It wasn't until the women's footsteps faded up the stairs that Tony turned to Henry, lowering his voice.
"Okay, spill it. What's with the look? You're acting like there's a thief in the house."
"Almost." Henry's smile vanished, turning icy.
"But not a thief."
"Then what?"
"A bald thief came to my house."
"Bald thief?" Tony frowned. "What, a new nickname? Who's it for?"
Before Henry could answer, all the lights in the living room snapped on.
Tony shielded his eyes, then blinked, stunned at the man standing with his back to them.
A tall, broad-shouldered black man in a long black coat, turning slowly, a black eyepatch covering his left eye.
Tony's mind clicked as he connected Henry's words and gave him a knowing look.
"Oh, you're right. Definitely a Bald thief."
The man, Nick Fury, strode forward with gravitas.
He glanced at Tony, then fixed his piercing stare on Henry, a sharp glint in his single eye.
"We finally meet, Mr. Stark," he intoned, every word calm and heavy.
"I'm Nick Fury, director of the Strategic Homeland Defense Attack and Logistics Agency."
"You two have made a spectacular mess with your battle suits and press conferences, sending Stark Industries' stock price into orbit and back. That is not an excuse for reckless behavior."
"Yes, we finally meet," Henry replied. "But if I'm honest, I'd rather not." Henry sauntered to the bar, poured a glass of wine with practiced indifference.
Tony burst out laughing and joined him at the bar, pouring himself a glass.
"I've told you before, Fury. Your organization's name is a mouthful. Can't you call it S.H.I.E.L.D. or something?"
Fury's mouth twitched. Dealing with two unflappable Starks was already testing his patience.
This is not the script I had in mind. I'm supposed to make an entrance, lay down the law, and pull the strings… why have I lost control?
"Mr. Henry, I don't find your joke amusing," Fury said coldly.
"Maybe you'd like a BRAIN scan? We have meds for over-excitability in our medical wing."
"Lucky for you, there's no rule against being out of your depth," Henry sighed, eyeing Fury like a museum curiosity.
"But it's strange; Maybe the World Security Council needs more oversight. Stark Industries donates a lot—maybe I should check their HR policies." He took a sip. "By the way, where's your boss?"
Fury felt his temples pulsing.
"I am the director," he ground out, voice full of authority.
"Please, Mr. Henry, get serious."
Henry made a face at Tony as if in disbelief.
"Tony, am I dream-drunk or is this really the boss? What century is this—a leader like that? I really should drink less."
Tony, ever quick, played along, nodding with grave concern.
"Yes, Henry, you need to ease up. You're starting to sound deranged."
The two brothers sprawled onto the sofa, crossing their legs and sipping their drinks, paying Fury as little mind as possible.
Nick Fury was nearly apoplectic.
After years interrogating spies and negotiating with criminals, he had never felt so thoroughly undermined.
He struggled to master himself, adopting a gentler tone as he joined them on a neighboring sofa.
"Goddamn it!" Fury exploded, finally losing his patience and standing, finger outstretched.
"If I record this and send it out—what do you think the world will say about Stark Industries?!"
Tony smirked.
"They'll say Stark Industries' security sucks. If a one-eyed man of dubious pedigree can just stroll in, management needs a shake-up. Right, Henry?"
Henry leaned back, amused and relaxed.
"Get it clear, Director Egghead. We're Stark—the richest men here, maybe anywhere. Public opinion? We own it. I could announce tomorrow you broke in and tried to abduct us. Guess who the world would believe?"
Fury considered it—disciplinary hearings, media storms, the Council in tatters…
His usual intimidation had become a joke before these two.
Defeated, Fury slumped back onto the couch, sighing.
"Perhaps I was hasty, gentlemen. Let's talk."
"There's nothing to discuss," Tony said curtly.
"Actually, your attitude's better now," Henry added, deliberately twisting the knife.
"But talking to a walking cotton gin is pointless. Coulson was far saner—reliable, at least. Are your staff paid so poorly that everyone's bald? I'd consider a charity donation to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hair-loss fund if morale's that bad."
Fury's composure finally broke. He shot to his feet.
"We'll talk next time. Goodbye, Mr. Henry!" He stormed toward the stairs.
"I'm a germaphobe, don't move," Henry called after him, deadpan.
Fury nearly turned around and drew his gun—but, remembering Henry's capabilities, kept himself in check.
"What am I supposed to do, then?" he snapped.
Henry snapped his fingers.
"Jarvis, show him out. Give him the deluxe rollercoaster ride."
"Yes, sir," Jarvis responded.
The basement lab doors parted, and with a roar, the red-and-gold Mark I armor shot forth, grabbing Fury like an eagle with its prey.
The villa's living room windows slid open, Mark I soared out, and after one loop tossed Fury onto the front lawn with a dramatic—yet safe—free-fall.
"Enjoy the ride, Mr. Fury," Jarvis's voice intoned smoothly as the suit zipped back into the lab.
Nick Fury lay on the grass, staring up at the moon, his entire world upended in one manic evening.