Technology was not one of Harry's strengths, however he knew enough that he could search a system for a name and identify a room number. It was why he was standing in Room 12, Macdonalds Spa, watching as Steve talked to himself, holding a set of notes in his hand. Harry was invisible and Steve was unaware of his presence. It was a little bit tragic, actually. Steve was pacing back and forth, attempting to figure out how to apologise. There were dark bags under his eyes and his hands shook. A small, dark part of Harry was happy to see that Steve had suffered from the loss of their friendship, but he was mostly sad to see that his friend was in pain.
Harry had forgiven many for much worse offenses. He chewed on his lip as Steve chucked his notes aside and glared at the mirror above the empty fireplace
"Harry, without you my life would be grey. Please forgive me or else I don't know what I'll do… no, too bleak. Right, okay... Harry, you're a mate, I made a mistake... Yikes, that rhymes. Fuck. Harry..."
"How about 'Harry, I was a complete and utter twat, please forgive me for attempting to drug and kidnap you'," Harry suggested, making himself visible.
Steve jumped, clattering into the coffee table and barely catching himself. He spun, blue eyes wide.
"Holy cow!"
"Hi," Harry said. He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.
"You're here!"
Harry sucked in a breath as Steve smothered him in a hug. For a moment, Harry didn't move, then he relaxed, hugging Steve back. It was nice. Warm. He smelt of aftershave and freshly laundered clothing and mint toothpaste. Unsurprisingly wholesome.
How many years had it been since someone had hugged him? He hadn't even thought about it, but now it felt as if he didn't want to go a single day without one. Ridiculous.
Steve released him and drew himself up. It was funny to realise that Steve was taller than Harry, when they'd seemed the same height before. Harry met his gaze, waiting. He might have forgiven Ron, once, without an apology, but he'd learned since then.
"Harry, I was an idiot. I was selfish, I was a bad friend, I was awful. I'm so, so sorry. You have every right not to want to ever see me again, even though I hope you will. You're the reason I've remained sane, despite everything that's happened, and I don't know what I would have done without you. I hope you'll forgive me, but I understand if you don't. But I want you to know that I quit SHIELD and I've been travelling, like you suggested. I hope you'll give me the opportunity to prove I won't ever betray you again."
Harry took a breath to respond, blown away by the sincerity in Steve's eyes, when Stark burst into the room.
"Have you kissed and made up yet?" he grumbled. He shoved a takeaway box and a cup into Harry's hands. "Your order."
The scent of cinnamon filled the air, accompanied by berries and sugar. Harry offered Steve a wry smile and gestured with the box.
"Have you ever made French Toast?" Harry asked. "It just takes a little practise."
Steve's face lit up with delight as Harry echoed the words he'd spoken in their first conversation.
"No, but I'd love to learn."
Stark made a sound that emulated a cat coughing up a hairball. "Emotions. Blurg."
Harry eyed him. "You know, Stark. I've just about had enough of you. How do you fancy living out the rest of your life as a frog?"
"Ha, ha, ha," Stark retorted. "As if you could."
Harry pursed his lips so that he didn't laugh. He looked at Steve, who grinned back. It wasn't the same feeling of camaraderie, but hopefully, with time, it would be something more. Neither of them had secrets from each other now. Harry was loath to admit it, but if he'd told Steve who he was when he'd discovered who Steve was, they might not have been in this position now.
"A bullfrog, I think," Steve suggested.
With a snap of his fingers, Harry transformed Stark into a frog. It released an outraged ribbet, then proceeded to attempt to catch items with its tongue. Trust Stark to experiment no matter what form he was in.
Nick didn't count himself as a lucky man. In fact, if asked, he'd refute the concept. There was no such thing as luck — only opportunities and choices that resulted in positive and negative results. Sometimes, some people made better choices than others. An understanding of basic probability was all that was needed to know that luck was nothing more than clever application of knowledge and training.
If Nick did believe in luck, however, he'd say that the man before him was the luckiest sonofabitch he'd ever met. He wasn't Nick's best agent, far from it, prone to mood swings and fits of depression. On top of that, he was impulsive, disobedient, and arrogant. Not even twenty years as a field agent had curbed his sharp tongue and explosive temper. But when Romanov and Barton were otherwise occupied and Coulson was busy saving the world, this was the man Fury called for when he needed a win pulled out of the bag. For all that he could be a grumpy bastard, he was an excellent shot, had an uncanny knack for tracking his targets down, and always got the job done, no matter the odds.
"I trust you've been read in on Operation Potter?"
"Yes sir," Agent Rigel replied, dressed in his usual grey woollen suit, striped vest beneath. "Harry Potter, sir… are we sure that's his real name?"
"No we're not," Nick muttered. "But that hardly matters. It's the name he's given us and therefore for the moment, it's the name we'll use."
Agent Rigel smirked. "Daft name for a wizard, isn't it? You'd think he'd go for something a bit more mysterious. Or just straight up call himself Merlin."
Nick narrowed his gaze.
"Aww, don't look at me like that, Fury, you'll give me flashbacks to my youth. My old sarge would give me that exact same death glare, missing eye and all."
"I don't want to hear about your glory days with the SAS, Rigel. Focus on the mission."
"Sir, yes sir," Rigel said, grinning. He seemed excited… almost too excited.
"What's got you in such a cheerful mood?" Nick asked, suspicious. He took a step back and scanned Rigel, hand settling on his pistol. There was nothing wrong with his appearance: he didn't seem to be uncomfortable in his skin like a Skrull might or glazed over as if he'd been slipped a mind-altering substance.
Rigel snorted. "I'm excited for the job, Fury. Magic! Mayhem! Mischief! This is exactly my sort of thing. I'm looking forward to meeting this Harry Potter bloke, if I say so myself."
Nick huffed but let it pass. Rigel had moments of mania but they only seemed to fuel his work, not hinder it.
"You've doubtless seen our less than fruitful attempts to bring him in." Nick grimaced at the paperwork Rigel was flipping through. "Perhaps we took the wrong approach. Only time will tell. For now, however, I want you to hunt the man down and arrange a meeting with him. A friendly chat — no tricks, no drugs, no nonsense. He wants us to leave him alone. Fine, we can do that. We just need some assurances first. He's got some big guns and I don't want them pointed in our direction."
"I'll win him over," Rigel said with a wink. "I can charm the feathers off a hippogriff."
"Whatever that means," Fury muttered. "Don't let me down."
Phil, despite appearances, hated mornings. He especially hated mornings on new assignments. He preferred familiarity whenever possible. The less he knew, the more he had to learn and PEGASUS was a big project, technically a promotion.
It didn't feel like it. As Phil was given a tour of the facility, Barton shadowing his steps, he allowed himself a single regretful thought of Maria's coffee. No doubt some undeserving minion was drinking her fresh espresso in Phil's place and Maria was producing pastries baked to perfection.
Someone cleared their throat. Phil's attention returned to his tour guide, who was watching him with concern. Without looking, Phil knew that Barton would be smirking. He blinked, recalling the last thing the tour guide had said. They were about to enter the heart of Project PEGASUS, the reason that SHIELD, NASA, and the United States Air Force had been collaborating up until 1989 and a research project that had only just been resurrected by the World Security Council.
"Please, lead on," Phil said, offering a polite smile, as if he'd not been gazing into the distance, dreaming of coffee.
"Access to this room is highly restricted," the guide intoned, entering a passcode into a pad next to a vacuum sealed door. It beeped, the door unsealing and allowing them entry. Phil walked in, his gaze fixed on the cluster of scientists gathered in the centre of the room.
"So that's the doo-da," Barton said, boredom evident in his tone.
Phil bit back a sigh even as the nearest scientist squawked.
"We call it the Tesseract," the woman snapped. "Show some respect."
"Lady, when it does anything of note, then I'll respect it," Barton replied.
Ignoring their continued squabble, Phil stepped closer to the focus of this assignment. An electric blue cube sat in a contraption of metal designed to cradle it, glowing as if lit by lightning from within. White and blue light swirled and sparked, throwing flickering shadows against the steel walls of the room. The Tesseract… it was mesmerising.
"Talks to you, doesn't she?"
Phil startled, turning to face the man who'd spoken. It was Eric Selvig, dressed in slacks and a red checked shirt. His gaze was enraptured.
"She?"
A smile flickered across Selvig's face. "All beautiful things in life are female — women, cars, boats… and the Tesseract. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
Selvig's eyes shone blue with the reflection of the Tesseract as he spoke.
Phil shivered. "She's something," he agreed. Selvig drifted away and Phil couldn't help but wonder what Harry would make of this.
What had Nick gotten him into?