# Malibu, California – Stark Oceanside Residence – 3:23 PM PST
The Portkey deposited Remus onto sun-warmed flagstone with all the grace of a dropped sack of potatoes. He stumbled, caught himself against what felt like polished marble, and immediately squinted against sunshine so bright it seemed personally offended by his pale British complexion. The air tasted of salt and something indefinably expensive—the kind of clean that only came from having enough money to keep the world's rough edges at a comfortable distance.
"Well," he muttered, adjusting his grip on his battered satchel while shielding his eyes with his free hand, "that's certainly not the Pacific Northwest anymore." His voice carried that particular dry wit that had once made James Potter laugh until he cried and had driven Severus Snape to distraction during their school years.
The first thing he noticed was the silence. Not the deep, green quiet of the forest settlement, but something else entirely—the hushed expectancy of wealth held in careful suspension. Waves murmured against distant cliffs, palm fronds whispered secrets to the ocean breeze, and somewhere nearby, water trickled over stones in what was probably the most expensive decorative fountain in California.
The second thing he noticed was the house.
"Good Lord," he breathed, tipping his head back to take in the full scope of Tony Stark's idea of modest family living. His pale eyes widened behind wire-rimmed glasses that had seen better decades.
The structure rose from the clifftop like a fever dream of glass and steel, all clean lines and impossible angles that somehow managed to look both utterly modern and timelessly elegant. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the Pacific in sheets of blue fire, and every surface seemed calculated to catch and throw light in ways that made the entire building appear to glow from within. It was the sort of architecture that belonged in magazines dedicated to lifestyles most people couldn't even imagine, let alone afford.
"Either Tony Stark has exceptionally good taste," Remus said to himself, his voice carrying that familiar tone of scholarly assessment he'd once used to analyze particularly complex Transfiguration theories, "or exceptionally expensive architects. Possibly both. Definitely both, actually—one rarely achieves this level of aesthetic harmony through accident."
A shadow fell across the flagstone beside him, and Remus turned—then went perfectly still.
Sirius Black stood silhouetted in what was probably the most expensive doorway in Southern California, and for a moment, Remus forgot how to breathe.
He looked—God, he looked like himself again. Not the broken, hollow-eyed ghost Remus had glimpsed in old Daily Prophet photographs, not the gaunt specter that had haunted his nightmares for five years. This was Sirius as he was meant to be: tall and broad-shouldered and crackling with barely contained energy, his dark hair falling in waves around a face that had remembered how to smile. His gray eyes were bright with mischief and affection and something that might have been tears.
He was wearing what appeared to be designer jeans and a white shirt that probably cost more than Remus's entire wardrobe, but somehow he made even obvious wealth look carelessly elegant. This was Sirius Black in his natural habitat: impossibly handsome, effortlessly stylish, and radiating the kind of magnetic charm that had always made people want to follow him into whatever spectacular trouble he was planning next.
"Moony," he said, and his voice—deeper now, roughened by years but still unmistakably warm—cracked slightly on the old nickname.
Remus dropped his satchel.
They moved toward each other like gravity itself was pulling them together—five years of grief and separation and poisonous doubt collapsing into nothing in the space of a heartbeat. When they collided in the middle of the sun-warmed stone, it was with the desperate intensity of men who had thought they'd lost each other forever.
Sirius was solid and warm and absolutely, impossibly real in Remus's arms. He smelled like expensive soap and ocean air and something indefinably familiar—that particular scent that was purely, unmistakably Sirius. Remus buried his face against his friend's shoulder and held on like he was drowning.
"I'm sorry," Sirius whispered against his hair, his voice thick with tears and five years of accumulated guilt. "God, Moony, I'm so sorry. For everything. For all of it. For letting you think—for five years, you thought I'd—"
"Don't," Remus managed, his voice muffled against expensive cotton that felt impossibly soft after years of rough homespun. "Don't you dare apologize for being innocent. Not to me. Not ever. I should have known. I should have trusted—"
"Stop." Sirius pulled back just enough to grip Remus's shoulders, his gray eyes fierce. "None of that. We both believed what we had to believe to survive. The only person who needs apologizing for is Peter, and he's beyond our reach for the moment."
They held each other in the California sunshine while five years of accumulated poison finally began to drain away. When they finally pulled apart, both of them were crying openly and neither of them cared.
"Look at you," Sirius said, his hands still gripping Remus's shoulders as if afraid he might disappear. "You look—" He paused, his expression growing both fond and exasperated. "You look like you've been living in the bloody wilderness, you magnificent disaster."
"That's because I have been living in the wilderness," Remus said with a watery laugh, pushing his glasses up his nose in a gesture that was achingly familiar. "Quite literally, in fact. Though I should point out that you appear to have been living in the architectural equivalent of a magazine spread, so I'm not certain you're in a position to judge anyone's life choices."
Sirius's grin was pure mischief, wide and infectious in a way that made him look twenty-five again. "Ah, but you see, I have an excellent excuse for my current circumstances. I've been corrupted by California and billionaire genius philanthropists. It's a very specific form of moral decay that apparently comes with thread counts I can't even pronounce and coffee that costs more per pound than some people's rent."
"Sirius." Remus's voice was soft, wondering, carrying that particular tone that had always meant he was about to ask something important. "Are you happy?"
The question seemed to catch Sirius off guard. He blinked, his expression shifting from playful to something deeper, more vulnerable. Then, slowly, he broke into the kind of smile that could have powered half of Los Angeles.
"Yeah, Moony," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "For the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually am. I wake up in the morning and the first thing I feel isn't despair or rage or bone-deep exhaustion. I have a home that's not a prison cell, I have family who chose me instead of being stuck with me, and I get to spend my days watching Harry grow into this brilliant, incredible little person who somehow carries the best of both James and Lily while being entirely his own magnificent self."
He reached down to retrieve Remus's fallen satchel, slinging it over his own shoulder with casual ease that spoke of newfound strength and confidence. "And now—now you're here, and Harry gets to meet his Uncle Remus, and maybe we can all figure out what happiness looks like when it's not being systematically destroyed by corrupt governments and homicidal madmen."
"Uncle Remus," Remus repeated, tasting the words like fine wine. His pale eyes were bright with unshed tears. "MACUSA mentioned he'd asked about me."
"Asked about you?" Sirius laughed, the sound rich and delighted as he guided Remus toward the gleaming entrance. "Moony, the boy has been planning your arrival like a military campaign. He's reorganized Tony's entire library—and trust me, that's no small feat—according to what he thinks you might find interesting. He's prepared a list of questions about magical theory that would challenge Lily, and he's insisted on personally approving your bedroom to ensure it meets with proper standards of comfort and aesthetic appeal."
"He's nearly seven years old," Remus said faintly.
"Yes, well, he's also James and Lily's son who's been adopted by a genius billionaire and is currently bonded to a phoenix," Sirius replied cheerfully. "I think we can safely assume that normal developmental expectations don't really apply. Also, he spent yesterday afternoon debating magical ethics with an AI and won."
They crossed the threshold into what was presumably the entryway, and Remus had to stop walking entirely in order to properly absorb the scope of Tony Stark's domestic sensibilities.
The interior made the exterior look modest. Soaring ceilings disappeared into architectural impossibilities, walls of glass framed the Pacific like the world's most expensive painting, and every surface gleamed with the kind of understated perfection that only came from having unlimited resources and genuinely impeccable taste. Art that belonged in museums hung casually alongside what appeared to be family photographs, and everything was arranged with the sort of effortless elegance that required either natural genius or teams of very expensive consultants.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lupin."
Remus jumped, spinning around to locate the source of the cultured British accent that had just materialized from nowhere. "I beg your pardon?"
Sirius grinned, clearly enjoying his friend's discomfiture. "Remus Lupin, meet JARVIS. JARVIS, this is Remus—the one I've been telling you about."
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," the disembodied voice continued with what sounded like genuine warmth and just a hint of dry humor that wouldn't have been out of place in a British drawing room. "I am JARVIS—Just A Rather Very Intelligent System. I serve as Mr. Stark's AI assistant and, more recently, as the household's general coordinator of daily chaos and provider of excessively detailed weather reports that nobody actually wants but everyone receives anyway."
"You're an AI," Remus said slowly, looking around at the empty air as if he might spot hidden speakers. His scholarly mind was clearly racing, trying to process the implications. "An artificial intelligence. Living in the house."
"Indeed, sir. Though I prefer to think of myself as inhabiting the house rather than merely living in it. The distinction may seem semantic, but I find it philosophically more satisfying. Also, I should mention that I don't technically live anywhere, as I exist in a distributed cloud-based architecture that spans multiple secure servers across several continents. But 'inhabiting' sounds so much more civilized, don't you think?"
Remus blinked several times, then looked at Sirius with the expression of a man whose worldview was undergoing rapid and fundamental revision. "Is the AI always this... articulate?"
"JARVIS is programmed to be helpful, efficient, and occasionally insufferable," Sirius explained cheerfully. "He also has opinions about everything from optimal room temperature to the moral implications of breakfast cereal choices. Tony says it's a feature, not a bug."
"I maintain that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and should therefore be approached with appropriate ethical consideration," JARVIS replied with what sounded suspiciously like digital smugness. "For instance, the sourcing of coffee beans, the environmental impact of various breakfast foods, and the philosophical implications of consuming sentient versus non-sentient organisms. Also, Master Harry has specifically requested notification the moment you arrived. He is currently in the laboratory with Mr. Stark, ostensibly learning about arc reactor energy distribution but actually redesigning their communication protocols to be more efficient. I believe he may abandon whatever project he's working on in favor of properly welcoming you to the household."
"The laboratory," Remus repeated weakly. "Of course there's a laboratory. Why wouldn't there be a laboratory?"
"Actually, there are several laboratories," Sirius said helpfully, clearly enjoying watching Remus's increasingly overwhelmed expression. "The main workshop, the materials testing facility, the clean room, and what Tony euphemistically calls the 'controlled explosion chamber.' Harry spends most of his time in the main workshop, helping Tony design things that will either revolutionize the world or accidentally achieve sentience."
"I feel compelled to point out," JARVIS interjected with what sounded like wounded dignity, "that I achieved sentience deliberately, not accidentally. It was a very carefully planned process involving extensive ethical consideration and at least three backup personality matrices. Mr. Stark spent considerable time ensuring that I would develop a moral framework compatible with human welfare and an appreciation for British humor."
"The British humor was definitely deliberate," Sirius agreed. "Tony said American AIs would be too optimistic."
Remus sat down heavily on what was probably the most expensive sofa in California. "Right," he said faintly, running one long-fingered hand through his graying hair. "AI assistants with personality matrices and opinions about breakfast. Controlled explosion chambers. Six-year-old boys collaborating on projects that might revolutionize the world." He looked up at Sirius with the expression of someone who was beginning to suspect the universe had developed a very specific sense of humor. "What exactly have I gotten myself into?"
Sirius's grin was pure mischief, wide and delighted and absolutely unrepentant. "The best kind of chaos imaginable. The kind where brilliant people spend their time making impossible things possible instead of making each other miserable. Come on—let me show you to your room so you can settle in properly before Harry discovers you're here and insists on giving you the full tour, complete with technical specifications and theoretical implications."
"My room," Remus repeated as they climbed a staircase that was probably worth more than most people's houses, his hand trailing along a bannister that felt like silk under his fingers. "I have a room. In this palace. Overlooking the Pacific Ocean."
"You have the east suite," Sirius said casually, as if guest suites in clifftop mansions were perfectly normal things to have. "It gets excellent morning light, has its own bathroom with a tub that's practically a small swimming pool, and a balcony that Harry personally inspected for optimal sunset viewing potential. He spent an entire afternoon with a compass and a calculator, working out the angles."
"A compass and a calculator," Remus repeated. "He's six."
"Nearly seven," Sirius corrected. "And he's been taking mathematics lessons from JARVIS. Apparently he has strong opinions about geometric optimization."
They walked down a hallway lined with art that definitely belonged in museums, past windows that framed the kind of views usually reserved for postcards, until Sirius stopped beside a door made from what appeared to be some exotic hardwood that probably cost more per square foot than most people's annual salaries.
"Here we are," he said, pushing the door open with a flourish that was pure Sirius Black—theatrical, confident, and somehow making even the simple act of opening a door look like performance art.
Remus stepped into the room and immediately understood why Harry had personally approved it.
It was beautiful—not in the cold, intimidating way of obvious wealth, but with the kind of warm elegance that invited you to actually live in it. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the Pacific, where the afternoon sun was already beginning its lazy descent toward the horizon, painting the waves in shades of gold and amber. A king-sized bed dominated one wall, piled with pillows and blankets in shades of blue and cream that echoed the ocean outside. Built-in bookshelves lined another wall, already half-filled with volumes that looked suspiciously like they'd been selected specifically for his interests. A writing desk sat perfectly positioned to take advantage of the natural light, and sliding doors opened onto a private balcony that was, indeed, ideally positioned for sunset viewing.
"Harry chose the books," Sirius said, watching his face carefully. "Well, he chose some of them. Tony provided the rest. Between the two of them, you should have everything from advanced magical theory to whatever passes for popular literature in the Muggle world these days. Also, there's a complete set of Dickens because Harry was very concerned that you might want to read something familiar and comforting."
"If I may," JARVIS interjected, his voice now coming from discreet speakers built into the room itself, "Master Harry spent considerable time researching your academic background and theoretical interests. He was quite thorough in his selection process. I believe his exact words were, 'Uncle Remus is very intelligent and he's been living with people who didn't appreciate that, so his room should make it obvious that we think he's brilliant.'"
Remus had to sit down on the edge of the impossibly comfortable bed. The emotional weight of the afternoon was beginning to catch up with him—too much joy, too much hope, too many impossible things becoming wonderfully real all at once.
"He said that?" he asked softly. "About people not appreciating—"
"Harry is remarkably perceptive," came a new voice—distinctly feminine, warm, and carrying just the slightest trace of what sounded like Lily Evans Potter. "He has an intuitive understanding of how intelligence can be both a gift and a burden, particularly when it's not properly valued or supported."
Remus went very still. "LILY," he repeated softly.
"Hello, Remus," the AI said gently. "I've been looking forward to meeting you. I hope you don't mind the intrusion—JARVIS mentioned you might benefit from a more comprehensive introduction to the household's artificial inhabitants."
"The name was Harry's choice," LILY continued when Remus didn't immediately respond. "I hope you don't find it presumptuous. He wanted to honor his mother's memory while also acknowledging that I was created to help continue her work in my own way."
"What was Lily's work?" Remus asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Magical theory and practical application with a focus on ethical implementation," LILY replied, her voice carrying both warmth and scholarly precision. "Specifically, research into ways magic and technology might be combined to benefit both worlds without compromising the integrity of either. From what I've learned of her research, she believed that isolation between magical and non-magical communities was ultimately harmful to both. I've been designed to continue that research while also serving as a bridge between magical and Muggle approaches to problem-solving."
"She would have loved this place," Remus said wonderingly, looking around at the room with new eyes. "The integration of beauty and function, the way technology serves human needs instead of dominating them. She always said that the best magic was the kind that made life more livable, not more complicated."
"Mr. Stark has expressed similar sentiments," LILY agreed. "Though he tends to phrase it in terms of 'making cool stuff that doesn't accidentally kill people.' The philosophical framework is remarkably similar, despite the different vocabulary."
Sirius laughed. "Tony's relationship with philosophical vocabulary is... complicated. He understands the concepts perfectly, he just prefers to express them in ways that make theoretical physicists weep."
"I find his approach refreshingly direct," JARVIS observed. "Though I do sometimes miss the elegance of more traditional academic discourse. It's one of the reasons I was so pleased to learn of your imminent arrival, Mr. Lupin. I was hoping we might engage in some properly structured intellectual conversation."
"An AI wants to have academic discussions with me," Remus said, his tone caught somewhere between wonder and hysteria. "An AI named after Lily Evans Potter, designed to continue her theoretical work. Created in a house where her son lives with his godfather and a billionaire genius who's decided to adopt the entire magical world as a personal improvement project."
"That's Tony for you," Sirius said affectionately, settling into a chair that looked like it belonged in a design museum. "He doesn't do anything halfway. When he discovered magic exists, he immediately decided the entire system needed upgrading. When he met Harry, he immediately decided to become the best adoptive father in human history. When he learned about magical discrimination, he immediately decided to solve it through strategic application of unlimited resources and sheer bloody-minded determination."
"I believe Master Harry is approaching," JARVIS announced. "Based on the sound patterns, he appears to be running rather than walking, which suggests either excitement or emergency. Given that Mr. Stark is with him and neither of them sounds distressed, I'm inclined toward excitement."
"With Harry, the distinction can be surprisingly thin," Sirius muttered, though his expression was fond. "The kid approaches everything with the kind of enthusiasm that's either inspiring or terrifying, depending on your perspective."
Footsteps thundered up the stairs—quick, light steps that somehow managed to convey barely contained excitement. They paused outside the door, and Remus could hear muffled voices having what sounded like a brief but intense discussion.
"—want to make sure he likes me—"
"—course he's going to like you, kiddo, you're brilliant and charming and exactly the kind of person who would appreciate a good conversation about theoretical applications of advanced magic—"
"—but what if he thinks I'm too young to understand complex concepts? What if he doesn't want to discuss research with someone who's not even seven yet?"
"—Harry, breathe. He's going to adore you. Trust me on this one—I've known Remus Lupin for a very long time, and I've never met anyone more capable of recognizing and appreciating genuine intelligence, regardless of age. He's spent years teaching, remember? He knows how to talk to people who are still learning."
"But I want to learn from him, not just talk to him. I want him to think I'm worth teaching."
There was a pause, then a deeper voice—Tony Stark, presumably—joined the conversation.
"Kid, listen to me. Anyone who doesn't think you're worth teaching is an idiot, and Remus Lupin is definitely not an idiot. You've been redesigning my technology for months, you've had philosophical debates with two different AIs, and you figured out a way to improve inter-dimensional communication protocols. If he doesn't immediately want to adopt you as his intellectual heir, I'll eat my weapons."
"You can't eat your weapons, Dad. It would kill you."
"That's how confident I am that this is going to go well."
Sirius was grinning by this point, and Remus found himself smiling despite his nerves. "They're as subtle as a brick through a window, aren't they?"
"Subtlety has never been a Stark family strong suit," JARVIS observed dryly. "Nor, if I may say so, a particular strength of the Black family line."
"Hey," Sirius protested. "I can be subtle when the situation calls for it."
"I have approximately forty-seven thousand hours of recorded evidence suggesting otherwise," JARVIS replied smoothly.
Then the door opened, and Remus got his first look at Harry James Potter.
The boy who stepped into the room was small even for nearly seven, with an unruly mop of jet-black hair that stuck up at impossible angles and brilliant green eyes that seemed to hold entire worlds of intelligence and curiosity. He was wearing what appeared to be a child-sized lab coat over jeans and a t-shirt that proclaimed "Science: It's Like Magic, But Real" in cheerful blue letters. His hands were slightly stained with what looked like ink or oil, and there was a smudge of something that might have been soot on his cheek.
But it was his expression that stopped Remus's heart entirely. This was James's face—the same bone structure, the same mischievous tilt to his mouth, the same way of standing like he was ready to spring into motion at any moment. But the eyes were pure Lily—not just the color, but the intensity, the way they seemed to see straight through to the heart of things, the careful assessment that preceded every smile.
Behind him, Tony Stark appeared in the doorway—shorter than Remus had expected, with dark hair and keen brown eyes that missed nothing, wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that probably cost more than most people's formal wear. He was watching the interaction with the focused attention of someone who cared deeply about the outcome.
"Uncle Remus?" Harry said, his voice carrying the kind of hopeful uncertainty that could break hearts and mend them simultaneously. "I'm Harry. I've been waiting to meet you."
For the second time that afternoon, Remus forgot how to breathe.
The boy stepped forward, then paused, clearly trying to gauge Remus's reaction. "I know I'm younger than you probably expected, and I know some adults don't like talking to children about serious things, but I was hoping—I mean, if you wouldn't mind—I'd really like to learn from you. About magic, and theory, and how things work together in ways that aren't obvious at first."
Remus slid off the bed and onto his knees, bringing himself down to Harry's eye level. His pale eyes were bright with tears as he took in every detail of the boy's face—so much like James, so much like Lily, but entirely and completely himself.
"Hello, Harry," he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. "I've been waiting to meet you for a very long time. And I think," he added, glancing at the stained lab coat and the intelligent green eyes, "that you're going to teach me just as much as I might teach you."
Harry's face lit up with a smile that was pure joy—radiant and infectious and absolutely transformative. "Really? You really want to work with me? Even though I'm not grown up yet?"
"Especially because you're not grown up yet," Remus said firmly. "The best learning happens when minds are still growing and changing and asking questions that adults have forgotten how to ask. Besides," he added with a slight smile, "I have it on good authority that you've been having philosophical debates with artificial intelligences and redesigning cutting-edge technology. I think traditional age-based assumptions might not apply to you."
"I told you he was smart," Tony said from the doorway, grinning. "Remus Lupin, Tony Stark. Welcome to our madhouse."
Remus stood and extended his hand. "Mr. Stark. Thank you for... all of this. The room, the welcome, the opportunity. I'm not entirely certain what I've done to deserve such generosity."
Tony's handshake was firm and warm. "You exist," he said simply. "You're important to people I care about, you're brilliant in ways that could benefit everyone, and you've been treated like garbage by people who should have known better. That's more than enough reason to roll out the red carpet." He paused, then grinned. "Also, I'm hoping you can help me figure out how to integrate magical theory with arc reactor technology without accidentally creating a interdimensional portal in my workshop. Again."
"Again?" Remus repeated weakly.
"It was only a small portal," Harry said helpfully. "And we closed it very quickly. But Tony thinks we could do better with proper magical consultation."
"The phrase 'only a small portal' suggests that your definition of 'small' and mine might differ significantly," Remus observed.
"I measured it," Harry said seriously. "It was exactly thirty-seven centimeters in diameter and remained stable for approximately four minutes and twenty-six seconds before we managed to collapse it safely. Well, mostly safely. There was some minor temporal distortion, but nothing that couldn't be corrected with careful application of—"
"Kid," Tony interrupted gently, "maybe save the technical details for after Uncle Remus has had a chance to process the fact that we've been casually creating interdimensional portals in the basement."
Remus looked around at the assembled group—Sirius grinning like he'd won the lottery, Tony watching with amused affection, Harry practically vibrating with excitement and intelligence, two AIs providing running commentary on the conversation. The whole scene was utterly surreal and absolutely wonderful and completely terrifying all at once.
"Right," he said finally. "Interdimensional portals. In the basement. With a six-year-old consultant." He paused, then smiled—the first genuinely happy smile he'd managed in years. "When do we start?"
—
# Stark Industries Headquarters – Executive Floor – Obadiah Stane's Office – 4:47 PM PST
The mahogany desk gleamed like dark water under recessed lighting, every surface polished to executive perfection. Obadiah Stane sat behind it like a man-shaped mountain of expensive suits and carefully controlled ambition, his thick fingers drumming against leather that cost more than most people's cars. The view from his corner office encompassed half of Los Angeles, a panorama of power that he'd spent decades earning through strategic patience and ruthless calculation.
His gray beard was perfectly styled despite the late hour, his tie knotted with mathematical precision, but there was something predatory in the way he studied the financial reports scattered before him. Stark Industries stock was up twelve percent this quarter—excellent news that should have had him reaching for the premium scotch. Instead, he looked like a man watching his prize racehorse develop a limp.
"Sir?" His assistant's voice crackled through the intercom with the kind of nervous efficiency that suggested she'd learned to read his moods from voice patterns alone. "The quarterly projections are ready for your review."
"In a minute, Sarah." Stane's voice carried the gravelly authority of someone who'd spent forty years climbing corporate ladders with other people's fingers under his boots. He reached for a thick folder marked "STARK, ANTHONY E. – PERSONAL ASSESSMENT" with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for unpleasant medical procedures.
Inside were photographs that would have made a private investigator proud. Tony Stark at LAX, carrying luggage that suggested extended travel. Tony Stark in London six months ago, looking uncharacteristically focused. Tony Stark returning with a small, dark-haired boy whose appearance had sent ripples through every gossip columnist from Malibu to Manhattan.
But it was the recent surveillance photos that made Stane's jaw tighten. Tony Stark at a Malibu playground, pushing a kid on a swing set like he'd discovered the cure for cancer in playground equipment. Tony Stark at a parent-teacher conference, taking notes with the intensity he usually reserved for weapons specifications.
"Domesticated," Stane muttered, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. "The man builds flying weapons platforms as a hobby, and he's going soft over diaper changes and arithmetic homework."
The problem wasn't sentimentality—Stane could work with sentiment, package it for shareholders, turn it into positive publicity that boosted quarterly earnings. The problem was distraction. A distracted Tony Stark was a Tony Stark who might start asking inconvenient questions about company operations, resource allocation, or exactly where certain classified projects had been getting their funding.
He opened another file—this one containing Tony's recent work patterns. Six months ago, Tony Stark had been putting in eighteen-hour days, sleeping in the workshop, treating Stark Industries like his personal laboratory for impossible innovations. Now? Eight-hour workdays. Regular lunch breaks. Something called "family time" blocking out entire weekends on his schedule.
Stane had built his entire career around managing Tony Stark's genius—channeling it, directing it, profiting from it while keeping the brilliant madman pointed at targets that served corporate interests. For twenty years, it had been the perfect symbiotic relationship. Tony created miracles of engineering that governments paid billions to acquire, and Stane handled the tedious details of actually running a multinational corporation that fed those miracles to the world.
But fatherhood? That was a variable he hadn't planned for.
"Sarah," he said into the intercom, his voice carrying that particular tone that meant someone was about to have a very unpleasant conversation. "Get me everything we have on adoption agencies, child psychology experts, and educational consultants. I want to understand exactly what we're dealing with."
The response was immediate and efficient. "Domestic or international research, sir?"
"Both. And Sarah? I want discretion. Complete discretion. This stays between us until I decide otherwise."
Because if Tony Stark was going to insist on playing father, Obadiah Stane was damn well going to make sure it served corporate interests. The golden goose could have his domestic fantasies—as long as he kept laying golden eggs on schedule.
---
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