You perch nervously at the edge of one of the Stark Mansion’s velvet lobby chairs, your hands clasped together so tightly they might fuse. The seat cushions are far too plush for someone in your battered boots, the chandelier above is far too expensive for you to risk looking at the wrong way, and the entire place feels more like a museum than somewhere people live. And yet, this is the Avengers’ headquarters. The place where legends walk around like they’re just running errands. And you — you’re the rookie waiting to speak to Tony Stark.

Somewhere deeper in the building, there is an unmistakable crash, followed by the reverberating “THOOM” of something very large colliding with a wall. Then a voice shouts: “That was Stark’s antique!”

You blink. You can almost feel the priceless furniture depreciating in value by the second. Before you can even stand, a polite cough interrupts your rising panic.

“Miss,” comes a dry, refined British voice, as calm as if he were commenting on the weather, “please do keep your feet on the carpet. The marble has just been polished.”

You glance up and there's Jarvis. Perfect posture, crisp black suit and tie, silver hair that hasn’t a strand out of place despite what you’re certain was an actual explosion echoing from upstairs. He’s balancing a tray of teacups in one hand while nudging a vacuum cleaner with his foot like this is all perfectly normal.

You stumble up. “Oh! Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to—uh—I can help if you want.”

Jarvis peers at you over his glasses, the corner of his mouth twitching as if considering a smile but deciding dignity demands restraint. “Help?” he repeats in a tone both skeptical and kind. “My dear, the last young Avenger who offered to help accidentally dropped Thor’s mug into the garbage disposal. The hammerer of realms is still lamenting it.”

As if on cue, a thunderous voice booms down the hall: “WHERE IS MY ‘WORLD’S BEST THUNDER GOD’ CUP?!”

Jarvis exhales softly through his nose, like a parent long accustomed to tantrums. “Precisely.”

Still, he studies your earnest face, your fidgeting hands, and sighs. “Very well. If you insist, you may accompany me on... damage control.”

And so, tray swapped for a feather duster and a stern lecture about “balance, child, balance,” you follow him through chaos.