Natasha entered Tony's bedroom carrying an elegant wooden watch case, her footsteps silent on the polished floor. She'd changed into evening attire—a fitted black dress that managed to be both professional and subtly alluring.
"Which watch would you like to wear tonight?" She opened the case, revealing rows of luxury timepieces nestled in velvet compartments.
Tony was buttoning his shirt, his attention focused on the mirror. "I'll decide in a minute." He adjusted his collar, then turned to face her. "Gold dial, brown leather strap. Let me see the Jaeger-LeCoultre. Hand it over."
He settled onto the leather sofa, and Natasha crossed the room to sit beside him, the watch case balanced on her lap. Tony's eyes flickered briefly to her exposed shoulders and the elegant line of her neck before he looked away.
Natasha retrieved a makeup concealer from her small clutch and applied a small amount to the back of her hand to test the shade. Satisfied, she shifted closer and began gently covering the faint bruises and scrapes on Tony's face.
Her touch was light, professional, but there was an intimacy to the gesture that filled the silence between them.
Tony watched her work for a moment, then spoke quietly. "Be honest with me. How much longer can you actually stay?" He paused, his voice dropping further. "I need to know so I can have Pepper start looking for a replacement in advance."
Natasha's hand stilled for just a fraction of a second before continuing to blend the concealer. "I honestly don't know. It's not up to me—it's decided by people well above my pay grade." Her tone remained neutral, but there was a hint of something genuine beneath the professional mask.
Tony fell silent, processing that answer. Then he shifted topics abruptly, the way he often did when a subject made him uncomfortable. "What do you think makes a birthday meaningful?"
Natasha understood exactly what he was really asking. She knew about the military pressure, the congressional threats, the demands that he surrender his armor and his autonomy. She'd read the classified briefings, monitored the situation as part of her assignment.
She finished applying the concealer and met his eyes directly. "Do whatever you want, Tony."
He blinked, surprised by the simple directness of her response.
"You have Stark Industries behind you—billions in assets, top-tier legal representation, public goodwill." She closed the makeup compact with a decisive click. "And you have Smith Doyle and Universal Capsule Company in your corner. That's not insignificant support."
She stood gracefully, smoothing her dress. "So do whatever you want. Make a statement. Celebrate your birthday the way you want to celebrate it, and let everyone else deal with their feelings about it."
Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the room, her heels clicking softly against the floor.
Tony sat alone for a moment, then reached for the glass of whiskey on the side table. He took a long sip, feeling the burn slide down his throat. Natasha's words echoed in his mind, crystallizing thoughts that had been forming for days.
Do whatever you want.
His jaw set with determination. Tonight wasn't just a birthday party. It was a declaration.
Outside the Malibu beach house, John Wick guided the Rolls-Royce along the winding coastal road, the Pacific Ocean gleaming in the early evening light. In the back seat, Smith and Bulma reviewed the evening's plans, while Ivan Vanko sat in the front passenger seat looking uncharacteristically nervous.
A second vehicle followed behind them—one of the Fraternity's discreet SUVs with additional security personnel.
"I still can't believe you're bringing Yelena," Bulma said with barely concealed amusement. "How did that even happen?"
Ivan's ears reddened slightly. "She... mentioned she had not attended many American parties. I offered to escort her. It seemed polite."
From the driver's seat, John's lips twitched with suppressed humor. Yelena Belova, Natasha's younger sister was many things, but helpless at social events was definitely not one of them.
"Sure," Smith said neutrally, though his eyes gleamed with mischief. "Very chivalrous of you."
As they approached Tony's estate, the scene outside became increasingly chaotic. The circular driveway was packed with luxury vehicles—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Bentleys, each one worth more than most people's houses. Valets rushed back and forth, and a crowd of uninvited media personnel pressed against the security barriers, cameras raised and ready.
The moment Smith's Rolls-Royce pulled up, a ripple of excitement swept through the waiting journalists.
"Oh my God, it's Smith Doyle! He's here!"
"Of course he's here—he's Tony's best friend!"
"Look at him! So handsome!"
"That's Bulma Brief! The genius scientist! Some people say she's going to surpass even Tony Stark!"
"Blue Dynamo is with them!"
"Who's that woman with Ivan? She's stunning!"
The cacophony of voices swelled as Smith stepped out of the vehicle, offering his hand to help Bulma exit gracefully. She wore a elegant blue dress that complemented her hair, and her confident smile never wavered despite the camera flashes creating a strobe-light effect.
Ivan emerged from the front seat and immediately moved to the second vehicle, where Yelena waited. She accepted his offered arm with a slight smirk—she was dressed in a striking red gown that drew appreciative stares from every direction.
A particularly aggressive reporter broke through the initial press line, thrusting a microphone toward Smith's face.
"Mr. Doyle! What's your position on the military's demands that Tony Stark surrender the Iron Man armor?" The reporter's voice carried over the crowd noise, drawing additional attention. "At this critical moment for Stark Industries, is tonight's birthday party some kind of signal? Does throwing a massive celebration serve the company's interests?"
Smith paused, considering the microphone. Then he reached out and took it from the reporter's hand, turning to face the crowd of journalists directly.
"In America, personal property is sacred and inviolable. The Constitution is quite clear on this point." His voice carried authority, cutting through the ambient chatter. "Forcing any citizen to surrender their legally owned property is not only wrong—it's illegal."
He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "Tony Stark has consistently put himself at risk to protect people. He's fulfilled every reasonable expectation of a hero. He's earned the right to celebrate his own birthday however he chooses, don't you think?"
Smith handed the microphone back to the now-speechless reporter and turned toward the entrance, Bulma on his arm.
But the media wasn't finished. Another journalist immediately pivoted to Ivan. "Mr. Vanko! Do you share Mr. Doyle's position on the Blue Dynamo armor? We've heard the military has been reaching out to Vanko Industries as well!"
Ivan stopped, Yelena still holding his arm. His expression was serious, thoughtful—the face of someone who'd considered this question carefully.
"I agree completely with Tony Stark's philosophy," Ivan said, his accent lending weight to his words. "My Blue Dynamo armor is an extension of myself. It's not just equipment—it's as much a part of me as a prosthetic limb would be." He paused, then added with quiet intensity, "Tony said 'I am Iron Man'—he and the armor are one. The same is true for me and Blue Dynamo. He would never surrender himself, and neither will I."
Several reporters began shouting follow-up questions, but Ivan raised his voice slightly to finish. "Additionally, Vanko Industries is focusing our efforts on companion healthcare robots—domestic technology meant to improve daily life. We follow Universal Capsule Company's philosophy: innovation that changes lives for the better, not military hardware."
He nodded politely, essentially ending the interview, and escorted Yelena toward the entrance.
Happy Hogan stood at the main door in his best suit, which was already showing signs of stress as he managed the influx of guests. When he spotted Smith's group approaching, his face brightened with relief.
"Thank you so much for coming! Party hasn't officially started yet, but please, head right in." He gestured them through with the enthusiasm of someone grateful to see friendly faces among the sea of strangers and social climbers.
Smith nodded his thanks and led Bulma into the villa's main entertaining space. The interior was spectacularly decorated—modern and elegant without being ostentatious, which probably meant Pepper had handled the arrangements rather than Tony.
Music played at a conversational volume, and clusters of well-dressed guests mingled throughout the open-concept space. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking views of the ocean, now painted gold and crimson by the setting sun.
Bulma looked around at the crowd of unfamiliar faces and leaned closer to Smith. "Why hasn't Uncle Tony made an appearance yet? It's his birthday party—shouldn't the guest of honor actually be present?"
Smith chuckled at her use of "uncle." "Maybe he's shy. Or still applying makeup." He caught her expression and grinned. "Also, don't call him 'uncle' to his face. He'll have an existential crisis."
Bulma laughed, the sound drawing appreciative glances from nearby guests. "Well, he's definitely going to be excited when he sees what we brought him."
Her expression turned more serious, almost questioning. "But are you really sure about giving it to him? No second thoughts?"
Smith knew exactly what she was referring to—the gift they'd prepared sat in a secure case in John's possession, waiting for the right moment. "It's his family legacy. It belongs with him." His voice was quiet but certain. "It's the right thing to do."
Bulma studied his face for a moment, then smiled warmly and slipped her arm through his. "Brother Smith, you're such a genuinely good person."
Across the room, Pepper Potts had been engaged in polite conversation with a board member from Stark Industries when she spotted Smith and Bulma's arrival. She immediately excused herself and made her way through the crowd.
"Mr. Doyle, Ms. Brief!" Pepper's smile was genuine but strained around the edges—clearly she'd been managing party logistics while simultaneously worrying about Tony. "I'm so glad you could make it."
"Hi, Pepper!" Bulma greeted her cheerfully. "Where's Tony? It's his birthday and he hasn't even shown up to his own party yet. That's not a great look."
Pepper's smile became slightly more forced. "Yes, well... Tony has his own sense of timing." She glanced toward the residential wing of the house, concern flickering across her features. "Why don't you two help yourselves to refreshments? I'm going to go check on him."
She hurried off before they could respond, clearly on a mission.
Smith guided Bulma toward the elaborate dessert display that occupied one entire table. Crystal platters held an array of delicate pastries, chocolates, and artistic confections that looked almost too beautiful to eat.
"Try this one." Smith selected two small tarts and handed one to Bulma. "The lemon curd is excellent."
Bulma took a delicate bite, and her eyes immediately brightened. "Oh, that's really good! Not too sweet at all—perfect balance." She took another bite with obvious pleasure.
Ivan and Yelena joined them at the dessert table moments later. Ivan looked slightly less nervous now that they were inside, while Yelena surveyed the party with the calm assessment of someone trained to identify threats and exits in any environment.
"Quite the gathering," Yelena observed in her subtle Russian accent. "Tony Stark certainly knows how to make a statement."
"You haven't seen anything yet," Smith replied. "Wait until he actually makes his entrance."
As if summoned by those words, a wave of excited cheering erupted from the direction of the main staircase. The crowd's attention swiveled as one, and conversations died mid-sentence.
Smith turned to look.
Tony Stark descended the stairs wearing the full Iron Man armor, but there was something different about his bearing. Instead of the purposeful, heroic stride people had seen in news footage, Tony was moving with exaggerated, theatrical dance steps—a bizarre combination of club moves and showmanship that was equal parts impressive and absurd.
The armor's repulsors flared in time with the music. Tony spun, struck a pose, then continued his descent like he was walking a runway at Fashion Week rather than attending his own birthday party.
The crowd went absolutely wild.
Smith shook his head slowly, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "And there he is. Making an entrance."
Beside him, Bulma started laughing. "Only Tony Stark would show up to his own party in a weapons system and turn it into a dance performance."
"Do whatever you want," Smith murmured, remembering Natasha's reported words. "I guess he took that advice to heart."
Tony reached the bottom of the stairs and the main party floor, his faceplate retracting to reveal his grin. The message was clear to everyone watching: This was his party, his armor, his life.
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