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The manor was quiet, the kind of heavy silence that only settled after everyone had gone to bed. Stephen was making his way down the hall when he heard it—the faint sound of a voice from behind one of the closed doors.
Harley’s door.
He paused. At first, he thought maybe the kid was just talking on a call, but the sound was low, muffled, too rough to be casual conversation. It didn’t sound like someone awake by choice.
Stephen sighed, glancing down the hall. He could keep walking. He should keep walking. It wasn’t his business, and God knew he wasn’t equipped for… whatever this was.
But then the voice cracked, quiet and unguarded in a way that scraped against his chest, and that was that.
He knocked once, softly. “Harley?”
The talking stopped. A few seconds passed before a shaky “Yeah?” floated back.
Stephen opened the door just enough to peek in.
The room was dim except for the glow of a tablet on Harley’s blanket, the light catching on tear tracks that the kid clearly hadn’t meant anyone to see. When Harley realized who was standing there, he wiped his face hard with the heel of his hand, forcing a lopsided grin.
“Sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” Stephen said, stepping in despite every instinct telling him not to. “Heard voices. Thought maybe one of you was building another death trap.”
That earned him a huff of laughter, small but genuine. Harley dropped his gaze, fingers twisting in the blanket. “Just… couldn’t sleep, I guess.”
Stephen hesitated by the bed. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do here—Tony made it look easy, always knowing how to tease or comfort without pushing. Stephen didn’t have that talent. But leaving felt wrong, too, so he sat down carefully on the edge of the mattress.
“Insomnia’s a bitch,” he offered.
Harley smiled faintly. “Yeah.”
Stephen figured that was the end of it. A polite acknowledgment, a little shared silence, and then he could quietly retreat before he made things worse.
But as he went to stand, he noticed the open book beside him. A photo album.
Stephen tilted his head to see the picture Harley'd been looking at. Tennessee. Harley and his mother—
Ah.
He exhaled softly through his nose. “You miss her.”
Harley didn’t answer right away. His fingers tightened on the blanket, knuckles pale in the dim light. When he did speak, it was small—the kind of voice that didn’t sound like it belonged to a teenager but to a kid who’d been up too late, too often, trying not to cry.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “Sometimes I forget what she sounded like. Then I feel bad for forgetting.”
Stephen’s throat ached unexpectedly. He wasn’t good at this—grief, empathy, the quiet kind of comfort Tony gave so effortlessly.
“She’d understand,” Stephen said after a long moment. “You were young.”
Harley gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s dad always says.”
"Well, its true." Stephen hesitated. "I.. hardly remember my sister."
Harley looked up, startled. "You have a sister?"
"Had." Stephen’s gaze dropped to the photo album. “She died when I was 19. Drowned."
Harley blinked, caught off guard by how easily Stephen said it. Not coldly—just… plainly, like the words had worn smooth over time.
“Oh,” he said softly. “I— I didn’t know.”
“Not something that tends to come up between breakfasts and world-ending crises,” Stephen murmured. He was staring at the photo on the page again, but his mind was clearly somewhere else. “She was younger than me. Stubborn. Used to follow me everywhere, even when I told her not to.”
Harley’s brow furrowed. “You sound like Dad talking about Peter.”
That pulled a faint, tired smile from Stephen. “God help me if I’m starting to sound like him.”
Harley huffed out a laugh—small, but real—and Stephen found himself oddly relieved by the sound. The tension in the air softened a little, settling into something gentler. He hadn’t meant to get personal, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing.
That was how Tony did it, after all. He’d talk about his own screw-ups and heartbreaks like they were anecdotes, some weird way of saying you’re not alone without ever having to say the words.
Stephen supposed he was trying the same thing now. Poorly. Awkwardly. But it seemed to be working well enough.
“You know,” Harley said after a moment, fiddling with the edge of the photo album, “you don’t really talk about stuff like that.”
Stephen’s lips twitched. “I’m a very private person.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Harley sniffled, brushing his sleeve across his nose. “You’d think hanging around Dad would’ve broken you by now.”
“It’s a slow process,” Stephen deadpanned. “Exposure therapy.”
Harley smiled again—tired, crooked, but genuine—and then went quiet. His eyes drifted to the photo again, the lamplight making his expression unreadable.
“I used to think it’d stop hurting, y’know?” he said finally, voice thin. “Like… you grow up, move on, and one day it just doesn’t feel like— like this anymore.”
Stephen leaned forward a little, resting his elbows on his knees. “It doesn’t stop,” he said gently. “You just… get used to carrying it. It becomes part of you. Like scar tissue.”
Harley thought about that for a long moment. Then, quietly, “Does it ever get lighter?”
Stephen glanced at him. The kid looked so young right then, swallowed by his blanket, trying so hard to sound casual when his eyes were still red and watery. It hit Stephen with a kind of tenderness he hadn’t expected.
“Sometimes,” he said truthfully. “Sometimes it does.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. Just quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed softly, almost peaceful.
Stephen straightened, meaning to get up—he’d done his duty, soothed the kid, said the right words. Time to call it a win, slip out quietly before he made it awkward, and never mention this again.
But before he could move, a hand caught the cuff of his sleeve. Not a even a grab, just enough to pause him. Tony's kids were always hesitant about Stephen's hands.
“Stay?” Harley murmured, eyes half-lidded now, exhaustion finally creeping in.
Stephen froze. Every instinct screamed at him not to, that the kid was old enough to sleep on his own. But then Harley’s grip tightened just enough that it felt less like a question and more like a plea.
He swallowed. “You sure?”
Harley nodded quickly, like he was afraid Stephen might change his mind if he waited too long.
So Stephen sat back down. He didn’t say anything, just leaned back slightly against the headboard, folded his arms, and stayed.
The minutes stretched. Harley’s breathing slowed, the tension easing from his shoulders. Eventually, the kid’s head tilted toward him, resting against Stephen’s arm.
Stephen looked down at him, the smallest frown tugging at his brow. He could feel the weight of it now—that quiet responsibility, the ache that came with caring when he never meant to.
He let out a quiet, almost resigned sigh.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m parenting.” Tony was going to have a field day with this tomorrow morning.