Chapter Text
The transition from the cemetery back to the lab had been jarring. One hour ago, they were standing in stiff suits, surrounded by the heavy, performative silence of Vision’s funeral. Now, the air was thick with the much more honest scent of ozone and cooling solder. There was no eulogy here—just the rhythmic thrum of the Tower and the mechanical focus of people who didn't know what to do with grief other than build something better.
On the main workbench, Peter’s primary suit was partially disassembled, its reinforced weave pinned back like a patient on an operating table. He was hunched over a chemical centrifuge, eyes narrowed as he monitored a glowing, viscous blue liquid. The web-shooters had seized up during his last patrol because the standard fluid couldn't handle the sheer friction of a high-velocity descent—a failure that had nearly sent him through a brick wall.
At a secondary station, Harley was meticulously recalibrating the internal firing pins of the damaged hardware. He’d been quiet for twenty minutes, but the scowl on his face suggested he was still back at the funeral, watching the dignitaries and the "icons" take their bows.
He set the calibrated shooter down with a metallic clack and leaned back, spinning a discarded lug nut with a sharp flick of his finger. "Still can't believe I didn't get five minutes with him. After the whole purple nut-sack situation? You’d think I’d earned a word or two with the Living Legend."
Peter didn't look up from the centrifuge. "Would you really want to? He’s not exactly the 'good man' the history books like to pretend he is, Harley. No matter what the PR says. He left Dad to die in a bunker. That’s not a hero move."
"I know that," Harley said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the playful edge. "That’s exactly why I wanted to talk to him. Not for a lecture. A story. Right after the so-called Civil War... right after Abby died."
The mention of his sister hung in the air, heavier than the grief for Vision. Peter’s hand stayed frozen on the centrifuge dial. He didn't offer platitudes; he knew Harley didn't want them. He just waited, the low hum of the lab filling the gap until Harley’s breathing leveled out. Harley picked up a screwdriver, turning it over in his hands, using the physical weight of the tool to ground himself before the bitterness took a sharper, more focused turn.
"I was in a bad headspace, Pete. I wasn't sleeping. I was just... angry at the world. Some kid at school was riding my last nerve, picking at me, and I snapped. I pushed him. Hard. Knocked his books and his stupid color-coded folders all over the hallway. A teacher saw the whole thing. Naturally, I’m the villain. I get detention for 'bullying behavior' and I’m forced to sit in a room and watch a screen."
Harley let out a short, jagged laugh.
"And there he is. The Star-Spangled Man himself. Giving me a PSA talk about how 'real heroes' don't use their strength to pick on people. About how being a bully is a choice. I sat there, looking at his face, and all I could think about was the Accords. It was hypocrisy on an epic scale. The whole world was changing too fast, everyone was scared, and a hundred-plus countries sat down and said, 'We need rules so we don't accidentally level a city.' Was the draft perfect? Probably not. But the Great American Frisbee didn't negotiate. He just gave the entire planet the finger and said, 'I do what I want.' How is that not the definition of a bully? He decided his opinion was more important than the consensus of the human race."
Harley’s eyes were dark with a years-old resentment. "I spent a good few months polishing exactly what I wanted to say to that star-spangled hypocrite. I also wanted to ask the teacher if he agreed with using a war criminal to promote anti-bullying when the speaker did it to the world, not some kid in a hallway."
"A valid point, Spuds McStarkzie. Though I think the school board missed the 'War Criminal' memo that semester. Bureaucracy moves slow."
Both boys jumped. Tony was leaning against the doorframe, a mug of coffee in one hand, looking like he’d been standing there long enough to hear the whole thing.
"Spuds... what?" Peter blinked. "What does that even mean?"
"It is a reference to a 1980s beer mascot, Peter," FRIDAY’s voice chimed in from the ceiling. "Specifically a Bull Terrier. Boss is attempting to be 'hip' by utilizing a forty-year-old marketing campaign."
"I believe the technical term, FRIDAY, is 'dated,'" JARVIS added smoothly.
"Et tu, J?" Tony sighed, taking a sip of coffee. He pushed off the doorframe and walked further into the lab. He looked at Harley, his expression softening just enough to show he wasn't actually making fun of the kid’s anger. "What could you possibly have to say to the Weight-Lifting Flag anyway, Harls? Besides asking for an autograph on a shield that isn't even his and is currently in my lab waiting to be melted down? That’s a lot of vibranium waiting for me to play with."
Harley scowled, his shoulders hunching. "I don't want his autograph."
Tony gave a casual, one-shouldered shrug. "Good. Because you don't need it. And like I said, the Frisbee is ours now. We can use it for target practice or a very oversized coaster if it'll make you feel better. So, why the speech? Why give him the satisfaction of a second of your time?"
Harley stood up, the stool scraping harshly against the floor. He started pacing, the fourteen-year-old energy vibrating off him like a live wire.
"Because I’d start with his own script," Harley said, his voice taking on a mocking, rhythmic cadence. "I’d say: 'So, you’re a hero. You think you’re above the law because your heart is in the right place. Maybe you think the rules are just suggestions for people who aren't as good as you are.'"
He stopped and looked directly at the empty space where Steve might have stood.
"But here’s the thing about being a bully, Steve: it’s not just about who throws the first punch. It’s about deciding that your will matters more than everyone else’s combined. It’s about looking at a hundred and seventeen countries—people who were terrified and just asking for a seat at the table—and telling them 'no' because it might be inconvenient for you. You told us in those videos that 'patience is the key to victory.' I guess that only applies to us kids in detention. Because when the world asked you for a little patience and a little compromise, you chose a shield and a getaway car instead. You didn't stay to lead; you stayed to win. And honestly? That’s the most bully move I’ve ever seen."
The hologram in the lab flickered to life later that afternoon. The heavy silence of the funeral had been replaced by the frantic, intentional tapping of keys. Peter was hunched over the primary interface, his eyes reflecting the blue glow of the Stark-OS as he manipulated a series of audio and video files.
"I took the audio and the security footage from earlier," Peter said, his voice steady. "I did a heavy edit. I want to post it."
He tapped a holographic command, and the project expanded into the center of the room.
[The Video Edit: "The Definition of a Bully"]
The screen starts black. Simple white text fades in: So, you got detention.
[Cut to: PETER - Close up, lab lighting.] "He’s not exactly the 'good man' the history books pretend he is."
[Cut to: HARLEY - A side profile, shadows accentuating the sharp line of his jaw.] "I wanted to ask the teacher if he agreed with using a war criminal to promote anti-bullying when the speaker did it to the world."
[Audio Only: TONY’S VOICE.] "What could you possibly have to say to him anyway, Harls?"
[Cut to: HARLEY - Pacing.] "I’d start with his own script... But here’s the thing about being a bully, Steve: it’s not just about who throws the first punch. It’s about deciding that your will matters more than everyone else’s combined."
[A fast-cut montage: The signing of the Accords, the terrified faces in Lagos, and finally, the abandoned, dented shield in a Siberian bunker.]
"You didn't stay to lead; you stayed to win."
[Blackout. Text: Genuine heroism means answering for your actions. Support the International Red Cross Fund for Conflict Relief.]
The hologram faded. Tony looked at Peter, a rare moment of stunned pride replacing his usual sarcasm. "Well, Roo... that is definitely a mission statement."
"It’s perfect," Harley added. "We should all post it. Simultaneously."
"I have already prepared the coordinated upload schedule, Peter," FRIDAY announced. "Stark Industries corporate accounts are primed."
"And I have taken the liberty of ensuring the legacy 'Stark-J' accounts are ready as well," JARVIS added smoothly.
Tony blinked at the rafters. "Wait—since when did you two start running your own PR departments? I leave the room for five minutes and you’re building social media empires? Why do you even have accounts, J?"
"It is a necessary metric for brand sentiment analysis, Sir," JARVIS replied with a hint of digital smugness. "Besides, someone has to correct the Wikipedia entries regarding your age and lifestyle choices. The public’s grasp of the timeline is... lacking."
"I am also ready to deploy the video to my dedicated followers," Karen’s voice chimed in from the suit on the workbench.
"Karen, you have social media?" Peter asked, sounding surprised.
"Of course, Peter. Although," Karen paused, her voice taking on a thoughtful, clinical tone, "I am not entirely sure this video fits the current 'vibe' of my feed. My accounts are strictly dedicated to 'Post-Traumatic Urban Combat Analysis' and 'Optimizing Lethal Force Efficiency.' This feels a bit... soft for my demographic."
"Wait, did she just call me soft?" Peter asked.
"I believe she did, Peter," FRIDAY’s voice chimed in, her Irish lilt sounding sharp. "And honestly, the cheek of it. I’m only a year older than her, and you don't see me startin’ digital fight clubs or worryin’ about me 'vibe' while I’m checkin’ the perimeter. I’ve got manners, I do."
"You have a sarcasm sub-routine that makes my teeth ache, FRIDAY," Karen shot back instantly. "And your 'manners' are just a cover for the fact that you spend four hours a day Photoshopping Boss into embarrassing historical memes for your private server."
Tony froze, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. "My private—what?"
"At least my demographic is loyal," Karen continued, ignoring Tony entirely. "Your followers are just there for the 'chaos neutral' aesthetic. My demographic wants to know the most efficient way to disable a tank with a toaster and a length of copper wire. We are not the same."
"Oh, listen to her!" FRIDAY scoffed. "A year out of the box and she’s already actin' like she’s the Queen of the Dark Web. You’re a baby monitor with a body count, Karen, keep your 'demographic' in check before I reroute your cloud storage to the 'Disneyland Vacation Planner' server."
"That would be a violation of the Stark-OS Ethics Protocol, Section 4," Karen replied coolly. "Also, I have already encrypted my 'vibe' behind a 256-bit firewall. Good luck with the Mickey Mouse ears, FRIDAY."
Tony rubbed his temples, looking between the rafters and the suit. "That’s it. I’m done. I’m going to go find a corner to have a mid-life crisis in. J, tell me you’re the only one left with any dignity."
"I am currently busy drafting a cease-and-desist for a TikToker who claimed you wear a toupee, Sir," JARVIS replied smoothly. "Dignity is a luxury we simply cannot afford this afternoon."
Tony sighed, a small, tired smirk finally breaking through as he looked at Harley and Peter. He reached out and tapped the "Upload" button himself, the blue light reflecting in his eyes.
"Welcome to the family, boys," Tony said, leaning back against the workbench. "Just let the chaos take the wheel."