*throws this chapter from a great distance*
sorry
ARC 3: CHAPTER 19
Ananke (Ἀνάγκη)
-0-
Harley Keener admits that he possessed his own brand of arrogance. A self-assuredness that was born of living through his lowest. Pride that was leftover from a time he had been on the top of his own world, riding the heady elation of Knowing he had power.
It was not unwarranted, he liked to believe.
(Not when civilizations have fallen at his feet.)
But with it came the tendency to dismiss things that didn't seem important. It's as dangerous as it was a decision made for the sake of efficiency. Sometimes it's relatively harmless, other times they prove to be inconvenient in the long-run. It was fortunate he caught this one before it became a long-term inconvenience.
Or, well, in this lifetime at least.
Harley was in his own temporary corner of the workshop, a space littered by Dum-E and U's version of "help" that consisted of scattered metal parts and polymers of various compositions. Surrounded by glowing screens that displayed various articles written in all the recorded languages made by man, Harley takes a moment to process and not give in to frustration.
He shouldn't be surprised, shouldn't have been so caught off-guard, but he still is. After all the lines he had broken, all the lies that escaped his lips and whispered to his own ears, after everything that happened between his first lifetime and this one, the memories of possessing parseltongue had become an afterthought. A fact that had easily been forgotten, shelved in some dark corner where fearangerbetrayalrevulsion stewed and guarded the figment of a place that—
("I wondered, you see. There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed.")
—was unimportant in the face of everything that had followed.
Besides, this time around, it wasn't something quite as blatantly other as the ability to speak with snakes. Polyglotism isn't as—freakish—as parseltongue. The frustration and contemplations of arrogance came from a place that bristled at being dumbfounded and obliviously revealing a detail he hadn't been aware of before.
A fairly expected shame that he couldn't tell the difference between a poor english speaker and someone speaking in a language he shouldn't know. At least now, all those heavily accented english speakers finally made sense. Using the isolated existence of Rose Hill as defense would be counterintuitive, considering Harrhan had probably possessed the same ability. The difference held had been the modifications that none of them, of those hand-picked by Thanos himself, had been able to escape.
Just as well that those memories have long been dissociated from affect, supplanted by events that were both better and worse.
Forming his own words proved to be significantly harder to judge. Comforting or not, trusted company or not, openly testing it is the height of foolishness.
(And maybe a part of him wanted to reveal himself, had already pushed him into laying down a few of his cards because he's tired and drowning. But the fear is there, and the accusing naivety of a newborn had never rang so true.)
F.R.I.D.A.Y., though young and inexperienced and limited in her access to the world, had been inquisitive when he'd requested her to pull up texts and passages in different languages. And Harley, already feeling the beginnings of attachment to the AI and holding fond memories of her predecessor, was unable to muster the will to fabricate an answer.
He'd been so used to J.A.R.V.I.S. and the confidentiality that existed between them. The freedom that the Fidelius had granted the secrets to pass so easily from one to the other. The mutual agreement to ignore how unbalanced it had been from the start, how the understanding between them had been forged from barely realized resentment and acceptance and the need to protect.
So Harley had smiled wryly and said, "I don't get it either," because omission was easier to swallow.
Silence had been his company since then and he was still unsure if it was one of confusion or a demonstration of how fast F.R.I.D.A.Y. is able to adapt and assimilate information. Perhaps it was both. Either way, he's left with alphabets and characters that morphed together into words he's able to read and understand, and thoughts so easily pulled in every which direction it chose.
Currently, he's struggling over the fascination of discovering this new ability and frustration over everything else.
With a huffed out sigh, Harley lets his attention drift away from a truly enchanting account of the soap opera-esque affairs of some mesoamerican traveller. The realization that stone tablets had been used as glorified diaries irritated him for no reason.
This doesn't seem like an endeavour he'd be successful in anytime soon. Not without extensive testing across various conditions, and that takes time and patience he didn't quite feel like expending right now. Besides, his eyes hurt from all the glaring he'd been doing at the screens.
A sharp curse prompted him to glance over his Mechanic.
It's been hours since they've retreated back into the workshop, and the entire time, neither had spoken a word to each other. The billionaire was too busy with more than a dozen things, and Harley found no reason to disturb him when it is clear there are important things to be done.
Tony had been a whirlwind of activity that Harley was almost afraid to be caught in. F.R.I.D.A.Y., for her part, had to update her protocols and ended up having to screen the calls both for Stark Industries and what amounted as the contact person for the Avengers these days (which, for some reason, was Tony himself).
Blowing up an entire city, no matter the smaller than expected number of casualties, had scared the entire world and wouldn't go without consequences. That wasn't counting the political unrest that still existed after the exposure of S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra, and the various sleeper agents that had not been employed by either organization yet had been on their radar.
Both arguably acts of heroism, yet ones that cost as much as what was saved.
The Avengers might have had the intention of saving the people, but the people needed something to blame for the losses—some higher power to carry the burden so they wouldn't have to deal with it all.
God, in whatever religious form he would be within a person's beliefs, would usually be the first choice. But there's a reason non-reaction is one of the most effective ways of discipline. So they go for who responds, for who is the most visible and available and convenient. They latch on to their saviors, one as alive and as human as they are, and find faults. And, as was the humor of the greater universe, others would be grateful, almost worshipful of the people who saved them.
Harley was intimately familiar with this—with the way public opinion changes like the sails of a ship, turning where the wind blows and merrily drift to where it's pointed at. If not inside a storm that would sink even the strongest of ships. Harry Potter had once been a savior, a hailed and hated celebrity after all.
(A goblet with ever burning blue fire, sparks erupting unexpectedly. A sharp-disappointed-angry call of "Harry Potter!" and the murmuring that followed. The jealousy and bitter hatred. The guilt and horror at "Kill the spare.")
Carrying the weight of the world, as they said, as he had lived, as he will be living.
It had taken its toll on his Mechanic. The tired slope of the man's gait, the barely there tremors of his hands as they laboriously worked on circuitry and holograms alike, the pallid shade that his skin had taken as stress dominated taut muscles and blown pupils.
None of which were immediately noticeable if not for Harley's own experience of watching and waiting and waiting for the last dregs of the Keener family to burn out.
(When he was just sitting there, twiddling his thumbs, feeling useless and helpless and lost in the aftermath of betraying and betrayal. To who he was, to what he had been, and to what he had.)
Lips pursed at the turn of his thoughts, Harley dismissed the screens surrounding him and made his way to where Tony was slouched over the gutted wires of Iron Man Mark ad infinitum's gauntlets.
There was a screen beside him that displayed the news. Footage of response teams carrying bodies away from fallen buildings changed to a field interview with a man that didn't have a hair out of place. No audio played, but the flashing headlines somehow made it louder than if it were in maximum volume.
"They're being awfully obtuse." Harley muttered, nose wrinkling as he read the subtitles that accused the Avengers of being responsible for the destruction in Sokovia. Overused newsreels of the battle superimposed the interview, painting a grim picture to suit the current narrative. No love will ever be lost between the being currently known as Harley Keener and journalistic media. "Friday, turn it off."
F.R.I.D.A.Y. did so without a word.
Tony had that half manic, half distressed look that characterized the eye of a human storm. The arrival of the Avengers had been a well-timed break, but Harley imagines its effects had long since been drained away by all the work and emotional dissociation that needed to be done.
Mugs and glass cups with varying states of griminess served as paperweight on the designated paperwork table, the only part of the workshop that didn't scream technological genius at work and was actually made of hardwood. Which means Tony rarely made his way there and that the bots had seen fit to pile the dirty dishes on it rather than the kitchen sink.
Which called attention to the fact that it had been hours since the last time they ate a solid meal.
Dum-E, uselessly trying to tidy up the work bench where Tony had banished him to earlier, beeped at Harley morosely. The bot and boy shared a look. U, seemingly determined to want in on it, toppled over a stack of metal parts with an over enthusiastic wave in a bid to catch their attention.
The harsh clang of metal hitting metal made Harley cringe as the sound set his teeth on edge. He hoped none of those were too important.
Tony remained unmoved, fixated on his task and muttering under his breath as the holographic images adjusted themselves accordingly. He must be way out of it if he didn't even scold his bots for the ruckus.
With no small amount of exasperation, Harley called out an "I'll get it," that only got a grunt in response.
After setting the disaster to rights, Harley dug through the barely stocked kitchen to scrounge up some form of nourishment he can force down his Mechanic's throat. If he recalled correctly, there was enough eggs and flour to make pasta from scratch.
He didn't go through the trouble of going to Sokovia just so Tony would starve.
-0-
(An absentminded "Jarvis?" in the lull of the work he was heaping upon himself, and a telling silence.)
-0-
"—there's still so much to repair in the suit, so many things to improve, to upgrade, to change, and Pepper's ready to kill me with all the paperwork she's been sending—"
"This can literally take five minutes of your time. I didn't make a three course meal."
"—and look, the Compound isn't going to start preparing itself for the arrival—"
Having had enough of the continuous barrage of excuses, Harley rolled his eyes and shoved a spoonful of ravioli into the man's mouth with unerring accuracy.
The sound of the metal utensil clicking against teeth made him wince and he took a moment to feel apologetic before letting amusement overrun it. His grip didn't falter when his Mechanic drew back in surprise, mouth instinctively snapped shut.
Harley resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at the wide-eyed look he received. "I'm not above force feeding you if you keep on whining like that, Mechanic."
A thoughtful chew, a swallow, and then a "Fuck you, Keener. You're lucky you cook good food." And so the billionaire devoured the served meal with all the manners reflective of his sweaty, anxious, and barely put together appearance. Which, all together, was the most sloppy Harley had seen the man be.
There was a sharp stab of rage and protectiveness that slithered into the crevices left by the oppression of his earlier thoughts.
(Because this is grief and sorrow and guilt and regret held close to the heart even as it was shoved deep downdowndown until it festers and takes root into the Soul. Because this isn't about Harley and Harrhan and Harry. Because this gives him something else to think about.)
As predicted, it didn't even take five minutes before Tony polished off his bowl. They spend a few minutes in a lull of silence, nothing but the clink of porcelain breaking the relaxed atmosphere that came about from savoring a satisfying meal.
Tony eyed the liquor cabinet, gaze intense and longing before it snaps to Harley's direction. For his part, Harley pretended not to notice, directing the bots to move all the dirty dishes on to the sink so he could shove most of it into (the unexpected presence of) the dishwasher and wash what was left by hand.
Harley had never shown aversion to alcohol, and Tony must have been aware that Mrs. Davis spent most of her free time in the pub, so the hesitance was puzzling. He made quick work of the dishes, movements methodical and practiced. When he turned to look at his Mechanic, it was to see the engineer frowning at empty space.
Like this, the man looked even more tired and that hadn't seemed possible moments ago. But for all his insistence of continuing with his work, he didn't seem eager to go back yet.
Harley contemplated suggesting a break, but thought better than to waste his breath. Instead, he swiftly grabbed one of the whiskey glasses and made his way to the cabinet that somehow didn't have a hole seared through it from the sheer intensity of Tony's gaze.
Which, speaking of, is now directed at his back.
Ignoring the man, Harley briefly scrutinized each bottle presented to him before seizing a crystal decanter that contained the least amount of liquid in it. A quick whiff told him as much as the color did, which was that it was alcohol and that was all that mattered.
Alcohol was one of the few things that didn't remind him of any of his lifetimes. Of course, he'd had his fair share of consuming the liquid courage, hoping to drown away whatever he had been feeling at the time. He'd known quite a few people who depended on it too much, a few who were repulsed at the mere thought of it. But it remained a neutral object to his own mind, neither a vice or addiction or association.
He poured two fingers' amount and then put it in front of a disbelieving Tony.
"If you want ice, get it yourself. I have no plans of becoming a bartender," Harley found himself muttering in discomfort, feeling like he'd taken some sort of misstep. Then, realizing how weird it probably is to be served alcohol by a kid, he added a semi-hopeful, "Maybe keep it to just that one glass?"
Tony eyed the glass, expression unsettled and flustered, before managing a faint, "Yeah," and downing all of it in one go. Harley didn't blink, swiping away the glass once it was put down.
Neither said a word, both unable to figure out how to react. Then just like that, it was back to work.
-0-
(Why did you leave me? Why did you have to be sohuman when you weren't one?)
-0-
After the third time Harley, DUM-E, and U set something on fire and subsequently extinguished it with no small amount of DUM-E's usual flair, Tony had had enough and banished Harley from the lab and sent the bots to their charging stations with respective dunce caps tied to their limbs.
"But Tony," Harley had whined, covered head to toe with the specially made extinguishing agent from DUM-E's favorite weapon of choice. Considering how trigger happy the bot is, it was no surprise that a compound safe for human consumption had to be made.
"You made a roomba that tries to combust anything in its way." Tony stated with emotion, "It set the couch on fire, for some reason it's trying to climb up my legs, and look at what it did to the coffee maker. "
The sad pile of melted plastic and metal parts sat on the ground where none of the perpetrators were able to hide the evidence on time. The multicolored roomba, made from whatever materials that had been hanging around and which Harley had started to call Mistake in his mind, was indeed trying its best to climb Tony's legs by way of eating his jeans.
Either way, the obvious pride and amusement in the man's voice really didn't inspire chastisement nor guilt.
"It was your spare, Mechanic," because yes, Tony Stark does own a spare coffee maker, multiple spare coffee makers, and Harley really doesn't want to know what that means, "Not that monstrosity you use on the kitchen counter."
"Hey, leave my baby out of this," affront laced Tony's statement, flicking a washer in Harley's direction, "Don't children have bedtimes or something? They do, don't they? Now go on kid, it's bedtime for you. We'll science later when things are less… this."
This being all the unspoken tension between them and between everything else. This, including the learning curve of not hearing J.A.R.V.I.S.'s dry wit and comforting presence. This, having been a mess that Tony Stark hasn't—couldn't have, refused to have—processed fully.
("And the earth will crack...with the weight of your failure.")
Harley crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "It's like two in the afternoon, Mechanic. Don't you need to get down for your nap time?"
"When will you stop with your old man jokes?" He asked as if Harley didn't know Tony was fond of his brand of humor. "Scram, before I send you and the bots down to the nerds in R&D. I heard they needed test subjects."
Seeing the look in his Mechanic's eyes, the tightness around it that made the smirk seem more like a grimace, the way he seems to be ready to shake apart, Harley swallowed down his initial response and ceded with a "Fine."
As much as Harley wants to hold the pieces together, he knows when to back away. Knows that isolation will always be a part of the process. Knows that sometimes taking things apart is the only way to fix it back up.
(Is realizing that some things can take as short a time as it can remain under the surface for years, lurking insidiously until someone steps on it and it lashes out.)
"I'll check in to make sure you haven't worked yourself into an early grave," Harley declares resolutely, dismissing the passing thought of hugging the man when it was clear he's one breath away from unraveling the facade he insists on donning. "Friday will let me in, won't you?"
"Of course Mister Keener."
Affection managed to glitter from the depths of the exhaustion openly displayed in the man's eyes. Tony huffed, muttering choice words under his breath. "And take that thing with you before it destroys my coffee maker."
"It's called Mistake," said the boy as he scooped up the roomba that hadn't given up on climbing Tony's leg, pushing a button that deactivated its ability to be the destructive bugger it turned out to be, "And I'm happy to have made it."
His exit was punctuated by a long-suffering "Oh my god."
-0-
(Thank you. I love you. I'm so sorry. I didn't say it enough. Didn't take the opportunity to let you know how much you mattered. Always too late, always unappreciative, always taking everything for granted.
"—make it pretty, Jarvis."
"I believe I haven't accumulated enough data to make those decisions yet, boss.")
-0-
Harry Potter was more partial towards taking action, of doing even at the tranquil moments. Impulsive, impatient, jumping to conclusions and making snap decisions. Characteristics that though diminished, had carried over and manifested in different ways.
Harrhan had tried to compensate for those same qualities, had tried to be patient and weigh his options more carefully, yet inevitably failed when instincts and intuition always won the race. The drive for survival rarely entertained what was rational, and adaptability was what had been coveted.
(Because what was balance? Did anything they have done even play into the twisted certainties they had been forced to live?)
When it came to Harley Keener, these characteristics translated into restlessness. Sometimes into leaps of logic, preoccupation, and invasive bluntness that didn't align with what was socially acceptable.
A fondness for avoidance, however, was harder to metamorphose and had remained with a constancy that would have proven it a fact.
The trip up to his room passed in silence, undisturbed by whoever may have been lurking about the tower. Twice was the only amount of times he'd step foot into his designated quarters. The days had been long, and the weeks and months before had been longer. It was a wonder that the exhaustion snapping at his heels hadn't managed to catch him yet.
As soon as he slipped through the door, he threw himself over the leather couch and let the tension drain away with a long, drawn-out sigh.
A decade or so of doing next to nothing, of being more concerned over mundane things (of playing house with dead people and time spent waiting) never seemed more surreal than when he'd been in the middle of it. It had been like slogging through muddied swamps and fogged up forests, unreal and exhausting and he'd just...stopped.
Realizing that against all odds or as a twisted act of divinity, he still existed in the same universe as Thanos, born in an earth that was doomed to his madness and the absurdities that existed out there, had shaken the brittle equanimity he'd settled into. But he was too deep into playing the role of Harley Keener, too invested in the tragedy that befell who he was born as.
But.
Now.
Now everything was going too fast, the realizations suddenly sinking in and screaming at him that this is real and that he can't avoid it anymore. That Thanos will come and he doesn't know where he stands. Where he should stand.
(Does Harley Keener not have the right to call what Harrhan had as his?)
A garbled beep reminded him of the machine held in his arms.
Harley held the roomba up to see it more clearly, feeling vaguely like Frankenstein as he examined the mismatched metals that made up its roundish body. The welding-work was as smooth as it possibly can be when joining alloys that normally wouldn't work well together. Its sensors obviously needed more work, some parts would have to be replaced, and Harley wasn't good enough to write coding sophisticated enough to be called an AI, but he'd done his best to create a personality matrix that made it have some unpredictable quirks.
Mistake is a functional machine for all its unattractive design and less than stellar performance as the appliance it was meant to be.
"What would it be like to not have to choose again," muttered Harley to the beeping roomba, "to just do and not think about why you're doing it."
No answer would come, of course, so he just chuckled at the almost indignant beeping and put it down on the floor. He watched as Mistake made a beeline to the wall, hitting things on its way at a speed that left scratches on dangling fabrics and dents on the wooden furniture. It stayed there, tiny wheels spinning even as it remained stuck.
Harley blinked as in that moment, a red face phased through the wall, followed by its body and the ridiculous yet charming red cape attached to it.
"Uh, hello" was all Harley could say, surprised by the unexpected appearance of Vision. Even more chagrined at his own inattention that he didn't notice the Mind Stone's smug radiance.
"Hello Mr. Keener," Vision politely greeted despite the juxtaposition of invading what should have been a private space. "I had been searching for you."
"I've hardly been in more than one place, Vision," Harley answered, eyes tracking the way the other scanned the room.
'Room', perhaps, was not the best term to use. A suite was what was assigned to him; barely touched but without a speck of dust, made of varnished hardwood and slick, modern lines. A well-equipped kitchenette was set up near the entrance, the bar counter boxing it off from the spacious living room. The bedroom is separated by a large sliding door, and within it is the softest bed Harley had ever touched and a floor covered in carpet that he could sleep on comfortably.
All of it was what you would expect the rich to have. Even the air was different, carrying a hint of crisp morning dew and something subliminally floral that made you forget you were in the middle of a large city.
Perhaps the most surprising is the bookshelf conspicuously standing by the window and the armchairs placed there for the convenience of book reading and relaxation. Its shelves held an interesting collection ranging from Dostoyevski to the most recently published journal in quantum mechanics. It wasn't a big collection, nor was it really a collection at all, but its presence in a household dominated by technology was striking.
And it is there that Vision gravitated towards.
Curious despite the roiling unease pulling his skin taut, Harley dragged himself up to stand beside the being.
"Are these yours?" Vision asked, finger tracing the spine of an Asimov compilation.
"No," Harley responded, arms crossed and lip curling up into a smirk as he caught sight of modern titles like Twilight and some of Ann Crispin's novels. "Never had the money to buy this much."
"Mr. Stark does not strike me as a person who would procure these for himself," then Vision tilted their head in amendment, "or for anyone else."
This drew a startled laugh from Harley, not expecting the other to be blunt but conceded that Vision would have inherited J.A.R.V.I.S. 's humor of all things. "No, he likes his tech a little bit too much. We had an entire argument about the importance of paperbacks and hard bounds that lasted hours." Harley can't help but shoot a glance towards the other, something twisting in his chest as he thought of his next words. "Jarvis had to step in before we managed to drag it on till the next day."
Harley wouldn't even be surprised if J.A.R.V.I.S. had a hand in arranging for the suite Harley had been given. The abundance of science fiction and fantasy novels are certainly evidence to it. J.A.R.V.I.S. had always been able to predict Tony where Tony himself couldn't.
And. Well. J.A.R.V.I.S. knew more about Harley Keener than anyone else on earth. Maybe to him, Harley moving in was not only a possibility, but rather a certainty.
The mullish silence his words brought on spurred Harley to movement. "Do you want something to drink? I think the kitchen's stocked with some juice and tea. And especially coffee. This wouldn't be Stark-owned if it didn't have Tony's lifeblood in it."
It was hardly a question as Harley went to set them up with tea without waiting for a response. He'd developed an appreciation for coffee over the years, but heavy thoughts and heavy conversations call for something lighter and calming. A blend of lemon balm, chamomile, and peppermint with a dab of honey seemed suitable enough.
Vision helped in carrying the teapot and mugs while Harley took the plate filled with some biscuits and prepackaged pastries he'd found while rummaging through the cupboards. They sat on the armchairs by the window, the side table between them holding their utensils despite obviously not being made for the task. At some point, Harley had turned off Mistake and stashed it beside his bag.
For a moment, Harley basked in the silence, hands wrapped around warm, almost scalding ceramic. The sting and burn grounded him.
"I am not Jarvis," Vision broke the silence. Harley looked over to them, observing the way Vision perched on the armchair awkwardly, how the other stared at the mug in their hand so intently.
"I know that," because Harley heard the appeal just as much as he saw the confusion.
"But I could have been." It was said with certainty and puzzlement, as if it made sense in the most convoluted way. "Had Captain Rogers not interfered when he had, what remained of Jarvis would have completely been in me. I am...unfinished."
"A vision that could or could not be realized," Harley responded when nothing else came to mind. He eyed the yellow stone embedded in Vision's forehead, its glow not at all dulled by the sunlight filtering through the windows. "You were never meant to be Jarvis. We all knew that, even if they were expecting something else. The stone wouldn't have let itself be outsmarted in that way."
Vision stilled, a hand reaching up to touch the mentioned stone. "I suppose."
Harley sipped at his tea before tilting his head, curiosity winning over the somberness that settled over them. "What does it tell you?"
Vision considers the question for a moment, "It whispers. Unintelligible at the best of times and incomprehensible when directly confronted. The images they flash are disjointed, but it tells me of a great threat to mankind."
"Thanos." Harley's voice was barely above a whisper, mouth drying at just the mention of one name.
"The mad titan," Vision concurred, shifting in place before settling and taking a cautious sip from the mug in their hand. There was an intrigued light in their expression, but it was overshadowed by disappointment. "This is… tea?"
Harley swallowed a couple mouthfuls before answering, unheeding of how it burned a layer of skin off his palate. He was glad for the change of subject, however temporary it may be. "Yeah. Sorry, I just realized you probably aren't equipped for it. You don't need food, do you?"
"I believe so," Vision answered, curiously examining a biscuit but not reaching out to take one. "My body's metabolism works very differently. Consuming solid food would not contribute anything worthwhile, especially since I do not seem to possess a digestive tract."
"I see." Harley imagines a life without needing food, without even having a stomach, but quickly realizes how starvation had been a big part of most of his lives. The prospect of not needing it, much less being unable to eat is baffling.
"It is rather interesting," Vision continued, "I could register the scents, yet my tongue is not capable of identifying anything besides its heat."
"We should go for something with texture next, then," It was an invitation, one that Harley does not feel begrudging to give. For all that there was lingering enmity on Harley's side, the Vision did nothing wrong, and something—from Vision possessing J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice and code, to the presence of the Mind Stone—made Harley unable to resist the want to help.
So they talk about food, they talk about tastes and flavors and scents and the quirky little things that made humans what they are. Harley had never thought he had to exercise his sensory and food-related vocabulary before then. But it was a safe topic, a safe conversation to have when both of them seem to not be ready to fully address what was between them. It didn't hurt that Vision became intrigued by the prospect of cooking.
It was...refreshing. Like an opportunity to breathe air without his lungs seizing up.
Both of them remained engaged in the discussion, neither moving to leave until nightfall when they realized how late it had gotten.
"What do I tell them?" Vision asked once they got over polite and well-meaning apologies of being kept for so long.
Harley blinked, confused. "Tell who what?"
"The Avengers," Vision elaborated. "They will ask questions I cannot answer without risking your secrets."
And Harley snaps to attention, eyes staring intently into the other's, surprised despite himself to see the sincerity in those lens-like irises. He swallows, a part of him wondering if this was because of the stone's influence or of barely realized self-preservation.
(A smaller part of him, one so small and infinitesimal and squashed because it was dangerous, hoped it was neither. That this claim of loyalty is genuine and not one born of something else.)
"Tell them what you have to," Harley eventually answered. "About Thanos and the stones. You say you barely understand what the Mind Stone shows you, be honest about that. Tell them what you know, but never mention my name."
Because even in his hesitation, in his struggle between his own past and doing what was right, Harley knew leaving the Avengers in the dark was never an option.
Vision ponders the request, perhaps wondering about my name when all they knew was of Harley Keener, before nodding. "Earlier you said it was not time yet. Will you fight with them?"
Harley smiles, equally as self-deprecating as it was sharp. It wouldn't have been hard to answer before, but, "I don't know. I'll tell you when I figure it out."
His answer didn't seem to satisfy the other, but they seemed to realize it was all they were going to get at this point. So the Vision tilts their head in acquiescence before taking their leave.
-0-
Tony had never been a fan of silence.
Even if it was comfortable or of contemplation or concentration, Tony would prefer to fill it with noise. There's something about the stillness that rubbed him wrong, a part of him protesting against the notion of not being productive and succumbing to slowness.
Howard had high expectations, so high that the man himself couldn't even reach it. And Tony, young and eager to please his absent father, put everything into reaching them. He still fell short in Howard's eyes.
But right now, he was so tired. Drained and exhausted even after the nap Harley had brow beaten him into when the brat managed to slip back into the workshop.
"I heard you're going to the new facility today. I'll pop all the tires of your cars if you don't at least take a nap before going out, Mechanic."
Where he heard it from, Tony didn't want to know. That was a can of worms he doesn't want to open. Still, he was starting to notice the trend of being threatened by a kid so he can be bullied into doing things. And, well, the point was, Tony just did as was told because he lost count how many times DUM-E had to pick up the tools Tony's butterfingers dropped.
Tony being the butterfingers and DUM-E picking up after him was where he drew the line. He had an image to keep up.
Harley, the brat, noticed this and didn't hesitate to use it.
Yes. Bullied was definitely the term to use. The audacity.
And now, Tony sat in the large debriefing room of the new Avengers facility. Just. Sitting there. In silence.
The way Natasha kept side-eyeing him was unnerving, actually, so Tony shifted and squirmed, blurting out the first thing that came to mind. "So, what're we doing here again." He was too tired to make it sound like a question.
It was weird. This wasn't the first time the Avengers had gathered in one room for a discussion. They were adults who knew the importance of getting their information straight. But today there were different faces and one was missing. Admittedly the only one Tony ever actually got along with relatively well.
Bruce leaving wasn't a surprise, but it still managed to burrow under Tony's skin and registered as the sting of hurt. He wanted to be angry at Natasha for pushing it, for pushing his science bro away, for betraying the trust he'd witnessed grow between her and the other.
But. Tired. He couldn't even begin to figure out where to begin with that one.
Nick Fury, in all his undead glory, swept into the room followed by Maria Hill. And that. That was another thing. So many things to figure out and he was already run ragged.
"Is there anything you want to tell us, Thor?" was the first thing that came out of Fury's mouth even as his one-eyed gaze lingered on Vision.
"I will need to make my way back to Asgard," Thor answered a frown creasing his forehead as he thoughtfully stroked the handle of Mjolnir. Cryptic as the thunderer had always been. Tony found it in himself to feel amusement at how this visibly annoys Fury.
"If I may," Vision cut in before Fury could say his mind, "You wish to know more of the stones, yes?"
"Stones," Steve was tense, his shoulders squared up and a look of grim realization on his face. "There's more?"
This time it was Thor who took over, finally seeming to come to terms about his hesitation. Tony wondered why he hesitated in the first place, why he had insisted on being cryptic, but remembering the asgardian choking him without hesitation soured that curiosity.
"They are called the infinity stones. Elements that hold so much power that one can control an aspect of reality with just one. I had thought it to be a myth, stories whispered in the dead of night when children have trouble sleeping." Thor grew restless with each word, twisting the handle of Mjolnir in his hand. "The Mind Stone is one of them, the fourth to have made itself known."
"How many are there?" Tony decided to ask despite his desire not to contribute to this discussion. Easy as it was to lie to himself, he can't do it at the moment. This was beyond his own misgivings, belongs in the part of his mind where memories of space laid out to him haunted his sleep.
Because this could be what it is.
"There are six," Vision responded this time when Thor seemed to hesitate again. "Mind, Soul, Reality, Time, Space, and Power. Of these you have encountered two."
And then. It made sense. "The Tesseract." This snapped everyone into silence. Tony's gaze swept over the people in this room, the same people who fought against the same absurdities as he had, and paused at how impassive and unsurprised Nick Fury was. "You've been holding out on us, Nicky."
Even Natasha held a mild look of surprise before she managed to control herself. Which, really, spoke a lot about the situation.
The looks of accusation sent to the former director of S.H.I.E.L.D. gained a deep sigh from the man. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that even Nick Fury could suffer from human woes. But it seems that the years in hiding made something in the man softer, a bit more open despite the secrets he loved to keep. No one survived as the director of a super secret agency without developing a healthy dose of paranoia, Tony guessed.
"I only knew how important it was," Fury confessed—confessed, what has the world gone into?—as he massaged his temples. "Not what exactly it is." Then the weariness is wiped away just like that. "We need everything you know about these stones. We need to be prepared if more of them find their way here."
This seems to be the last straw that held back whatever apprehension Thor was struggling with. "Asgard will serve as protection for midgard. You humans do not need to know more of these stones. We have given you enough chances to prove our trust was not misplaced and you have abused it."
"Where was Asgard when Loki invaded earth?" Tony snapped, his skin crawling in irritation and anger. "You say Asgard will protect us, but they only sent you to take Loki back. It wasn't about protecting midgard. Who's to say you'll come to aid us when one of those things come to earth and bring with it something we couldn't handle? What then, Prince of Asgard."
Tony could feel the stares like it was a physical force, but he'd endured more than that. He was just fed up with how Thor never seemed to realize how utterly naive he was in thinking Asgard cared about humans. Tony was aware of how insignificant they are, how something out there will eventually make its way to earth and destroy all of them.
It felt good, in a way, to get these things aired out. And Tony was beyond caring about how the team viewed him, but he still didn't dare to look at them.
"I believe Mr. Stark has a point," Vision spoke in the ensuing silence from Tony's outburst. The red-skinned machine tilted his head, a gesture he seems to use with regularity. "Thanos will eventually make his way into this planet whether he has the stones or not."
Thanos.
That. It sounded familiar. When they said names have power, Tony didn't believe it. But the shiver that ran down his spine was just as unnerving as the first time he'd heard the name.
Natasha, ever pragmatic and able to read the room in a blink, commented, "This is the second time it's been mentioned." It sounded like a threat, and the way she looked at Thor made it clear who she was directing it at.
"Who's Thanos?" Steve asked the room at large, the frown he'd worn grew deeper. Tony caught his eyes, a moment of shared disbelief before it was broken. "Ultron said something about his child. Children, you said, Thor."
"The mad titan is…" Thor pursed his lips, thinking over his words and realizing he was defeated in his own agenda. "He seeks to court Death. He travels from galaxy to galaxy, leaving carnage in his wake. It is his ardent belief that there must be balance kept in all the realms. He has an army that follows his beck and call, his children the most loyal to his cause."
"And Ultron accused us of working with one." Natasha's voice was frighteningly flat.
All of them had been there when it was said, so no one had to confirm it.
Thor, nonetheless, nodded. "If he already has a hold in this realm, then I must inform the Allfather."
Steve turned his attention towards Vision, "You seem to know a lot about this."
Vision hesitates, hand reaching out to touch the stone on his forehead. "The stone...sometimes it speaks to me. It gives information that, while disorganized and often incomprehensible, need only the right context to understand. I know of the other stones, of Thanos's intentions, but nothing more. I'm afraid I am unable to provide anything useful as of the moment."
Thor nods, "The infinity stones are volatile. It is why despite the tales of their power, no one would dare seek them out for fear of being consumed. Only the truly mad and arrogant will attempt to obtain them. This is why I urge you not to pursue the stones."
And that, Tony could understand. He'd seen what happened with the Tesseract and the Mind Stone. It doesn't absolve his ire over Thor's tight-lipped approach on the matter, but he could at least begin to understand why.
"Mad. Right. How big is the chance that this Thanos guy," Tony represses the instinctive shiver at mentioning the name, "would come after the stones?"
Thor's face grew grim and he doesn't have to voice it out for everyone to realize it.
"I will have to visit the other realms, find information on his movements. Heimdall would have known if Thanos was close, but his Sight had never been able to reach the holes carved by the mad titan until it was too late."
"What about the Mind Stone?" Fury interjected, having been curiously silent until now.
Vision shifted in his seat.
"If he can wield the hammer, he can keep the Mind Stone." Thor resolved before anyone else can respond. "It's safe with the Vision and these days, safe is in short supply."
Now that was surprising news. They'd had the conversation about Thor's hammer before, had taken turns to see if any of them could prove the thunderer wrong. But then again, Vision wasn't exactly a person. He was a machine created by science and whatever the hell Thor and the stone contributed.
It didn't take long for the debriefing to end, every one of them needing time to let the information sink in.
Tony and Steve, having had a truce settled between them out of the daunting knowledge thrown at them by a sparking alien and the red-skinned love-child of science, accompanied Thor outside the facility.
"But if you put the hammer in an elevator…"
And Tony just—
(Wanted to leave and let himself break down until everything went back to normal. When his problems were how to keep the board directors happy, how to strong-arm the technological industry into where he stands, and whether Pepper would appreciate another set of heels because he really didn't know how else to thank her for being with him.)
—didn't have the energy to be stubborn and in denial at the same time.
So he let himself be amused and said, "Thor can use the elevators fine. It will still go up."
Beside him, Steve shrugged, "Elevator's not worthy."
And how ridiculous was it that Tony recognized the attempt at levity, an almost not-apology that wouldn't have meant anything if they hadn't been discussing the end of the world before.
This, above all else, made Tony feel regret at having to retire Iron Man from the official Avenger's roster.
But, well, Harley had a point.
He'd been Iron Man for too long, had spent so much time prioritizing brawns over his brain. For all that he'd boasted Iron Man and Tony Stark being one, those are two different facades that took full time effort to maintain. If there was one thing he learned through the years, it was that he had his limits.
(That he would never be good enough, so why be eager to please?)
He drove away from the facility, glancing at the rear-view mirror to see Steve watching, and then switched gears.
Ananke - (Ἀνάγκη) is the personification of inevitability, compulsion and necessity.
And that wraps up the AoU phase!
No, I'm not dead. No, this fic isn't abandoned but it is officially under temporary hiatus until I screw my head back on straight. I love working on this fic, but you know real life. I confess I wrote myself into a corner in the last chapter so I also had work my way out of that. I've lost count how many times I've rewritten this chapter and it just always seemed to not be good enough. Don't worry tho, I have an outline that I update every now and again.
Hope you all enjoyed this update! I don't know how it got to 7.8k words but I thought what the hell, you all deserve it for waiting this long. I may write an interlude to accompany the official declaration of putting this fic on hiatus, but there hasn't been progress on that part.
Love you all and I hope everyone's doing okay!