Avengers Tower had never been what you would call a quiet place. Even in the wee hours of the morning, there was usually someone about, tapping on a StarkPad, taking quiet sips from a mug of coffee or tea, working a bag or flowing through a yoga routine. Beyond that, there was the constant background hum of electricity, the whirr of fans in the air vents, the

In thirty-five years, it had never been still. Now, it was. The silence echoed. The machinery that was, in essence, the flesh and bone of the place was all on standby. They wouldn't be needed today, nor for a long while. The tower hadn't been Avengers HQ for a couple of decades, not since Tony's retirement when he'd passed the Iron Man mantle on to younger, more resilient shoulders. Few of the original team had stayed on; some had settled down elsewhere, others simply dropped off the radar.

Now, with Tony gone, there were just the two of them left. The common area was dark, save for a handful of candles clustered in the center of a large worktable. She'd clung to that organic means of producing light from the day she'd arrived; it had morphed from barely-humored eccentricity to unquestioned habit long since. The light flickered and spun as only fire can, and the dancing flames lent her companion's face a bit more vivacity than the artificial illumination generally used everywhere else. In the candlelight the colorless dermal layer took on a warmer hue, almost a red-gold, and rendered the inner workings of his robotic body less visible, the ducts throughout appearing as dark purple veins under the skin.

He hadn't left her side that night. The slow walk back from the grave site, ascending to the upper apartments in the lift, pacing through the dim and barren halls so she could deposit her coat in her room: all had come to pass in Jarvis's company. As unobtrusive as always, he nevertheless remained nearby, and if he were standing closer to her, the difference would be measured in microns - not that she needed to measure it.

As she took her customary place at the large oak table strewn with parchments and the odd quill, Jarvis hesitated. Automatically he had begun to turn, to make his way through to the workshop as habit dictated, but the loss jarred him, too. He was frozen, absolutely motionless. When he didn't move for a full minute, she hazarded a guess.

"Jarvis," came her voice, cracked with disuse, "is something wrong?"

The AI remained motionless, but spoke nonetheless. "I…" he managed in a hushed tone, "I do not know what to do. It is…disconcerting."

Hermione took a gloved hand in hers, and gave it a gentle tug. Jarvis turned to look at her now, irises glowing golden in the candlelight. He cocked his head slightly before recognizing the invitation to sit. He took the place just opposite, leaning his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers to rest his chin on them, much has she had seen Tony do, especially in his last few weeks. Jarvis blinked a few times in the silence that stretched between them. His pupils focused and unfocused, as though watching images move in and out of the distance, which she supposed he was doing, after a fashion. After a while he fell still again, amber pupils again focusing on her face. At last, he spoke. "Are you sad, Miss Granger?"

Hermione tiredly propped herself up, hand resting on one cheek. It was complicated, this feeling. "I am, Jarvis. Among many other things."

Jarvis nodded succinctly, then frowned. "Why do I feel…empty?"

Hermione let out a light sigh, and reached out for the AI's hands, which met hers across the table. "That," she said, "is loss. And grief." It was her turn to search her memories, for those early years during the war, when everything was new and overwhelming. Those sorrows were deeper that this one, but even they had faded. "It does not leave you, not entirely. They are gone, and there is no bringing them back. You will always miss them."

Jarvis closed his eyes, letting his hands come to rest on the table in front of him, her smaller, weathered hands still enclosing them. "It feels wrong," he replied at length. "I continue to think that I should be in the workshop. I know that if I go in, he will not be there." Jarvis's mouth tightened. "And yet, I feel as though he is there, as long as I do not go in. It is completely illogical."

In spite of herself, Hermione gave a rueful smile. "That is a common reaction," she said, "and completely human."

Jarvis's expression did not change, but then she hadn't expected it to. He was not given to outbursts. It had surprised her, though, given the nature of his creator. Tony had claimed he couldn't remember how he'd done it in the first place. Over the years, Hermione had pieced some of the story together. Jarvis's creation had been the result of innumerable tiny disasters: Howard's prolonged absences, Tony's constant showing-off, trying to innovate enough to get his father's attention, then his parents' deaths just before his final semester at MIT. Tony had snapped, gotten black-out drunk, and disappeared into his workshop for more than a week. When he came out, Jarvis was up and running – and learning.

And now, he was learning to grieve.

A/N: Obviously this is non-AOU compliant; it is also (as my fics are generally), EWE.