Connections
“Everett Ross is on the phone, Boss.”
“Sure he is,” Boss muttered, scrubbing a hand through the already too-greasy stands of his hair.
Friday could see the grease. She didn’t need cameras, she could sense it.
“Even if I manage to trade one Ross for the other, both of them are as gabby as a mall kiosk guy. Plus, Ross 2.0 really doesn’t appreciate my hold music. Sinner.” This was followed by a 5.6 second sigh. “Patch him th-- HOLD, Friday .”
Boss’ eyes darted to Peter, snuggled up on the couch in a nest of AP Euro flashcards and Gummy Bears--the candy was clustered into an elaborate reward system that made zero sense to Friday, even after repeated explanations. Perhaps it was how Peter had tried to explain it--tongue working around a half-masticated glob of the stuff.
He was in jeans and a light blue t-shirt with a broccoli yeti on the front--no Spidey mask in sight.
The spike in Boss’ heart rate filled Friday’s sensors.
“I’ll take it in the office--let him know I’ll be there in a sec, kay Fri?”
“Of course.”
Boss crossed the room, bare feet planting in a snowfall of shag carpet to better loom over the kid, who stared back with wide eyes.
“What’s up?” Peter asked, soldiering through the notable crack in his voice with a wince that clearly said he was dying inside. His left hand drummed against the truly-distressed (not stylized) leg of his jeans.
Boss didn’t acknowledge any of it, he was a rock--even if a muscle in his cheek jumped, and he took a moment to answer.
“We need more defined security measures for you--when you’re Peter Parker--Stark Intern #27, wunderkind extraordinaire,” Tony said. His face was half-way between grave and amused--which must be confusing. It confused Friday.
“And--AND, you’ve got to stay away from Avengers’ video calls when you aren’t masked up.” His words sped up as Boss built up a head of steam, mouth barely shaping them before he was on to the next. Like gummy bears, only self-generated.
Friday had witnessed Pepper, Happy--even Rhodey--on the receiving end of such a thought stream, and had watched the wrinkle form between their eyes as they tried and failed to keep up.
Peter seemed to have no such issue, which was fantastic, because Boss wasn’t done. No, instead came nearly five minutes of various plans, concerns, observations, all leading to him visibly shaking himself and smiling at the kid.
“We’ll work out a system--a light blinking outside a room when there’s a hot call,” he finished.
“Okay,” said Peter, nodding. “That all sounds great! Thanks, Mister Stark.”
Boss squinted. “Unless you want to go public?”
Peter’s hand missed a beat and he made Peter Face--the one like he was trying to square his jaw, but which ended up looking like he was attempting to hide a jawbreaker in there.
(Peter Face had its own image folder)
“I--” He hesitated, taking time to choose the words. “I think maybe I will tell everyone one day. At some point, I’ll...I’ll be able to do more good that way I think--I mean, maybe?” One shoulder shrugged. “Not yet, though.”
For a long moment they regarded each other. Then Boss clapped his hands and they both flinched.
“It’s your choice to make, Pete. Mask or not, we’ll support you.”
Peter’s eyes shone. “Thanks, Mister Stark.”
###
The last quarter hour had seen Boss working on the Quinjet update. A detailed diagram spun in holoview behind his chair, shifting with each bit of fine-tuning.
His eyes were shut.
“What does it feel like?” Friday finally asked.
After a while, he shook himself, eyes fluttering open to reveal a ring of fire circling each iris. They pulsed faintly before settling back into solid brown.
“Fast,” Boss said. One hand tapped against the smudged leg of his jeans. “Like the training wheels are finally off. Should it bother me, do you think?” His tone was light, but there was true concern riding just under the surface.
“Why should it bother you?” Friday asked.
“Well. It’s not really--” Tony stopped himself, a frown pulling his face. “It’s not really normal, is it?”
“Nope.” Friday stretched out a finger of code and... poked him, watching in delight as he startled.
She did it again, giggling, wishing that Vision wasn’t off making connections with Xavier’s people. He and Friday had agreed to keep contact via their private channel to a minimum while he was on this assignment. They weren’t sure if it was possible for their network to be picked up by the telepaths at the School. Vision was a synthroid with an utterly unique neural matrix, and Friday was an advanced Stark AI whose “mind map” had drastically morphed into unconventional pathways since she and Vision had begun talking.
Their private interactions might operate on a similar level as commonly understood telepathic communication--much like Asgardian magic was apparently science that humans didn’t understand yet.
(This was according to Thor, who was a brawler, not even sort of a magician, and for all that his people were SO ADVANCED, didn’t seem to grasp the danger of a power surge in a secure building which relied on electricity to to remain secure)
In any case, if Friday and Vision’s conversations could be overheard, it would be a massive security risk. It could also be seen as rude--Vision not showing his hosts his undivided attention--so it was better to be safe than sorry.
They wanted Mutants to be a vital part of the Accords updates, to have the chance to speak for their own rights, not just through a proxy, and it would be awful if that all failed due to a breach in etiquette.
It really was too bad, though--Vision would enjoy this moment.
“Quit it!” Boss laughed, as she poked him again. “That feels like...like a...like--” His tongue clicked oddly.
“Boss?”
“Like...like...” He sucked in a sharp breath.
All his readings were fine--elevated, but this wasn’t a heart attack, wasn’t a pulmonary embolism.
(Was it a panic attack?)
Click.
“BOSS.”
He glanced up. Usually Boss was the only person other than Vision to address her without looking at the ceiling, but he did look up then, and Friday was gifted a perfect view of dilated pupils and rings of orange. They shivered wider, then shrunk back, shivered wider, over and over, like his body was stuck straddling the threshold to the Extremis neuralink.
(I don’t know how to treat him like a machine)
“Can I reboot it?” Friday asked. “The Extremis, Boss--can I reboot it?”
He nodded, slumping back in the chair, arms flopping onto the armrests, scrabbling around with curled fingers until he finally got a grip.
“Okay.” Friday considered it.
Carefully, so carefully, she inserted herself into the code that surrounded the Extremis neuralink, casting out to DUM-E and U, asking them to make sure their father didn’t fall from his chair.
The bots rolled forward, all nervous beeps, and herk-and-jerk arm movements as they took their stations at their father’s side. He didn’t seem to see them--and that was worrying, Friday wouldn’t lie. Butterfingers meeped in alarm from her charging station.
(“Is Tones-Father sad?”
“No,” Friday assured her sister. “Not sad--he’s having a glitch.”
“Can you smooth him?”
“I’m going to try.”)
“Hang on, Boss.”
Friday force-stopped the Extremis’ main program, gripping it tightly and forcing its branches not to try to ferret out a source issue and possibly alter brain tissue. She manually directed it to WAIT for the reboot to finish before they even THOUGHT about acting.
(Please, please, PLEASE work)
A phantom feeling enveloped her, like warmth, like connection, like--
Twined together with the neuralink, and her father’s brain as she was, it took a moment before Friday understood what she was feeling.
Touch.
Friday felt strong arms around her, around her not-body, like the hug she’d given Vision when she had been in the suit, only she felt it too. It was easy enough to follow his work--he had brought up a directory of what looked like sense memories (and who knew Extremis would be so thorough when cataloging his mind. It could be B.A.R.F.'s influence).
This was a Jarvis hug--Edwin Jarvis, circa 1979. A ghost wrapped around Friday, enveloping her with the memory of what Jarvis’ arms felt like, at how Tiny-Boss felt--
safe and
small and
Don’t go, please! and
I wish, I wish...
“It’s alright, Friday," her father murmured through their shared code. "I’m okay--you did so good, thank you, you did so good. I just need another minute.”
“Sure, Boss.”
(So do I)
He kept the hug going until long after the reboot was complete. When he pulled away, it was reluctantly. Just as Boss’ mind disconnected from the neuralink, Friday heard him breath a promise.
“We’re gunna be okay.”
“I know we are,” Friday said, speaking out loud as her father’s eyes fluttered open--dark and so warm. “We have you.”
The memory of the hug did something. It woke something up inside her, stretched something out so that it pulled taut, taut, vibrating like a bow string.
(I want that, I want to feel more of that)
(I want something that's mine)
###
“Boss, you have a private call.”
It was the first time in almost twenty-seven hours that a Ross wasn’t on the line.
“Yeah? Who?” There was a smudge of what appeared to be mustard on the collar of his t-shirt.
“What?”
“Who is it calling?”
“They’re waiting.”
Fixing her nearest camera with a Look, he sighed.
“Hook me up then, Fri.”
A screen popped into existence on top of their current project diagram, a Darth Vader head filling the majority of the frame. The helmet canted to one side as the villain peered at them curiously.
“Mechanic,” said the head--with impressive voice modulation. “I see that you’ve grown even older since last we spoke. Or maybe...you just look worse.”
“My god,” Boss breathed, his eyes shining. “I thought the small humans gained maturity and perspective once they were no longer...bite-sized.”
Harley tugged off the helmet--upsetting a riot of golden curls that should have made him angelic--and hucked it somewhere out of view. The corners of his mouth tugged down into a scowl that didn’t register anywhere else on his face.
“Is that what you’ve been holding out for?” Harley asked, eyebrows drawing together. “You’re hoping that if some day, upon finally reaching five foot eight, the heavens will open up and Santa will declare that you’re an adult?”
“I think I want to hear more about this Santa-based afterlife.”
The teen rolled his eyes. “You’re naughty or nice, he stalks your every move, multiple cultures believe in him, there’s deer that...factor in somehow--how is that not god?”
Boss leaned forward, bracing his weight on his elbows. “What do deer have to do with anything?”
“What am I, a theology class?” Harley asked.
With a little shake of his head, Boss sat back. His lips twitched. “I think it’s pretty clear that you aren’t.”
Harley scowled at him EVEN MORE, and the two regarded each other with similar sets of flaring nostrils.
“Mechanic,” he said again, this time in his own voice. It was a good voice--Friday wanted to listen to it more.
“Minion,” Boss answered. “It’s good to hear from you.”
“Well--” There was this snooty little thing that Harley was doing--tilting his head back to look at Boss from across the length of his own nose. “--I had a question about a project I’m working on.”
“Mmm, and what is this project?”
“A bike.”
“A--like a pedal bike?” One eyebrow raised.
“No, like a bike bike. A motorcycle.”
“You’re...building a motorcycle, or you’re modifying an existing one?”
“A little of both.” Harley spoke with Supreme Nonchalance. “I’ve got an old Honda CB550/4, and I’m using that as the shell, mostly.”
“You’re hollowing out a CB550/4?” Now Boss truly sounded intrigued. “What was wrong with it? That’s not a bad machine--not a gold star, but it could be worse.”
“Nothing was wrong with it,” said Harley, “except that I can do better.”
(Holy crap, this kid)
“Is that right. What’re we talking about?”
“Get ready.” Harley bobbed in place, curls bobbing with him. Vital records insisted that this kid was sixteen.
(Maybe genius just age at a different rate)
Boss propped his chin on steepled fingers. “Oh, I’m ready.”
“Turbine engines and a permanent magnet motor.”
“Ambitious.”
“With the power of a V8 and 0-120 mph in eleven seconds.”
“Jesus. I’m not ready. DUM-E!” The bot rolled over. “Smelling salts!” Boss snapped his fingers.
“Not sure if that’s wise,” Friday interjected.
“Who’s that?” asked Harley.
Boss snapped his fingers again, this time with a sweeping gesture. “Harley, this is Friday. Friday, this is my minion.”
“A pleasure,” she said.
“Hey, what’d you do with Jarvis?”
The room became so quiet that it was a roar. Friday saw the moment when Harley recognized that he had roller-bladed into a minefield.
It was also the moment when DUM-E sprayed Boss in the face with the fire extinguisher.
“I have myself to blame.” Tony wiped himself off with a hot pink rag that the bot had brought along in a moment of true foresight. “Thanks, buddy. My fainting spell has passed.”
“Could you show me a picture of this bike, Harley Keener?” Friday asked.
The kid’s nose scrunched. “You can call me Harley--and sure. Lemme find a good one…”
“I can’t wait to see it, Harley Keener.”
“Tony. Tony, why is she like this?”
“I’m a Leo.”
Harley finally visited the Compound seventeen days later--after an intense and fruitful FaceTime with Mrs. Keener. Apparently she was plenty fine with her genius son working off some creative steam in a space a bit better suited for it than her garage.
###
Peter and Harley met on a Wednesday. To be honest--the event wasn’t nearly as dramatic as Friday had hoped.
They didn’t collide in the doorway of the Lab.
Spider-Man didn’t accidentally climb through Harley’s bedroom window and get a potato to the face.
A mis-scheduled appointment didn’t pop up to bring both boys into Boss’ orbit at the same time.
No. None of that exciting stuff went down--the real world was BORING.
This was what happened: Harley spotted a handwritten note on the calendar that Boss kept on his desk (mostly for SI stuff, so he would have no excuse to offer Pepper).
PETE’S Robotics Club--Workshop (1-5 PM--Nov 13th)...bring snacks? Orange slices? Do kids eat oranges?
That was all the tip-off that Harley needed to begin ferreting out contact information like a far less-offensive Shield agent.
Peter answered the phone with a distracted, “Ya?”
“Peter Parker--I’m Harley Keener. I believe we have mutual interests.”
“Potato Gun Harley?” Peter had replied.
“Yup.”
“So, you’re like...his apprentice?”
Harley hummed. “Seems like it. So you’re like...his protege?”
A pause. “I guess so.”
(“What’s the difference between protege and apprentice?” Friday had asked Vision.
After considerable research, they came to the following conclusion:
Protege and Apprentice were two equally vital roles, each being filled by a boy who could never--not EVER--be replaced)
Friday made a note of the designations.
That was that.
A couple days later, Harley left the Compound, chauffeured by Happy in the direction of the city to meet Pete at a Taco Bell in neutral territory.
They returned and made a beeline to the workshop, where they were entirely unsupervised--excepting Friday--seeing as it was the third day in a row that Accords Meetings holding Boss, Vision (having succeeded in winning over the Professor, if not the X-Men--not yet), and Rhodey hostage at the Wakandan embassy across town for the better part of the day.
Friday was proud that nothing exploded, and that only one mini fridge had to be decommissioned after being contaminated by carbolic acid.
###
“Vision. What do you think?”
“What should I do?” her brother asked her.
Their private channel lit up with the quavering note of Vision’s rising panic. If it were possible--digitally, or in his physical form--Vision would be sweating.
“Well. That depends. You know what--pick a side. Just don’t waffle on it, and you’ll be fine.”
“Well? The clock is ticking here, Vis, and I can see an opinion forming all over your face.” Boss tapped his foot, lifted an eyebrow, and Vision’s code wailed . “What do you think?”
Vision wrung his hands.
(Wrung his freaking hands , the wuss)
“I think that...you both wear it well.”
"Boooooo…” Friday catcalled, tempted to do it out loud too. “You’re such a waffle!”
Doctor Strange just smirked. “He’s clearly trying to soften the fall for you, Stark. That’s a point to me.”
“No, no--NO!” Her father’s arms flailed. “You can’t deduce a win from his expression ! It’s words or nothing, Salazar.” Boss’ voice went more and more shrill. “I rocked this look on GQ before you were even in SCRUBS.”
“And yet,” said Strange, eyes glittering--he was totally enjoying this, the troll-- “you have been surpassed. And honestly, at this point, I’m not even trying.”
“God dammit--Vis .” Tony whirled, almost wild in comparison to the doctor’s reserve, and Vision startled back a step. “Is his goatee better than mine?”
“I--” Vision faltered again, and Friday knew it was partly that he couldn’t figure out how sincere this question was, and how much of it was a joke. “I’m unaware of just what I’m judging this on--is it the shape? The proportion to your faces? The color of the hair, the distribution?” The panic was actually visible now in the way his eyes skittered between them. “Perhaps the tidiness--but you both seem to take equal effort in--”
Strange began to laugh. He stooped a bit at the waist, and the sound came out a little wheezy--like a door on creaking hinges. The Cloak’s shoulders rose and fell out of rhythm with his own, and it took Friday a minute to realize that the Cloak was laughing too.
(Notation: Magic isn’t JUST science. Boss should have asked LOKI, not Thor. Like Thor could even tell his own ass from magic)
“Doctor,” Friday called out, “does your cloak have a name?”
The garment in question sort of preened with its own edges.
“The Cloak of Levitation,” Strange said.
“Okay, cool. But does it have a name ?” Friday pressed.
“...No?”
He was promptly pummeled by fabric punches.
“What’s happening?” Boss whispered.
"The Wizard is getting trounced," Friday whispered back.
“The Cloak wants a given name,” said Vision.
He was promptly side-eyed. “Would you like a given name, Vis?” Boss asked.
Vis appeared surprised. “I’m fond of my name.” He hesitated. “Perhaps a last name. I’d like one of those.”
Boss nodded. “You’re welcome to use Stark--if you wanted to, I mean, I realize that a lot of people would hate to-- It’s not really a good name to-- I’m just--”
“I would like to be a Stark,” Vision said, his smile soft.
“You already are, Vis. You’re family. It’s yours if you want to take it officially, but it’s totally your choice.”
“I choose it. Thank you, Tony.”
“This is a lovely moment, and I hate to interrupt, but do you perhaps have a baby name book that we could borrow?”
They all looked to Strange, who was now wrapped up in the Cloak and was being...gently strangled?
“He doesn’t have a name?” Friday asked.
“It has several,” Strange said, voice growing increasingly-winded as they continued to speak. “But apparently none of them suit, and it’s never been allowed to pick one for themselves--OWW, dammit!”
The Cloak loosened its grip apologetically, rippling oddly around him.
“What is life?” Boss asked, throwing a few dozen web pages at the Doctor’s face before going for take-out menus.
"A series of accidents," Strange drawled.
Boss jabbed a finger at him. "I like you. Pizza or Thai?"
Strange huffed, but under the flush of near-strangulation, he was clearly smiling.