Chapter Text
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Tony groaned as he stood. His suit was finally settled on the couch. As much as he loved the thing, it was a real pain to deal with when it wasn’t on. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t that heavy when he’d built it.
The relative warmth of the farmhouse was making his arms sting, but he pulled up a chair and a pair of needle pliers and began to work on them under the desk light.
“You’re bleeding,” a young voice came from the open doorway, sounding almost… disappointed.
"You got me," he looked up, setting the pliers down. The kid was short, compact, and way more muscular than any literal child had a right to be. There was a leather bag slung over his shoulder and he was holding a clearly homemade gun in his hands, though he’d lowered it so the barrel pointed towards the ground.
“Nice potato gun. Barrel's a little long. Between that and the wide gauge, it's gonna diminish your FPS.”
The kid snorted. “S’not a potato gun. Potato guns are good for Canadians, and not a lot of them come down this far south. This works for other things too. Besides Canadians.”
“Jesus kid, what did Canadians ever do to you?”
“That poser has no place here.” Harley said, sounding like it was something he’d heard so many times it was an automatic response. “And Canadians eat people. I don’t think you’re a Canadian though. You’re bleeding.”
“Right, so Canadians are cannibals who don’t bleed,” Tony deadpanned.
“Yup,” the kid confirmed, as if this were common knowledge and he was the weird one for not knowing.
He decided not to open that particular can of worms. If the kid wanted to shoot Canadians with potatoes, he was entitled to that.
““What’s that thing on your chest?”
““It’s an electromagnet.” Tony said, tapping the pliers on it to make a soft clinking sound. “You should know, you've got a box of them right here.” He pointed at said box.
The kid nodded in understanding. “What's it power?”
Tony stood and moved to the side, pointing the desk light at the suit, which was sitting on the couch behind him.
The kid set his gun down on a table and stepped closer. “Cool! Is that an automaton? Did you make it?”
Tony blinked. That was not the reaction he’d expected. Did this kid not… recognize the suit? “I’m Iron Man, that’s my suit. Yeah, I made it.”
“Huh,” the kid said thoughtfully. His brow furrowed in thought before a lightbulb seemed to go off in his head. “Oh, I remember you! You’re the metal dude my brother met in The Battle of New York! Tony Stark!” That sparked a strange sense of deja-vu, but it was overwhelmed by the cold prickle of discomfort that always spiked when people brought up… the incident.
“That’s me.” He said, a tinge of bitterness coloring his voice.
The kid walked closer again. He pulled a rolled up newspaper out of his bag and glanced at it before handing it to him. “Technically, you’re dead.”
Tony looked down at his own face on the front page, the words ‘MANDARIN ATTACK: STARK PRESUMED DEAD' were plastered on the headline.
“A valid point.” He turned to the kid, who had walked past him to the suit and looked completely transfixed by it, battered and powerless as it was.
“What happened to him?” The kid was staring at his suit with a sad kind of understanding.
“Life,” Tony said simply. “I built him, I take care of him. I’ll fix him.”
“Like a mechanic?” Harley asked.
“Yeah.”
The kid hummed, climbing up on the couch and pressing a hand to the chest plate. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d think he heard a sort of satisfied hum from the machine at the contact. “If I were making him, I would’ve added in retro-reflective panels. To make him stealthy.”
“You want a Stealth Mode?” Tony asked, surprised that the kid even knew what retro-reflective panels were. Trust him to walk into the one farmhouse in Tennessee with mechanical equipment and a child genius. Maybe the universe was compensating for his horrible luck of the last several days.
“Yeah. You’re mortal so people can see you when you fly around. It draws attention.” The kid said matter-of-factly.
Jeez. What kind of kid talks like that? Mortal? What's that supposed to mean? He dismissed it with a sigh and re-focused on the parts of the sentence that actually made sense. “That’s actually a good idea. Maybe I’ll build one.”
The kid was fiddling with the wires that poked out of the side of the suit's head. They sparked and Tony flinched. “That is not a good idea! What’re you doing? You trying to get yourself electrocuted?”
The kid shrugged.
Great. A genius and no self-preservation.
Look in a mirror recently?
Tony sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot around this kid. “Leave him alone.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you?” He asked. The kid shrunk in on himself, looking down dejectedly. Great. Now I feel like a jerk.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll fix it.” He said awkwardly. “So, uh. Who’s home?”
Best to know whether an adult was gonna come in here and kick his ass for making the kid cry.
Said kid shifted in his seat. “Well, my mom already left for the diner and Dad left when I was born. He’s really busy.”
Tony hummed uncomfortably. “Which happens, dads leave. No need to be a wuss about it.” He sighed and looked around the farmhouse, “here's what I need: a laptop, a digital watch, a cell phone, the pneumatic actuator from your bazooka over there, a map of town, a big spring, and a tuna fish sandwich.”
The kid leaned back, “What's in it for me?”
He hesitated. Normally, with a kid this smart, Tony would assume bullying and use that as an incentive. Seeing as this kid also looked like he could bench-press an anvil, he figured that was less of an issue. He did, however, seem very superstitious. Maybe he could use something similar, just with a different target in mind?
“Salvation.” He said decisively, opening a compartment on the suit and taking out a modified flash grenade. “This is piñata for a cricket.”
The kid gave him a look that was distinctly unimpressed.
“I’m kidding,” he admitted. “It's a very powerful weapon. Point it away from your face, press the button on top. Non-lethal, just to cover one's ass. In case you come across any Canadians.”
Eyes gleaming with mischievous interest, the kid reached out to take it, but Tony pulled it back. “Deal? What’d you say?”
The kid nodded, “Deal.”
He handed the kid the flash grenade, feeling distinctly sympathetic for the poor Canadians this kid came across.
He really should stop calling the kid ‘the kid’ in his head. He cleared his throat. “You got a name, kid?”
“My big brother told me not to give my name to strangers. Especially not ones who work with sketchy government agencies,” the kid said, squinting with a suspicion that had thus far been conspicuously absent.
The hell? This kid knew about SHIELD? Or wait, no. His brother knew about SHIELD? Wait. That's not better.
Then again, this kid was suspicious of Canadians and they were stereotypically the nicest, least-suspicious country. He was probably just paranoid.
The kid, or you? He thought to himself. Shut up. He thought back.
“Besides, names have power,” the kid added darkly. Tony shot him a surprised look and saw that he was completely serious, no hint of his previous mischief on his face.
Well, alright then.
“Okay, that’s fair.” Tony said. He and the kid stared at each other for a long moment.
“You know what keeps going through my head?” He asked finally. The kid shook his head. “Where's my sandwich?”
The kid had been gone for a suspiciously long time, considering that he was just supposed to be making a sandwich.
Then again, what did Tony know about kids? Maybe he was too short to reach everything.
In the meantime, he went back to fiddling with the micro-repeater implants. The door opened and he looked up to see the kid carrying a sandwich on a plate. The kid looked at his arms, then at the pliers and back again.
“You know, sir. That’s not very sanitary.” He said, walking closer and setting the sandwich on the desk. He walked over to where he’d left his leather bag and pulled out another, slightly smaller leather bag. He brought the bag over to the desk and plopped it down before unzipping it and pulling out a leather water-skin.
The kid must really like leather. He thought idly.
The kid plucked the pliers from his hand, popped open the top of the water-skin and poured the amber-colored liquid inside over the metal prongs.
“Uh, kid?” Tony said, blinking rapidly. “What are you doing?”
“Disinfecting it,” he drawled, as if this were obvious. He capped the water-skin and held it up seriously. “You can’t drink this, okay?”
“I mean generally I don’t go around drinking disinfectant.” Tony said slowly. “Unless it’s alcohol. Is that alcohol? You’re like six. Why do you have alcohol?”
“I’m ten.” The kid said, looking offended.
“Because that’s so much better.” Tony muttered under his breath.
“And it’s not alcohol.”
“Sure, kid.”
The kid glared at him. Tony blinked.
That was surprisingly intimidating.
Am I afraid of this literal child?
What?
No…
Okay, maybe a little.
There was a long moment of very loud silence, and then the glare softened and Tony relaxed, not sure when exactly he'd tensed up.
This is a new personal low.
“Here,” the kid gave him the pliers back. "You can use them to fix those implants, and I’ll watch so I can do the ones on your right arm.”
“How do you know they’re implants? They could just be cuts on my arm,” Tony challenged.
The kid shrugged, evidently deciding that his actions didn’t require explanation. He turned back to his bag and fished around inside it.
“That cut on your nose is really deep. It needs stitches,” He pulled out a little box (not leather this time, surprisingly). He opened the box and Tony immediately leaned back.
“Yeah, that’s a solid no,” he said, firmly, “I’m not getting stitches from some random ten-year-old in a farmhouse in Tennessee.”
The kid glared, part anger and part worry.
…
Tony got stitches from some random ten-year-old in a farmhouse in Tennessee.
He examined them after the kid finished with a compact mirror that had also inexplicably been in the kid’s bag. They weren’t as neat as a professional’s, obviously, but they were effective and shockingly consistent.
The most surprising thing was the sheer efficiency of them. The kid’s hands hadn’t shaken for even a moment as he’d pushed the needle through skin, blotting blood away with a clean cloth, and accommodating Tony's occasional flinch. It was eerie. Like he'd had practice.
“Where’d you learn to do this, kid?” Tony asked, vaguely afraid to hear the answer.
"Learned it at camp,” The kid said, casually cleaning the blood off his hands with a few drops of the strange-amber-liquid-that-he-insists-is-not-alcohol. (Tony had doubts about this)
“Uh huh,” Tony said, “and who taught you?”
“The head of the infirmary,” the kid said. “He’s the counselor for Cabin 7. He’s really good at first aid.”
He shook his head. “Whatever you say, kid.”
Tony was of the opinion that stitching together torn flesh went a bit past the average first aid course’s capabilities, but what did he know? Maybe it was a camp for future doctors.
Several butterfly bandages and disapproving glares later, the kid finally shut his bag and put it back.
“Alright, I have the tuna sandwich, but I still need--”
“I know,” The kid interrupted, reaching into his bag again. “A laptop, a digital watch-- you’ll have to use my little sister’s-- a pneumatic actuator, a big spring, and a map of town.” He pulled out each object as he spoke, setting them down on the table.
Slightly impressed, Tony snorted and leaned back, “you forgot the cell phone, kid.”
“I didn’t,” The kid shook his head slowly. “My mom took hers to the diner and mine is…” He trailed off.
“What? Is it a flip phone or something?” Tony asked, firing up the laptop. “That’s alright, kid, I can use a flip phone.”
“Mine is special,” he said, carefully. “You can’t keep it, and you can’t take it apart.”
Tony blinked and looked up at the kid. He was looking at Tony with suspicion. “I’m not gonna steal it. I’ll give it back, and I promise not to take it apart,” Tony said seriously. “I just need to make some calls.”
The kid studied him for a long moment before hesitantly reaching into the pocket of his overalls and pulling out a sleek bronze smartphone with an engraved symbol (was that a horseshoe?) on the back. It wasn't any brand Tony had seen before, and if he hadn’t already promised not to-- or if he were less scared of what the kid would do to him if he broke that promise-- he would definitely take it apart and put it back together to see how it worked.
“Interesting phone you've got there,” he said cautiously, bracing himself for the glare he was sure would follow his comment.
“Yeah, it’s really cool,” the kid said excitedly, unlocking the phone and tapping at the screen. “You type things out and send them so you can talk to people even at night time or when you don’t have any water.”
“Right,” Tony drawled. “As opposed to carrier pigeons which require both water and daylight.”
Ah yes, there's that glare. It only lasted a moment, though, before the kid looked back down at his phone, fingers tapping away at an impressive speed.
What, is he deleting his search history?
Kid’s too young to be looking into anything that sketchy, isn't he? The phone chimed and he handed it over.
“What was all that typing for, kid?” Tony asked, looking over the home-screen. It looked fairly normal --nothing that constituted a solid minute of swiping and clicking.
“I was changing the settings so you could use it.” The kid said. “It has a… different locking system usually, but I put in a passcode instead, and the keyboard is normally different for my dyslexia.”
“Dyslexia, huh kid?” Tony asked conversationally, swiping through the kid’s messages. Whatever those symbols were, they were not dyslexic-friendly fonts. It looked almost… Greek?
“Yes. Dyslexia” The kid said, completely straight-faced. “The passcode is ‘Forge’.”
“What, like a blacksmith?” Tony raised an eyebrow. Not exactly the password most ten-year-old' would go with.
“Exactly.” The kid pulled a few nuts and bolts from his pocket and began fiddling with them. Tony opened up the messaging app.
“Who were you talking to just now?” Tony asked, brows furrowed. There was a line of messages, and even a call, between the kid and someone called ‘Λεωνίδας’ over the last twenty minutes that he’d been making the sandwich and gathering supplies.
Am I about to get arrested?
“My big brother. He says that you’ve had a ‘rough go of it’ so I should help you if I can.” The kid said matter of factly.
“Right.” Tony sighed. “What else did he say?”
“He told me that it was alright to tell you my name ‘cause you’re smart and you know where I live so you’ll find out anyways.”
Well, whoever Λεωνίδας was, he wasn’t wrong.
“So?” he prompted. “What’s your name?”
“Harley,” the kid said. “Like the motorcycle.”
“Well, Harley like the motorcycle, nice to meet you,” he gave the kid a quick smile. “The sandwich is fair, the spring is a little rusty, the phone’s weird as hell but functional. The rest of the materials, I'll make do. Now, shoo, I have work to do.”
•-•• • ---
Leo sighed and set down his phone. Out of all the houses Stark could have broken into, he just had to end up in his little brother’s. He wasn’t super worried for Harley’s safety. He’d seen the kid eviscerate a hellhound twice his size, and besides, he had that paintball gun Piper had been so excited about. If anything, the people Stark was looking for were in danger.
No, he was worried that his little brother would get over excited by an inventor who’d fought with his favorite brother and cousins and blow everyone’s cover. He just had to hope that Harley could be subtle enough not to reveal demigods to the genius billionaire with an AI that could make all their lives even more of a living hell.
Who was he kidding, they’d all be tied to the tables of million-dollar labs by sunset tomorrow.
He jogged over to the altar in the corner of his workshop, which had conveniently transformed itself into something suitable for Hecate.
Thanks Waystation.
He lit a fire and pulled some tofu from his toolbelt, opening the package and dropping the contents into the flames.
Please Hecate, for the love of all that is holy, cover my little brother’s ass so we don’t get dissected like lab rats in a sketchy government facility.