Chapter Text
Arc 3: Chapter 21
Ania
-0-
The time following the move of the Avengers into the facility made specifically to house them was… not easy.
His Mechanic had made it clear that he would focus his attention towards what Tony Stark the billionaire genius can do rather than rely on the fire power provided by the Iron Man armor. A decision that was safer for the man’s overall health, but also one that laid him down on a path where many fingers point towards him. A lot of eyes looked at him too.
Someone had to take the fallout after Sokovia. And Tony… Tony was it. He had a hand in the creation of Ultron, he had the money, the history, the public recognition to be the bearer of the weight of international scrutiny.
There would be a trial at some point. Harley had enough awareness of human politics to know that it wouldn’t be a fair one. Then again, Tony Stark had twisted the arms of the American government when it came to Iron Man, it isn’t too far-fetched to expect he’d come out of this fresh as a daisy.
Well, if Harley had anything to say about it. It’s just hard to figure out how Harley could do it, how he could ensure his Mechanic was protected and safe when Harley can’t even do something as simple as this. For all intents and purposes, he’s a minor with no clout to have his opinions heard. Sure, there’s his other abilities, his Magic, the Mind Stone, his prowess as the– well.
Conflicting emotions, conflicting thoughts made the decision hard.
He hated being useless. Loathed it.
But for now, that is what he is. And he is left to assist where he can, watching as his Mechanic ran himself ragged, going to and fro as the United Nations itself breathed down his neck.
Perhaps the only saving grace was that his Mechanic didn’t actually have to deal with the situation with the Maximoffs. Harley would have done something he might later regret if that was heaped onto Tony as well.
But it was under all that fuss, all that work that needed to be done, that Harley was...set aside, so to speak.
Harley Keener was in no way helpless or vulnerable or actually dependent, and his actions did reflect that. He’s responsible, self-sustaining, and mature. He didn’t need anyone to hold his hand, he could be trusted to be left without supervision. But his wrung-out prepubescent brain can’t help but send a combination of electric impulses and hormones that claimed—
(Abandonment.)
—how childish he feels despite going through two very different lifetimes.
So. Here he was, holed up in his room-suite-flat-thing, stupidly wallowing in something he logically knew he shouldn’t be smarting over. Especially since he completely understood why it happened.
He’s even guilty of insisting, of being stubborn about being fine even if he was left alone so that Tony could do what needed to be done to put down the fires.
Harley was...irritated. Frustrated? And he didn’t know whom it was directed at– himself or Tony. Either way, Harley was left to redirect it to something else. As his options were limited without having to sneak out of the tower, and right now he didn’t feel like suitable company to anyone, he’s left with holing up in his room.
It was in a bored stupor that his eyes caught sight of his scepter.
Admittedly, he’d been putting this off for quite a while. The piece of metal had been shoved into some corner and forgotten since the Vision had seen fit to give it (back) to him. But it’s been days, a full two weeks and then some. Harley can only endure so much before the restlessness ate away at his own stubbornness.
With careful (hesitant, cautious, reverent) hands, Harley picked up his scepter.
He didn’t know what he was expecting. Maybe something like when he first picked up polished holly and phoenix feather, when calloused fingers caught elder wood and death. Warmth, belonging. Power, something sharp and numbing.
But there was...nothing. Only the faint, barely there buzz of the metal that spoke of its enhanced properties.
He traced each ridge, each pointed end with a steady hand, feeling, looking for a trace that it had once spilled so much blood for him. That he’d worked so hard and sacrifi- turned his back on so much to gain it. But the crystal remained inert without the Mind Stone and active use of magic, the metals unenchanted and eradicated of traces of his own.
It wasn’t fair, really, to lay so much credence on one thing. Ridiculous.
Without his conscious decision, Harley’s mind flashed through so many memories, so much conflicting emotions and impressions of (twinkling) blue eyes hidden behind (half-moon glasses) a dark, sinister gaze, but it was so hard, so difficult to find something to focus on other than the pang of disappointment, the roiling, miasmic haze of loss, grief, sorrow, anger—
(That it didn’t matter. That he could be brushed away from the mind so easily. Tucked away, out of sight. A tool only taken out when useful, only seen eye to eye when convenient. Useless, worthless, a freak.)
He sucked in a harsh breath, wondered when in the bloody hell did he start sweating, but it was hot, cold, freezing but there’s still sweat beading out of his pores, and it’s tight, tight, tight, his shirt, his skin, everything felt like it was too much, him, his life, lives, his choices and consequences, but none of it are being resolved, nothing is being done, what doeshe evendowhydoes he have to whydoes everythinghaveto bewhyhimcan’thejustrestwhat’sgoingonwhat’sgoingwhydoesithurts—
“—ark Tower in Manhattan, New York City. The temp—”
He thinks he can hear something,
“—clearance to gain access to your floor.”
someone, somewhat?
“—Miss Potts on—”
speaking but he feels so lightheaded and he’s shaking, trembling as his heart pounded, blood rushing through his veins, and he can’t quite make out if he’d stopped breathing or he was breathing too fast or someone carved out one of his lungs and crushed the other.
The hug, when it came, didn’t register at first. So lost was he in the haze of everything that he didn’t even have the time to flinch before he was fighting against it. Against the hold, the restraint, the threat, the—
(God Awful screams pierced the air, sharp, agonized, pleading, begging— was it him or someone else? Just another day.)
There was a sharp tug in his mind, jarring and painful and so, so brightly yellow that he knew where it came from before anything else registered.
“—going on?”
“I cannot answer that, Miss Potts.”
Gathering himself felt a lot like slogging through mud, sand, left under heat so hot it melted the sinking ground and there were jagged pieces of glass and clay stabbing him, pulling him down with every move he made. But he latched on to the conversation, grasped at it desperately even if it felt like water gushing between cupped hands.
The first thing he made note of was that one of the voices was feminine—shrill, a little out of breath, demanding. It didn't take long for the words "Miss Potts" to connect, and as soon as it did, Harley straightened from where he found himself curled up on the carpeted bedroom floor. It was dizzying, blood rushing up to his head and everywhere else, but he pushed through it.
Unlike in his earlier haze, Harley was free to move, with nothing to restrain him at all. He took a few moments to regulate his breathing, to get his stupid heartrate down from its jackrabbit pace.
“Mister Keener,” came the Vision’s relieved acknowledgement and called to attention that Harley was just staring at them dumbly.
Still feeling like he’d disconnected from his body, Harley raised a hand to wave in greeting, “Hi.”
“Yes, hi,” was Ms. Potts’s dry response from where she stood just beyond the doorway, examining the room with narrowed eyes. Her gaze jumped from place to place, occasionally stopping at Harley consideringly before going back to its exploration.
Blinking in confusion and befuddlement, Harley finally gathered his wits about him to look around.
What used to be a rather tastefully decorated bedroom is a huge mess of upturned furniture and broken décor. The sole armchair somehow found its way across the room, the ottoman tossed over the disheveled bed, broken pieces of lamps and vases were scattered all over the floor, beddings and curtains blown off and lay in sad heaps around the room, even the television was left unspared. The only things that remained untouched were the things fixed on the wall.
Harley’s first reaction was to blurt out, “I’ll fix it!” And the second was to scramble up to stand, flick his wrist, and let his Magic do its work.
Broken items mended themselves together, each piece flying off in great speeds towards their original places. Upturned furniture and other scattered items flew back to their rightful places, effortless and irreverent of the laws of physics. The bed made itself, the curtains fluttering around playfully as they made their way back to hang by the windows. Cracks and scratches on the wall disappeared and left no mark behind.
It was as the last pen danced its way back to the desk, the tail end of a conga line of writing utensils, that Harley realized his error.
“Oh no,” he whispered in dismay, turning to face the gaping Ms. Potts and the Vision who was looking around in bare-faced intrigue. “Oh no.”
Countless scenarios run through his head, choices that can be made, decisions, lies he can spout to salvage the situation, to— (bury his head under the sand?). The idea of memory alteration entered his mind more than once, already knowing that mere words wouldn’t be enough.
His eyes strayed towards the Vision, to the Mind Stone, drawn by its eager shine. Tempting, oh so enticing.
(Do you really want to?)
It was getting hard to think. Anger, disbelief, panic, confusion. Then and back, wringing and pulling, hot, cold, maybe pain would make it all make sense, more sense and oh no here it is again—
“Hey, hey.”
Harley blinked and there were hands on him, on his own, gently prying his clenched and pulling fingers away from each other. He stared, arrested by the odd angle at which his index finger bent. That didn’t look right. He wiggled it, but it remained crooked.
“Stop that,” Ms. Potts’s voice was gentle despite its scolding tone, “you’re hurting yourself.”
Harley looked up to see green eyes brimming with concern. It was a shade of green that changed under light, muddy, murky, almost grey-blue-brown, but for a moment he’s staring into the same emerald green that he’d seen in the mirror for the longest time. For a moment he’s staring at a different woman with eyes a different shade of green and hair a deeper red.
(For a second, he’s reminded of green skin and hair dipped in blood.)
And Harry (Harrhan, Harley) just—
Gave in.
Threw himself to a woman he’d only just met, who easily wrapped her arms around him, who hummed and shushed and whispered “it’s okay” despite her confusion.
And Ms. Potts didn’t push him away despite the growing wet patch on her designer blouse. Held Harley Keener as he let himself fall apart for the first time since he’d become the Master of Death.
Unseen by the two, the Vision phased through the wall, grabbing the scepter he'd hidden on his way.
-0-
“I’m sorry,” Harley eventually said, reluctant to pull away even as embarrassment burned through with shame. He rubbed at his swollen eyes. “I didn’t mean to– I was only– I’m sorry, Miss Potts.”
Ms. Potts made a noise, something between affront and reassurance, and started leading them both to sit at the edge of the bed. Her hands are gentle, arm still around Harley’s shoulders. Coaxing.
“It’s hardly the worst I’ve seen,” said Ms. Potts as she pulled away and gave him space. Harley can’t decide if he’s relieved or still clinging to reluctance.
Now with a clearer mind—without the fear and panic, without the Stone’s interference—Harley considered what to say.
This world was no stranger to the supernatural. Enhanced, mutant, freaks of nature, abominations, whatever else they call those with superhuman abilities, whether made by intent or accident; they existed, lived, hid, pretended.
(Ran away.)
Wasn’t that what Harley’s been doing? Would it really be such a stretch to claim that he’s one of them?
But then.
Harley Keener was supposed to be normal. All the faults, all the imperfections of being human was what drove this life forward. A deadbeat dad, a cheating mom, an ailing sister, an alcoholic guardian, a lifetime of being singled out as the kid who doesn’t try hard enough, who was difficult because he didn’t think the way others did. The tragic past of losing everyone he was supposed to care about.
(The cage he built around himself. To keep himself from the world. To repent for what he had done.)
His thoughts were interrupted when Ms. Potts spoke.
“Not the worst I’ve seen,” she reiterated. Harley watched her take a steadying breath, her eyes unfocused, far away, certain. “Before… I always thought that I had a good hold over my emotions. Being with Tony, in any capacity, made sure of that. And sure, I’ve lost my temper over the silliest things before, but even all that self-control hadn’t prepared me for becoming a human-shaped ticking time bomb. A virus that remade my body. I was so scared that I would die, that I may bring others with me with one wrong move.”
Harley found himself reaching out, to comfort, to stop her from talking further because it was clear how painful the experience must have been. But he stopped himself. He didn’t think it would be entirely appreciated.
“I didn’t ask for it,” Ms. Potts continued, no trace of anger, no trace of sadness, “Everything was out of my own control. I stayed in a refurbished weapons testing room—one of those that used to contain the more volatile weapons we used to make—and locked myself in until they figured out how to stabilize my condition. Tony was so against it,” she laughed, delicate and tender with remembered fondness, “me being locked alone in a room for days. Said he’ll stay with me through it all and that his workshop can handle a lot of damage. But I’m more stubborn than he is. I didn’t want anyone else to be in danger.
“They did everything they could.” She held up her hand, veins faintly glowing orange like the embers of molten fire, and Harley could feel the heat that poured off her in waves. Ms. Potts smiled; brittle, bitter, relieved. “But they couldn’t get rid of everything. Now, I’m just not liable to destroy anything everytime I lose my temper. And Tony has an added wariness over angering me with his antics.”
Here, they shared a weak laugh.
“What I’m saying is that I get it. You don’t need to tell me anything. As long as it’s not a danger to you or to others, you don’t have to explain.”
Harley...didn’t know how to respond. He was astonished, touched, guilty. A part of him screamed at him to just take the out she was giving, to thank her and quietly retreat, but what came out of his mouth was, “But why? I can do all these things- I can- I can bring down this tower, destroy New York with little thought, dismantle society as you know it and leave no one to pick up the pieces.”
This was years of pent up questions and wonderings and arguments that had become so circular Harley found it hard to break through them. It was hard to stop, hard to hold back once it had poured out, but he managed to shut his mouth.
Throughout his outburst, Ms. Potts remained calm, no trace of disbelief or anger or distrust or suspicion. This, out of everything he had imagined (feared), struck him out of breath.
“Why?” He repeated, voice small, feeling small.
“Because,” Ms. Potts began as she gently pulled his injured hand, straightened his fingers, finding the one he’d dislocated and enclosed it in hers. “Because you’re doing none of those things you just said. I’ve worked with a lot of people, and one thing I learned is that what you do is different from what you can do. Look at me, I’m a female CEO of a very successful company. I have everything I need to make a lot more changes to American society, do more to empower women like me, but I chose to focus on the company.”
And Tony, was left unsaid. Harley heard it anyway. It was the sort of selfishness he understood so well.
And Harley gets it, really. Potential didn’t always go beyond itself—it wasn’t destiny, it wasn’t fate, it wasn’t prophecy. But—
What if I’ve already done those things? Harley swallowed the question before it managed to escape. He’d already said enough, revealed too much in such a short amount of time to a person who doesn’t know him nor one he knows.
“But most of all,” Ms. Potts continued, something...soft in her expression. “Jarvis liked you enough that he set up these rooms under all of our noses. There’s even a room for you up in the penthouse if you want it.”
Harley laughed, giggled really, because of course. Of course he owes this- this sort of acceptance to the A.I. he felt he’d done some wrong towards. They shared a smile, just as sad as the other, and lapsed into silence.
“Okay,” Harley finally answered despite his misgivings, his doubts, his shame and guilt.
“Okay,” Ms. Potts affirmed before straightening up. “Now, can you do something about your finger or should we stop by the med bay? I can only imagine how much it has been bothering you.”
Blinking in surprise, Harley flexed his fingers and let out a “huh,” as he was reminded that yes, he did dislocate his finger and that those things tend to be painful. “No, It’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
Ms. Potts scrutinized him for a minute, eyes narrowed and searching. Harley thought she wouldn’t have let it go, but to his surprise, she seemed to accept his answer when he truly didn’t seem to be bothered.
A knock on the door broke the lull of understanding between them.
Harley didn’t have to wonder long on who it was when he felt his bond with the Mind Stone flare...dare he say it, apologetically. This was new. Odd. Out of character from the vicious, volatile thing it usually is. He and Ms. Potts shared a look.
Harley called out, “Come in!”
Sure enough, the Vision floated into the room carrying a tray of tea and a plate of fudge that Harley had left to cool who knew how long ago.
“I thought it prudent to bring in some refreshments,” the being said in explanation as they set the tray down on the console table. “I do hope I did not intrude prematurely.”
Harley felt his lips quirk up at the obvious phrasing. “No, you’re right on time. Thanks for bringing those in.”
With an acknowledging tilt of the head, the Vision floated by the armchair and gracefully sat down with an expectant air. Harley raised an eyebrow, looking between the tray and the Vision, before rolling his eyes.
A wave of a hand had the tea serving itself. The fudge grew spindly legs as it split itself into two equal slices and situated themselves on their designated plates, and then the cups and plates floated over to the two people capable of consuming food. The teacups remained in the air for the lack of a stable surface within arm’s reach.
Okay so maybe Harley was showing off a bit, but it has been a while since he used his Magic so openly for something so small and simple.
Both the Vision and Ms. Potts watched in poorly disguised fascination, Ms. Potts even went as far as poking at the floating teacup. The Vision had this odd little smile stretching their lips.
“You think you’re being sneaky, but you’re not,” remarked Harley as he sent the being a wry look.
“I was not attempting to be,” the Vision answered primly, crossing their legs in such a mechanical fashion that it betrayed how it was not something that came naturally. “I only thought you would appreciate the opportunity to demonstrate.”
Ms. Potts huffed in amusement and shook her head as Harley let out an over dramatic noise of affront. She bit on the fudge, now leg-free, and hummed, “This is good. Where did you get this, Vision?”
“I believe Mister Keener made it,” the Vision answered easily, then to Harley they said, “I placed the leftovers inside the refrigerator, if you don’t mind.”
Harley muttered a sullen, “Thanks,” and occupied himself with sipping his tea. He wrinkled his nose at the strong, earthy taste and wondered how someone could mess up tea. Beside him, Ms. Potts tried and failed to stop a grimace once she took a sip from her cup. Wordlessly summoning honey and milk, Harley offered some to Ms. Potts without comment.
They settled into a comfortable silence, the Vision having pulled out a book from somewhere as Harley and Ms. Potts snacked.
(Somehow, somehow there's light, somehow the water isn't so still– he realizes that if he'd sunken down, had fallen down, then there's an above, a way up.)