Chapter 25

As the Endless gathered their cosmic thoughts and dispersed like a bunch of high schoolers after the final bell, one figure lingered in the center of the ever-shifting hall. Desire—looking like she'd just walked off the set of a high-fashion magazine shoot with an aura of "I'm fabulous and I know it"—stretched out in her cosmic throne, eyes glinting with the kind of satisfaction that could only come from a cosmic plotter on a mission.

She had just orchestrated something, and if anyone was paying attention, they'd realize that the universe was about to get real interesting. You know that feeling you get when you convince your friends to go along with something that's 50% genius and 50% terrible idea? That was Desire right now, only on a galactic scale. She wasn't throwing a fit; she wasn't in anyone's face. No, Desire's style was a lot more subtle—like suggesting Harry might want to get involved in a little Avengers business, knowing full well the ripple effect would be wild.

Death, in her usual stark, icy-white elegance (with just a hint of "I'm here to ruin your day"), had been her first target. Desire had gently nudged her in the direction of "helping Harry"—and now Death, all unknowing, was the one tangled up in the web Desire had spun. It was beautiful. The woman of the hour, Death, thought she was just doing her thing, helping Harry through what she believed to be a pivotal time. But oh, Desire knew better.

As Death retreated back to her shadowy realm to start her little "help Harry" mission, Desire reclined in her chair, watching with the kind of smug satisfaction you get when you're 100% sure you've just set a whole bunch of dominoes in motion, and you're about to watch them fall in the most spectacular way.

From across the room, Dream—who was looking like the kind of brooding, tortured soul you'd hire for a movie to sell sadness, his eyes dark and mysterious—was eyeing Desire, clearly sensing something was afoot. He, of all people, should've known that whenever Desire was involved, nothing was ever really as simple as it seemed.

"Careful," Dream's voice rumbled, low and heavy, like it had been dragged out of a midnight fog. "You're playing with destinies, Desire. I'm not sure how well your game is going to end."

Desire's smirk widened, and her eyes sparkled with that same cosmic mischief. "Oh, don't worry about me, Dream. I'm playing my game, and so far, it's going exactly as planned. Besides," she leaned forward, locking eyes with him, "don't you think it's about time someone stirred things up a bit around here?"

"Well," Dream sighed, as though it was a bit much to deal with but also too entertaining to ignore. "The universe has been too quiet. And we can't have that, can we?"

Before Desire could respond, Destruction—looking like he could bench press a planet on a bad day, dressed in leather like he was fresh out of a heavy metal album cover—let out a deep chuckle. "You and your schemes, Desire. Chaos will come, but let's hope it's not the kind of chaos that ends up biting us all in the tail."

"Chaos is my middle name," Desire replied sweetly, giving him a playful wink. "But I promise, it's a specific kind of chaos. Just wait."

Despair—draped in gray and clutching onto the sort of atmosphere that screamed tragic protagonist in a play—finally piped up, her voice barely above a whisper. "This... this is a bad idea. Bad ideas always lead to pain."

Desire flicked a finger as though brushing off a minor inconvenience. "You worry too much. Besides, what's the worst that can happen? Harry'll be fine. He's resourceful." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "And if not, well, it'll be entertaining."

Despair shuddered. "You always say that."

"Because it's true." Desire's grin was so wicked it could have caused a few universes to spontaneously combust. "We'll see, won't we?"

And then, as if she'd heard a call that only she could perceive, Destiny—towering, regal, and way too serious for anyone's good—stepped forward, his voice as deep and resonant as a drumbeat in the void. "Let's not forget our roles," he said. "We're not here to direct the course of events. We merely observe."

Desire rolled her eyes, practically a master class in unimpressed. "Spare me, Destiny. You observe and I make things happen." She shot him a sly look. "That's the difference between us."

"Making things happen isn't always a wise choice," Destiny countered, his tone unwavering. He flicked his fingers, adjusting the cosmic threads that wove through existence like a great, delicate tapestry. "Every action has a consequence. You've meddled enough to know that."

"True." Desire's expression softened just a little. "But don't you think it's time for the universe to get a little messy? Some things should shift—or are you going to just stand there and let it all fall apart, one meticulously aligned thread at a time?"

Destiny's gaze was unyielding, but even he had to admit—there was an undeniable truth in what Desire said. "Fine," he muttered. "But if this ends badly, I won't be cleaning up your mess."

Desire's grin widened, and it was as if she had just won a cosmic bet. "Oh, but that's the fun of it all, Destiny. You'll be watching, not cleaning." She leaned back, the universe practically revolving around her. "And trust me, this show is about to get a whole lot better."

As she spoke, Death—unaware that her every move was being gently nudged by the ever-present hand of Desire—was already laying the groundwork for her part in the plan. Harry was in the center of it all, but not by his own choosing. A new path was unfolding before him, one where fate had far more twists than he'd ever anticipated.

And Desire? Well, Desire was already bored with the first act and couldn't wait for the chaos to begin. In the cosmic theater of existence, she had just set the stage for a spectacle like no other.

—

Harry couldn't help but feel a little like he was handing over an ancient relic to a kid in a candy store. Tony Stark was practically vibrating with excitement, grinning like he'd just discovered the secret to unlimited power—which, in a way, he kinda had. Harry passed over the staff with its glowing blue gem, watching as it pulsed with an energy that felt almost alive. If he'd been a wizard who actually understood tech, he might've said it reminded him of a magical artifact. But since he wasn't, he just figured it was probably going to end up creating a whole lot of mess. Still, if anyone could handle it, it was Tony.

Tony took the staff with the kind of reverence you'd expect from someone who thought he'd just found the Holy Grail in the clearance bin at a yard sale. He turned it in his hands, examining it like a priceless artifact. "Thanks, Harry," he said, his voice practically bubbling over with excitement. "This is gonna be one wild ride. Like, rollercoaster-through-a-volcano wild."

Bruce Banner, hovering nearby with his usual quiet curiosity, glanced up at the staff. His brow furrowed as he examined it. "Let's take this to the lab," he said, his voice practically vibrating with scientific intrigue. "We need to figure out exactly what we're dealing with before Tony starts building another flying fortress."

"Good call," Tony said, with a dramatic roll of his eyes as he shot Bruce a playful side-eye. "I never build things like that… except for all those other times when I did. But this time, I promise, no flying castles. Maybe."

With that, the two of them were off, leaving Harry and the others to fend for themselves. Tony and Bruce entered the lab, which looked like it had been pulled straight out of a science-fiction movie set—if the movie was about mad geniuses and their shiny toys. The blinking lights, the whirring machines, the stacks of data that made no sense to Harry at all... it was all a little overwhelming.

Tony placed the staff gently on the scanning table, and Bruce immediately dove into diagnostics. His fingers flew over the keyboards, calling up data, charts, and various pieces of information that looked like they were written in a language even Tony couldn't decipher. A few moments of tapping and clicking, and Bruce leaned back, his eyes wide. "This thing's off the charts. We're talking readings that go beyond the highest levels of energy I've ever seen. It's like the staff is a freaking power plant."

Tony raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Fascinating. So we're looking at... a supercharged magic stick?"

Bruce gave Tony a look that was a cross between disbelief and "I can't believe I have to explain this to you." "It's more than that, Tony. The energy signature is... odd. It's not just raw power—it's like the staff is a conduit. Maybe even a bridge to something. Or someone."

"Alive?" Tony asked, his smirk widening. "Like, a haunted stick?"

"Not exactly," Bruce said, scratching his head as the screens blinked with new data. "But yeah, something along those lines. If this is what I think it is... It could be channeling a force that's older than anything we know."

Tony leaned over the staff, eyes alight with excitement. "You're telling me this thing could be—what—tapping into some ancient alien energy? Like it's a cosmic USB drive for a higher power?"

Bruce sighed, clearly worn out from trying to keep up with Tony's chaotic thought process. "You know what? Sure. Why not? But we've got to be careful. If we mess with this too much, we might trigger something we don't fully understand."

Tony sat back in his chair, crossing his arms with a grin that was equal parts devil-may-care and genius-level confidence. "Come on, Bruce. Since when has 'don't understand it' ever stopped us before? Think of it! We could revolutionize everything! Clean energy. Sustainable tech. And maybe a super-intelligent AI that can solve world hunger and write the next Marvel blockbuster in one go."

Bruce shot him a look like Tony had just suggested building a nuclear reactor inside a rocket ship made of tinfoil. "You're not planning to create another JARVIS, are you? Because we both know how that went last time."

Tony waved it off, practically rolling his eyes. "Relax, Bruce. This isn't about creating a killer robot army. It's about making something that helps us. Something that shields the world from... well, all the stuff we keep having to fix. Think of the possibilities!"

Bruce looked skeptical. "Sure, the potential for good is there, but the potential for disaster is right behind it, and it's a lot less cute."

Tony's expression shifted slightly. There was still that gleam of excitement in his eyes, but now it was tempered by a flicker of seriousness. "I hear you, big guy. But we can't let fear hold us back. We've got to be proactive, not just reactive. And if this staff's the key to figuring that out, then we can't sit on our hands."

Bruce rubbed his face, muttering something under his breath about never getting enough sleep, but he nodded slowly. "Alright. But no flying off the handle. We do this carefully. No shortcuts. We keep an eye on everything."

Tony clapped Bruce on the back with a grin that practically screamed "let's get to work." "That's the spirit, my man. Let's get our hands dirty and see what this thing can really do. After all, if we mess it up, it'll be the world's problem, not just ours, right?"

"Yeah," Bruce muttered, "because that's totally comforting."

And with that, Tony and Bruce were back to work, the glow from the staff casting long shadows across the lab. The hum of the machines filled the air, and Harry—standing just outside the lab—couldn't help but feel a little nervous. There were too many variables here, too many unknowns. But if anyone could handle it, it was Tony Stark... right?

Still, something told Harry that they hadn't seen the last of this mysterious staff. And he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a disaster waiting to happen. But hey, that was basically how things worked when you hung out with superheroes.

—

Harry and Sersi were in their own little bubble of peace, the kind that was so rare it felt like a vacation in a world full of nonstop chaos. They were sitting at a tiny kitchen table, sipping tea like it was the most normal thing in the world. And maybe, for them, it was.

The tea was the kind that screamed sophistication—like something you'd see in a British period drama. Porcelain cups that looked like they might shatter if you so much as blinked at them wrong. Sersi was pouring the hot tea with a kind of grace that made Harry feel like a clumsy bear next to her. Meanwhile, Harry, ever the wizard of understatement, added a generous splash of milk to his tea and stirred it like he was conducting some sort of chaotic potion class.

"You know," Harry said, breaking the comfortable silence like someone who had just dropped a sock on the floor in a quiet library, "there's something seriously underrated about tea. It's like the world's simplest magic."

Sersi looked up at him, a smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Hmm. I think it's because it's just... easy. You don't need any fancy spells or gadgets to make tea. You just need time. And the right company."

Harry couldn't help himself—he grinned. "Well, I'm definitely glad I'm the right company, then. Not everyone gets to share their tea with the guy who once casually saved the universe by accident."

She chuckled, a soft, musical sound that made Harry's heart do a little flip. "You do have a knack for making the impossible seem casual. But I'm guessing you've never had a tea date with an Eternal before."

Harry raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his tea. "Not unless you count my weird 'most powerful being in the universe' ex. But I don't recommend that story over tea. It's a lot."

Sersi tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes glimmering with that mix of intelligence and mischief that made her so damn intriguing. "Now you've got me curious. But maybe I'll let that story come out in pieces, just to keep me on the edge of my seat."

Harry smirked, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "Ah, the art of teasing. I know it well. But hey, maybe we'll save the drama for later. Right now, I'm just enjoying the simplicity of this moment." He looked at her, his voice lowering slightly. "I mean, if I had to save the universe every day, I'd lose my mind. But this? Tea with you? This is perfect."

Sersi's expression softened, her gaze locking with his in a way that made everything else in the room fade into the background. "You know, Harry, it's funny. You'd think someone who's been through as much as you would be jaded by now. But here you are, sipping tea like it's the most important thing in the world. And I... I think that's beautiful."

Harry's smirk softened into something more genuine, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. "You're not so bad yourself, Sersi. Not to mention you make even tea seem like an art form. You could probably turn a cup of coffee into an epic poem if you tried."

She raised an eyebrow. "Is that a challenge?"

"Depends," Harry said with a grin. "Are you going to write a poem about me?"

Sersi let out a soft laugh, the sound sending a shiver down Harry's spine. She leaned forward, her fingers brushing lightly against his as she picked up her tea again. "Maybe I'll write a song instead," she teased, her voice turning playful. "A ballad. About the guy who saved the world in a hoodie."

"Ah, the hoodie," Harry said with a grin, "it's a classic. Truly, my most heroic fashion choice. Would make for a killer first verse, don't you think?"

Sersi leaned in closer, her breath warm against his cheek. "Just don't get used to me writing songs about you," she whispered, her lips curving into a smile that felt like a promise.

Harry met her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. "Well, if you ever need inspiration, I've got plenty of story-worthy material," he said, his voice low and teasing. "I've got a lot of secrets. And not all of them are from saving the world."

Sersi's lips curled, her gaze suddenly intense, like she was weighing him with the kind of scrutiny that could strip a man down to his soul. "Oh, I'm sure you do, Harry. But I think I'll enjoy discovering them slowly."

"Slowly?" Harry asked, his voice dropping into something a little more dangerous. "I can handle slow. But I might be the type to make things... interesting."

The tension between them hummed like electricity, charging the space with a heat that felt both thrilling and inevitable. Sersi's eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something else there too—something deeper. "We'll see about that," she said softly, the words carrying a playful challenge.

Harry grinned, leaning back in his chair as if the conversation had turned into a game he was all too happy to play. "You know, I have a feeling this is just the beginning, Sersi. And I've got a lot of time on my hands."

Sersi's smile deepened, her fingers grazing his again, the touch light but deliberate. "Good. Because I've got a feeling we're both about to get very... interesting."

And just like that, their moment of peace, as rare and fleeting as it was, felt like something more—something that, if they were lucky, might last a lot longer than either of them expected. But for now, they would enjoy the calm. They were both just getting started.

—

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were in the middle of what could only be described as an epic showdown in the gym of the SHIELD facility. It was the kind of battle where you expected the slow-motion music to kick in, and the entire room to explode with sparks, but no, this was just a Tuesday morning for these two.

Picture this: two super-soldiers, shirtless, muscles flexing, sweat glistening like they were posing for a fitness magazine. And then there was Bucky's shiny new prosthetic arm, catching the light every time he moved like it was some sort of mechanical disco ball. Seriously, you could blind a guy with that thing if you weren't careful.

Steve looked at Bucky with that classic grin, the kind that made you think he was always one sarcastic comment away from saying something like, "Is this gonna take long? I have a dentist appointment in an hour."

"Ready to dance, Buck?" Steve asked, dropping into his fighting stance, all cocky and relaxed, like he was about to walk into a coffee shop, not into a fight with his best friend.

Bucky smirked, rolling his metal arm like he was flexing for the cameras. "I don't know, Steve. I might just steal the spotlight this time."

Steve's eyes sparkled with mischief. "We'll see about that."

And with that, they were off. Steve threw the first punch—a quick jab aimed at Bucky's midsection—but Bucky blocked it effortlessly with his metal arm. There was a sound like a hammer hitting steel, and Steve actually flinched. Who knew metal could sting?

"Still quick on your feet, I see," Steve said, bouncing around and throwing a combo of punches and kicks. If this was a choreographed dance, it was definitely one where people would end up with bruises.

Bucky, ever the smartass, returned fire with a series of blows that Steve dodged and deflected with expert precision. "Had a good teacher," Bucky shot back. He could practically hear Steve's brain doing the math: Who was the better teacher? Cap or the Winter Soldier? And Bucky knew the answer—he had totally taught Steve how to punch people.

Their movements were so fluid, they looked like a pair of professional wrestlers, only with a whole lot less spandex and more smoldering, brooding intensity. It was like a fight scene straight out of a Michael Bay movie, but with fewer explosions and more sarcastic banter.

"You know," Bucky said, landing a solid hit to Steve's shoulder, "Tony did a pretty good job with this arm. Maybe I should send him a thank-you card."

Steve rolled his shoulder to shake off the sting. "I'm sure he'd prefer a bottle of whiskey."

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, probably. But I'm feeling sentimental. Maybe I'll throw in a 'World's Best Arm' mug too."

Steve dodged under Bucky's next swing and kicked him in the ribs, sending him stumbling back. "Still got it," Steve said with a cocky grin, adjusting his shirt like this was all part of his morning routine.

Bucky's eyes narrowed, and just when Steve thought he had the upper hand, Bucky lunged forward with a renewed burst of energy, throwing a series of punches that made Steve's jaw tighten. "Don't get too full of yourself, Rogers."

"Oh, please," Steve said, hopping back into his fighting stance. "You're just mad because I'm still better than you at this."

Bucky's eyes flickered with something that might've been annoyance or respect. Or maybe both. Honestly, Steve had no idea. But they kept sparring, their punches flying, their legs twisting in ways that made it look like they were in a weird, martial-arts movie with extra slow-motion shots for good measure. It was like watching two high-speed trains with attitude collide.

After a particularly brutal exchange, they both paused, standing in the middle of the ring, breathless and drenched in sweat. Steve wiped his brow with a towel and threw a glance at Bucky. "You know, this feels like old times."

Bucky leaned against the ropes of the training ring, giving a deep chuckle. "Yeah, except back then, you were the scrawny kid who couldn't even keep his head down. And I had to pull your butt out of trouble every five seconds."

Steve laughed, a little sheepish. "I wasn't that bad."

"Okay, maybe not that bad," Bucky said, leaning back. "But you were always getting into fights you couldn't win. And then I had to save your ass."

Steve smirked. "And you loved every minute of it."

"Eh, most of it," Bucky grinned. "But, you know, we've both come a long way since then."

Steve's expression softened as he tossed the towel aside. "Yeah. We've changed. But some things stay the same."

Bucky turned toward him, and for the first time, his usual smirk faded, replaced by something a little more reflective. "We've got each other's backs. Always have, always will."

Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Exactly. And that's why it's time for you to officially join the Avengers."

Bucky looked at him like he'd just dropped a bomb. "Steve, I... I don't know. You know what I've done. The things I was forced to do as the Winter Soldier—"

"Stop." Steve cut him off, his voice low but firm. "Bucky, that wasn't you. HYDRA messed with your head. They made you do things, but you didn't want that. You're still the guy who pulled me out of trouble. You've paid for your past ten times over."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tight. "But I can't just forget everything I did. I'm not sure I deserve to be standing next to people like you. Like them."

Steve's eyes softened, but his voice remained strong. "Bucky, being a hero isn't about your past. It's about what you choose to do now. And I know you're going to make the right choice. Because that's what you do."

There was a long pause, one where Bucky seemed to wrestle with everything—the guilt, the anger, the fear. But then, just like that, his gaze hardened, and he gave a reluctant nod. "Alright, Steve. I'll give it a shot. But no promises."

Steve grinned like he'd just won a battle he hadn't even known he was fighting. "That's all I ask, Buck. Welcome to the team."

Right on cue, Natasha strolled in like a tornado of sarcasm, her timing impeccable as always. "Are the ladies done painting each other's nails yet?" she quipped, her smirk as sharp as a katana. "Because we have important things to do, and I'm pretty sure that doesn't include staring lovingly at your muscles."

Steve rolled his eyes, grinning at the way Bucky cracked up. "What's in the suitcase, Natasha?"

Natasha's eyes gleamed with mischief as she unzipped the bag to reveal a sleek, futuristic suit. Dark metallic armor that screamed "high-tech badass" and "this is totally Tony Stark's fault." The suit gleamed like something out of a sci-fi movie—each curve and line designed for maximum speed and efficiency. It practically radiated Avenger.

Bucky's eyes widened as he whistled low. "That's... that's one hell of a suit."

Steve slapped him on the back, pride evident in his voice. "Yeah, it's your new uniform. You're officially one of us now."

Bucky looked at the suit, his face a mixture of gratitude and determination. "I don't know if I'll ever feel like I deserve this. But I'll sure as hell give it my best shot."

Natasha's grin only got bigger. "Well, come on then, ladies. Tony's throwing a party for the newest Avenger. And trust me, you're gonna love the way he throws a party."

Steve laughed as he clapped Bucky on the shoulder again. "Does Tony ever need a reason to throw a party?"

Bucky shook his head, a rare smile pulling at his lips. "Guess not."

And with that, the team of misfits headed off to Tony's latest shindig. A celebration, of sorts, of a new chapter in Bucky's life—where, for once, the past didn't matter as much as the future. And who knew? Maybe it was time to see what came next—one drink, one laugh, and one epic party at a time.

—

Tony Stark's idea of a "small" party looked like an A-list gala exploded inside Avengers Tower. The bar was stocked, the music was loud, and at least three separate conversations were happening at the same time about whether aliens, gods, or super-soldiers were the best at beer pong. (Spoiler: Thor insisted it was gods, but Sersi had a few millennia's worth of receipts saying otherwise.)

The guest of honor, Bucky Barnes, was standing off to the side, nursing a drink and looking like he was still getting used to the idea of being on a team that didn't involve brainwashing or war crimes. His expression read: mildly amused but also one dumb comment away from throwing someone out a window.

And then, right on cue—because the universe had a sense of humor—Clint Barton decided it was time for his greatest idea of the night.

"Alright, listen up, mortals and immortals alike," Clint declared, raising his whiskey glass like he was about to deliver a TED Talk. "We've all been asking the real question for years. And since we've got plenty of muscle, magic, and mystery in this room, I say we settle it."

Thor, who had been regaling Phastos and Bruce Banner with some tale about battling frost giants while half-asleep, arched a golden eyebrow. "And what question would that be, Barton?"

Clint grinned like a man who had no survival instincts. "Can anyone other than you lift that ridiculously oversized paperweight you call a hammer?"

The room practically crackled with interest. Even Harry—who had spent most of the night in an animated debate with Sersi over whether Excalibur was real or just good PR—paused mid-sentence, lips quirking in amusement.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," Natasha murmured to Rhodey, who took a long sip of his drink.

Thor chuckled, setting Mjolnir down on the reinforced titanium table like it weighed no more than a bag of chips. "Mjolnir is not merely a weapon. It is an extension of my very being, forged in the heart of a dying star and enchanted by All-Father Odin himself."

"Cool, cool, cool," Clint nodded, rolling up his sleeves. "But can I lift it though?"

A beat of silence.

Then, Tony snorted. "Barton, buddy, pal. You're a guy whose entire skill set is 'I'm really good at archery.' What part of 'magic weapon that judges your soul' makes you think you're gonna pass the background check?"

Clint ignored him, flexed dramatically (as if that would help), and grabbed the handle of Mjolnir with both hands.

For one glorious, fleeting second, he looked confident. Determined. Like maybe, just maybe, he was about to defy the gods.

Then he pulled.

And pulled.

And pulled some more.

Nothing happened.

Not a twitch. Not a single centimeter of movement. Mjolnir sat there, thoroughly unimpressed by Clint's entire existence.

The room erupted.

"I was really hoping for an Avengers-style disaster," Wanda admitted, sipping her wine.

"It's adorable that he tried," Makkari signed, laughing as Sprite translated gleefully.

Even Bucky cracked a grin, nudging Steve. "Did he seriously think that was gonna work?"

Steve, ever the diplomatic one, clapped a hand over his mouth to avoid outright laughing. "I mean…you gotta admire the effort."

Harry, however, had zero such reservations. Leaning casually against the bar, he smirked and drawled, "Clint, mate, I've seen leprechauns with more of a shot at lifting that thing. And they barely crack five feet."

Sersi, draped effortlessly against Harry's side like a goddess out of legend (which, well, she kind of was), smiled into her drink. "Be nice, love. Not everyone can be impossibly powerful and ridiculously charming."

Harry turned, his smirk shifting into something a lot more wicked. "You mean like me?"

Her eyes sparkled. "I suppose you'll have to prove that later."

Clint, meanwhile, had not missed the savage burn at his expense. "Oh, come on," he groaned, throwing up his hands. "You're telling me none of you are gonna try?"

"I already know I can't lift it," Bruce deadpanned. "I also know I'd rather not Hulk out in the middle of Tony's very expensive living room."

"Also, you'd break the floor," Rhodey added helpfully.

Gilgamesh, lounging by the buffet table, crossed his arms. "Could I? Probably. Do I care? Absolutely not."

Kingo, ever the showman, struck a dramatic pose. "If I wanted to lift it, I would. But I must preserve my hands for the cinematic arts."

Tony just smirked and sipped his drink. "I already figured out I couldn't lift it back in Sokovia, so I'm gonna sit here, enjoy the entertainment, and not embarrass myself in front of my AI."

"Sir, that is a wise decision," JARVIS agreed dryly.

Clint threw his hands up. "You all suck."

Thor clapped him on the back, grinning like a benevolent deity. "It was a valiant effort, Barton. But perhaps your true worth lies elsewhere."

Clint scowled. "I feel like that was the nicest way anyone's ever told me I suck."

Harry snorted. "Mate, that's because it was."

The entire room erupted into laughter once more, and as Clint grabbed another drink (definitely something stronger this time), the party continued in full swing.

Mjolnir?

It remained exactly where it was, utterly indifferent to humanity's collective struggle.

And that was probably for the best.

---

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