The problem with saving the world, I'd realized a long time ago, was that the world rarely wanted to be saved. Usually, it just wanted another drink.
The Malibu charity gala was in full swing. It was a sensory overload of camera flashes, overpriced champagne, and the kind of forced laughter that only happens when people are wearing tuxedos that cost more than a Honda Civic.
I stood near the edge of the terrace, leaning against the glass railing, watching the Pacific Ocean crash against the rocks below. In my hand, I held a glass of Pinot Noir- a 1945 Romanée-Conti. It was one of the few things from the "old days" that held up well in this century.
To the public, I was Adrian Raizel. The reclusive majority shareholder of Stark Industries. The man who owned forty-nine percent of the company to Tony's fifty-one. The story was simple: my "father" had been Howard Stark's good partner, and I was the dutiful son who had inherited the seat.
In reality, I was the partner. I was also the father. And the grandfather. Being a transmigrator with a lifespan that made human's look like mayflies had its logistical issues, but corporate law was easy enough to navigate if you had good lawyers.
"You look like you're at a funeral, Adrian. It's bringing down the property value."
I didn't turn around. I knew the voice. Fast, clipped, dripping with a confidence that was ninety percent genuine and ten percent armor.
"Tony," I said, taking a slow sip of the wine. "I thought you were skipping this to play craps in Vegas."
Tony Stark walked into my line of sight, flanked by Happy Hogan and a very stressed-looking Rhodey. Tony was wearing sunglasses at night, because of course he was. He looked exactly as I remembered from the movies- the sharp goatee, the restless energy, the eyes that were constantly scanning the room for the next exit or the next distraction.
"I am," Tony said, snatching a slider off a passing waiter's tray. "But Pepper said if I didn't make an appearance here, she'd donate my entire car collection to the Boy Scouts. And not the good Boy Scouts. The ones that sell cookies."
"That's Girl Scouts, Tony," Rhodey corrected, sighing. He nodded to me. "Mr. Raizel."
"Colonel," I replied with a nod. I liked Rhodey. He was the only person who could keep Tony grounded without losing his mind.
Tony leaned back against the railing next to me, turning his back to the ocean to face the crowd. He flashed a media-ready smile at a camera three hundred feet away. "So, the Jericho demonstration. You coming? Afghanistan is lovely this time of year. Lots of sand. Very exfoliating."
"I'll pass," I said quietly. "I prefer my mountains."
Tony chuckled, but he glanced at me sideways. He took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes that looked tired. "You never approved of the Jericho line."
"I never approved of mass destruction marketed as 'peace'," I corrected him gently. I wasn't preaching. I was just stating a fact. "But you're the CEO, Tony. I'm just the guy who signs the checks when you blow up a warehouse testing the repulsors."
"It was a controlled explosion," Tony muttered, then checked his watch. "Look, I've got a plane to catch. Three hours to the desert, a quick show-and-tell, and then I'm back before the ink dries on the contracts. You want anything? A carpet? A camel?"
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
He had no idea.
I knew the script. I knew that in less than forty-eight hours, this man, this brilliant, broken, arrogant man would be bleeding out in a Humvee, shrapnel inching toward his heart. I knew he would wake up in a cave with a car battery attached to his chest.
Part of me, the part that still remembered reading the comics in a previous life, wanted to stop him. I could snap my fingers and dissolve the Ten Rings cell waiting for him. I could ground his plane.
But I couldn't.
Tony Stark didn't need a bodyguard. He needed to break. Iron wasn't forged in a gala; it was forged in a dessert. If I saved him now, Iron Man would never exist. And if Iron Man didn't exist, half the universe dies in a decade.
"Tony," I said.
The seriousness in my voice made him pause. He stopped chewing the slider. "What? You're doing the 'Dad' face. I hate the 'Dad' face. Howard used to do it."
I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out a fountain pen. It was sleek, black, with a silver nib. It looked like a standard Montblanc, but inside the ink reservoir was a microscopic drop of my own blood- diluted a million times over, but enough to act as a lifeline. A stabilizer.
"Take this," I said, holding it out.
Tony looked at it, confused. "A pen?"
"It's for the contracts," I lied smoothly. "It was... a gift from my father to yours. Consider it good luck."
Tony hesitated, then shrugged. He took the pen and shoved it into his suit pocket. "Alright. Sentimental. I get it. I'll sign the Jericho deal with it. Make you proud."
He clapped me on the shoulder. "Don't wait up, Adrian. I'll be back by the weekend."
He turned and walked away, the crowd parting for him. Rhodey gave me a polite wave and followed.
I watched them go.
"No," I whispered to the empty air, taking another sip of the wine. "You won't."
I turned back to the ocean. The party raged on behind me, loud and oblivious. I swirled the red liquid in my glass, watching the light catch the red wine.
The wait began now.