hear her words- he couldn’t, the lab was soundproofed because Pepper got incredibly annoyed when Tony got into one of his Back to Black funks and listened to the song over and over- he spun around in his seat, and came to face them all head-on. She watched the panic flood his features.
Natasha turned the sound off from the lab, sending them back into silence. “Oh, there he is. As you can tell, this is definitely a personal lab, outfitted both with the same technology available in Mister Stark’s lab- nanotech, arc reactor tech, some bits of Avenger paraphernalia they advance, you might be able to spot some Widow Bites that Peter works on for Agent Romanova, or some of Spider-Man’s tech- but also a mini-fridge, couch, and whatever else the boys might need. They spend a lot of long nights down here, working. Stark Industries would be at a loss without them.”
She dug an elbow into Bucky’s ribs. “Uh, yeah,” he said, hiding his wince. Harley was grinning behind the glass. “Yeah, these guys are, like, the smartest interns here, even though they’re really young.”
Flash was back to murmuring. “Why them? Why didn’t Tony extend an opportunity to all of Midtown? I’m sure some of us are just as smart and could do an even better job than the two of them-” Peter and Harley were bickering again, Harley chucking pillows from the couch at Peter’s head- “I mean, look at them. Idiots.”
Inez stomped on his foot, relishing in the string of curses he let out in response.
Natasha steadied Flash with a look, eyes just wide enough to be unsettling, smile just sharp enough to be threatening. “Mister Thompson, was it?”
Flash nodded, standing taller.
“Well, Mister Thompson,” Natasha said, and took a smooth step forward. “The reality is that Mister Stark constantly monitors the local school area in search of intelligence that he can help to hone. If someone has potential, Mister Stark wants to help them achieve it. Peter and Harley were found during his routine monitoring and he reached out to them. What resulted was their intern status, which further lead to a private level internship working right below Mister Stark himself.” Natasha cocked her head to the side. “If you ever start to show as much promise as them, Mister Stark will reach out to you.”
Flash was glaring, but silent.
Natasha knew how to identify a victory, even when it was wrapped in the clothes of contention.
She gave a sharp clap and another grin. “Okay, everyone, that’s the end of our tour! If you could follow Jamie and I upstairs, we’ll get you all situated to return to your school bus.”
---
Peter was sputtering. “Everyone saw us in the lab, Harley, in the lab. Working on Spider-Man stuff. With Tony. This is not good!”
“How is this not good?” Harley demanded, throwing another pillow at Peter. Peter ducked to dodge it but lost his footing, slipping on another pillow that was at his feet and falling hard on his ass.
“Ow,” he said, matter-of-factly.
“Flash is finally going to stop trying to invert your ballsack,” Harley continued as if Peter had never interrupted, counting on his fingers, “everyone will believe we have an internship here. Tony will be like a passive human shield because people won’t give us hell if they know we know Iron Man. People now know you’re ripped, so you’ll get way more attention from the ladies- dudes- non-gender conforming humans-” Harley waved a hand, “whatever it is you’re into.” He lifted his hand emphatically and said, “that’s four good things that come from this, Pete. I say it’s a win. Plus, didn’t Pepper approve this? Pepper knows everything. I trust Pepper. She is always right.” Harley shifted his gaze towards the ceiling, then murmured, “she’s always listening.”
Peter stayed laying on the ground in the pile of pillows. “Tony, what do you think?” he asked, turning to face the man where he had settled cross-legged on the lab table.
Tony squinted. “I think Nat and Bucky are dirty little shits, but that’s now news. I also think something about this is bothering you that you aren’t being honest about, Pete.”
Peter balked, lifted a pillow, and mashed it onto his face to hide it.
“Oh, he’s avoiding it,” sang Harley. “Let me figure it out. I’m going to read his mind.” He closed his eyes and held his arms out before him, wiggling his fingers. “I’m sensing… stress, tiredness… is that damaged pride I’m feeling?”
“No!” Peter exclaimed, which was a pretty rousing yes.
Harley and Tony shared a look.
Peter threw a pillow at each of them, one after the other, only tampering his strength halfway.
Tony nearly toppled off the lab table, huffing out a breath from the impact. “You- stronzetto.”
“My pride is not damaged,” Peter whined, letting a hand fall sharply onto his chest. “I just feel bad that they had to fight our battle for us,” he said. “It’s our problem.”
Harley turned to him incredulously. “Pete, it’s our problem that we couldn’t fix alone. We’re allowed to get help if we can’t fix things.”
Peter scowled. “Says you, of all people.”
“Okay, well,” Harley shrugged. “That should make it mean even more, since I’m the last person who would willingly do this and even I’m admitting it was helpful, if not necessary.”
Tony slipped off the tabletop and crossed over to Peter, plopping down onto the floor next to him and laying himself flat. “I’m going to pretend that it doesn’t hurt my feelings that you didn’t come to me for help with this, but-”
“Tony,” said Peter, yanking on the sleeve of Tony’s shirt. “We didn’t ask anyone for help.”
“I’m not anyone, though, am I?”
Peter bit his tongue. “Of course you’re not. But. Well. I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he ran a hand through his hair roughly. “If we asked for help, then it would have been cool. But we didn’t. They made it their job to help us when it wasn’t at all their job. And that’s why it sucks.”
Tony hummed in understanding. “You don’t want to feel babied by them, or make them think you’re their responsibility. You don’t want Spider-Man seeming like their responsibility, especially if that translates into missions.”
Harley blinked. “How did you do that, huh? How did you read his mind better than I did? That’s not allowed, we’ve gotta mind meld. You can’t out-do the mind meld.”
Tony gave him a dry look before turning back to Peter. “Pete, I think what you’ve got to do is tell them how they made you feel. Let them know you’re grateful, that it was appreciated, but that you don’t want to be their baby. You’ll ask them if you need help. Hey, actually, that’s the important part of this- stop scowling at me- you need to promise me you’ll ask for help if you need it.”
“What if I don’t need it?”
“Harley,” Tony said turning. “You need to promise me you’ll ask-”
“What, you think I’m more likely to do it than him?”
Tony cursed. “I got the most prideful kids in the world. Jesus. FRIDAY, if they need help, you tell me.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“She’s my best behaved kid,” Tony said solemnly, glaring at Peter and Harley in turn. “If I could only save one of you from a fire, it would be her.”
Harley shrugged. “That’s how I would want it to go, in all honesty.”
“Better FRIDAY than only one of us,” agreed Peter, turning his face against the floor to look up at Tony.
Tony glowered at them. “Over my dead body.”
Peter rolled his eyes. “You gotta stick to one story, Tony. Otherwise we’ll never know what to believe. You gonna save us? You gonna save FRIDAY? Who knows! Not us!”
“If I may,” FRIDAY said. “I would always make sure the boss saves you both before me.”
“FRIDAY is a homie,” said Harley, touched.
“Don’t you have something to be doing?” grumbled Tony, slowly rising to his feet, grunting from the strain. “Go bother Nat and Bucky. Get out of my hair. I’m done with you.”
Peter sighed dramatically. “Another father, gone. What ever will we do now?”
Harley tossed himself sideways on the couch, careful not to stir his bad leg. “Die, I suppose.”
“Stop with the fatalistic humor, you give me anxiety,” muttered Tony, tossing the pillows one by one back at Harley on the couch. He followed up his attack by going over and helping Harley to his feet, easing him onto his crutches.
Harley good-naturedly endured the scruff Tony gave to his hair before heeding his instructions and setting off to find Bucky and Natasha, Peter at his heels.
It was surprisingly easy to find the two, to the point that Harley was fairly certain they were waiting to be apprehended.
They had returned to their normal clothes, Bucky in yoga leggings and a hoodie and Natasha in a purple flannel that could only belong to Clint. Nat had her crazy-eyes smile on, and Bucky had the slightly perturbed but contented look of someone who was just along for the ride. She crawled up onto her knees on the couch, leaning toward the boys as they hobbled in.
“I accept payment in the form of silver drachmas or freshly mined rubies,” she said.
Peter and Harley opted to wait to speak until they were sat on the armchair opposite Nat and Bucky, Peter perched on the arm rest to give more room to Harley.
“Okay,” said Harley. “Okay. Okay, so, like. What we want to say is. Uh. Pete?”
Peter shot a glare at Harley before turning back to Bucky and Natasha. “Guys, we appreciate it so much, what you did-”
“So much-”
“And we love you, and we’re grateful, and we’re- so scared of you-”
“So fucking scared-”
“But we can fight our own battles, okay?” Peter said, looking nervously at the two of them. Bucky had a slight grin playing around his lips, and Peter almost thought it looked proud.
“Not that we don’t want your help,” added Harley. “It’s just. Maybe wait for us to ask for it? And, before you say it, we just promised Tony to be better about asking for help, so. The promise stands. We’ll be better, but you’ll have to work with us a little.”
“It was still cool, what you did,” said Peter earnestly. “We’re not mad at you, or upset, or anything. It’s just that we would have wanted to do it on our own terms, and probably in a less showy way? I didn’t particularly want everyone seeing me shirtless and I’m pretty sure Harley is going to have a nightmare about everyone seeing him play air-drums tonight? Not to mention DUM-E, who is so mortified he won’t come out of the corner. We just maybe would’ve liked to handle this one ourselves.”
Nat and Bucky stayed quiet through the speech, but now Bucky spoke. “Okay,” he said simply. “That’s fine. We’re sorry we overstepped. We shoulda’ asked first. We just… don’t like bullies,” he said, and something about the forced levity of his tone made it quite obvious how many times he had thought something similar.
Harley couldn’t help but feel that this side of Bucky was the one from before the war, when Steve was just as angry and righteous but pigeon-sized.
“We know,” said Harley softly. “Thanks. Really. It’s cool to know you’re looking out for us.”
Natasha spoke this time, a smile on her face— one of her real, rare, natural ones, just a soft curve of her lips, no teeth. “We always have your backs. No matter what.”
Harley peered up at Peter, who was looking a little tear-stricken. A fond huff fell out from between his lips before he could stop it, and he reached a hand up to wrap around Peter’s ankle. “Hey,” said Harley. “Can I get a hug?”
For a moment, none of them moved, all seemingly taken aback by the request.
“Can I please get a hug?” Harley repeated.
Nat reached a hand out to Harley and steadied him as he switched over to the couch from the armchair, and then burrowed into his side when he sat. Bucky wrapped an arm around him from the other side, and Peter sat on the floor at his feet, resting his chin on Harley’s uninjured leg.
Harley’s throat started to sting. He cleared it, then cleared it again. “Man, you guys are so sappy,” he said thickly, and the laugh they gave back while holding onto him- his little band of brothers and sisters, his protectors- was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.