Tony led them into the villa, but instead of heading directly to his workshop, he guided them to the living room. The space was quintessentially Tony, modern art on the walls, expensive furniture arranged with careless precision, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Pacific.
Once Smith and Bulma were seated on the leather couch, Tony moved to an impressive wine cabinet that probably cost more than most people's cars. He selected a bottle with deliberate care—Highland Park 50 Year Old Single Malt Whisky, the kind that retailed for five figures.
For Bulma, he poured juice into a crystal glass. For himself and Smith, he selected square tumblers and filled them with generous portions of amber liquid.
"Cheers," Tony said, raising his glass.
The three of them clinked glasses—whisky, whisky, and juice meeting with a crystalline chime. Smith took a measured sip, savoring the complex flavor profile. Bulma drank her juice politely.
Tony drained his entire glass in one continuous swallow.
Smith's eyes narrowed. That was easily two hundred dollars worth of whisky, consumed like cheap beer at a college party. Tony immediately refilled his glass and took another substantial drink.
Something was wrong.
Tony Stark didn't drink premium whisky like water unless something had shaken him badly. He should be riding high right now—new armor completed, successful field tests, revolutionary technology proven. Instead, he was three drinks deep and climbing.
"Tony," Smith said carefully, "weren't we supposed to have a sparring match? Because if you're planning drunk driving in powered armor, I should probably stand farther back."
He paused for effect. "Unless you've developed some kind of Drunken Master fighting style for your suits. That would actually be impressive."
Tony set his glass down and glanced at Bulma, his expression conflicted. "There are topics that aren't appropriate for discussion around children."
Smith nearly laughed. "You're still hung up on being called 'uncle'? Really?"
"Bulma's part of my team," Smith continued. "As long as you're not launching into stories about your conquests, she can handle whatever you need to talk about."
Tony's jaw tightened. "What I'm saying is that I'm not old. A man is a teenager until death. I could easily go another twenty years without slowing down."
He leaned over and put his arm around Smith's shoulders, addressing Bulma with forced lightness. "Smith and I are friends, so next time, just call me Tony. No more 'uncle.'"
Bulma's face lit up at being explicitly included as part of the inner circle. "Okay, Tony!"
With that settled, Tony's false cheer evaporated. His expression turned grave, the humor draining away to reveal something raw underneath.
"Yinsen is dead."
The name hit Smith like a physical blow. Yinsen, the one who'd kept Tony alive in that cave.
In the original timeline, Yinsen had died in the cave. But Smith's rescue had changed that— Yinsen had survived, had gone home to Gulmira.
Or so Smith had thought.
"I thought he went back to his hometown," Smith said, his voice careful. "What happened?"
Tony's hands gripped his glass hard enough that Smith worried it might shatter. "His hometown was Gulmira."
"I saw him on the news," Tony continued, his voice hollow. "Footage from the conflict. The Ten Rings had hanged him."
He took another drink, the motion mechanical. "I flew out there today to retrieve his body. To bring him home, give him a proper burial. He deserved that much."
Tony's eyes were distant, seeing something Smith couldn't. "I found him. Got him into my arms. Then a tank's main gun scored a direct hit."
He didn't need to elaborate. Smith understood. At close range, a tank round would obliterate a human body, armor or no armor. There would be nothing left to retrieve, nothing to bury except memories.
"There was just... blood mist," Tony said quietly. "And pieces. That's all that remained of the man who saved my life."
Smith picked up his glass and raised it in silent salute. "To Yinsen. He deserved better."
They drank together, the whisky burning down Smith's throat.
Tony poured himself another glass with unsteady hands. Two glasses had already pushed him toward intoxication, this third would tip him over the edge.
"You know what you said?" Tony's words came slightly slurred now. "About justice needing to be achieved with your own hands? I didn't really understand it before. Thought it was just assassin philosophy, something dramatic you told yourself."
He met Smith's eyes, and the pain there was naked and real. "But I understand now. Every weapon out there with my name on it, that's my responsibility. Every death caused by Stark Industries technology, that's on me. And the only way to fix it is to handle it myself."
Smith nodded slowly. This was the moment—Tony's transformation from weapons manufacturer to hero, catalyzed by personal tragedy rather than abstract moral revelation.
"Just remember," Smith said, "when you walk that path, you own all the consequences. The glory and the tragedy both. No one else can carry that weight for you."
"I know." Tony's voice was firm despite the alcohol. "I'm ready."
JARVIS's voice interrupted the heavy moment, his British accent a jarring return to mundane concerns. "Sir, the Mark III repairs are complete. All systems nominal."
Bulma looked around, searching for the source of the voice. Smith smiled at her confusion.
"That's JARVIS—Tony's artificial intelligence assistant. He runs the house and manages the workshop systems."
"An AI?" Bulma's eyes widened with genuine interest. "Impressive. I'd love to examine his architecture sometime."
Tony stood with only slight unsteadiness, the prospect of showing off his technology overriding the alcohol in his system. "Well then, let's head down to the workshop. You wanted to see my armor, right?"
He led them to the vehicle elevator that descended to his underground laboratory. The doors opened onto organized chaos—workbenches covered in components, holographic displays showing schematics, the Mark III standing proudly on its deployment platform.
"Bulma," Smith said as they entered, "most of the equipment in your lab came from Tony's connections."
Bulma turned to Tony with genuine gratitude. "Thank you, Tony. Really. Though we still have several shipments pending..."
Tony waved it off, but Smith could see he was studying Bulma with new interest. "Wait. Smith, I assumed your friend was another supernatural fighter like you. You're telling me she's actually a scientist?"
"My chief scientist," Smith confirmed. "And all that equipment? It's for the laboratory we're building specifically for her."
Tony's skepticism was evident. "Chief scientist is a significant title, Smith. Especially for an organization with your resources."
He moved closer to Bulma, his engineer's curiosity overriding social niceties. "What's your educational background? Where did you study?"
Bulma launched into a technical discussion that quickly exceeded Smith's ability to follow. She referenced theories and principles from her world's physics, translated into terms that made sense in this universe's scientific framework. Tony listened with increasing attention, occasionally interjecting with questions that revealed genuine respect.
After several minutes of rapid-fire technical exchange, Tony leaned back with grudging approval. "Not bad for someone your age. Though obviously not quite at my level yet."
Smith laughed. "I wouldn't be so sure. You might not have been as advanced as Bulma when you were sixteen."
Tony's expression turned playfully vicious. "Says the man who never graduated from a prestigious university. You wouldn't understand the gap between true scientific minds."
He paused deliberately. "By the way, which school did you graduate from again?"
Smith's smile became predatory. He was definitely going to hit Tony extra hard during their sparring match.
Bulma watched their exchange with fascination. Was this how male friendship worked? Trading insults while clearly caring about each other?
"Tony," Smith said, changing the subject before the banter could escalate further, "show Bulma your armor. Maybe she can build me one when we get home."
Tony scoffed, utterly unconcerned by the implied threat. Without his arc reactor technology, any powered armor was just expensive metal. "JARVIS, initiate armor deployment."
Mechanical arms emerged from the floor with hydraulic grace, each one designed for a specific task. They worked in concert, lifting armor plates from their storage positions and assembling them around Tony's body with balletic precision.
Legs first, snapping into place with satisfying clicks. Torso sections sealing over his chest. Arms, shoulders, finally the helmet—each component finding its position with engineered perfection.
Within thirty seconds, Tony Stark had transformed into Iron Man.
Smith had to admit the process was magnificent. The marriage of technology and human will, the raw power contained in that red and gold shell—it was beautiful in its own way.
Bulma's eyes tracked every movement, her brilliant mind already analyzing, cataloging, planning improvements. Smith could practically see the gears turning behind her eyes.