The thing about dying is that nobody tells you how *boring* it is.
One moment, I was crossing the street—earbuds in, probably listening to some podcast about quantum mechanics or the MCU timeline for the hundredth time—and the next, there was a horn, a screech, and then... nothing. No white light. No life flashing before my eyes. Just a sudden, disappointing *cut to black* like a TV show cancelled mid-season.
And then I woke up here.
"Here" was nowhere. Everywhere? A space that existed in the absence of space, white and infinite and somehow comfortable, like the world's blandest waiting room. I stood—or floated, hard to tell—in what I can only describe as the cosmic equivalent of limbo's break room.
"Ah, there you are!"
The voice was warm, grandfatherly, and immediately recognizable in a way that made my non-existent heart skip. I turned, and there he was.
Stan Lee.
Not just *looking* like Stan Lee—this *was* Stan Lee. The tinted glasses, the gray mustache, the mischievous twinkle in his eyes that promised he knew every punchline before you did. He wore a cardigan that looked soft enough to hug and held a steaming mug that read "Excelsior!" in bold letters.
"You've got to be kidding me," I breathed.
"Language!" He wagged a finger with mock severity, grinning. "Though I suppose given the circumstances, I'll allow it. You've had quite the day, haven't you, kid?"
"I—wait." I looked down at myself. Still me. Still the gangly twenty-three-year-old who'd spent more time with comic books than people. "Am I dead?"
"As a doornail, I'm afraid." Stan—because what else was I supposed to call him?—took a leisurely sip from his mug. "Delivery truck. Never saw it coming. The driver feels *terrible*, if that's any consolation."
"It's really not."
"Didn't think so." He snapped his fingers, and two chairs materialized behind us—plush recliners that wouldn't have looked out of place in a high-end cinema. "Sit, sit! We've got some things to discuss, you and I."
I sat, because what else do you do when Stan Lee tells you to sit? My mind was racing, trying to process this. "So you're... what, God? The afterlife concierge? A Random Omnipotent Being?"
His laugh was genuine and delighted. "ROB! I like that. Has a nice ring to it. Let's go with that." He leaned back, getting comfortable. "Here's the situation, kid. You died young. Unfairly young, if I'm being honest. Never got to fall in love, never finished that novel you kept outlining in your head, never even got to see how *that* cliffhanger resolved."
"I had *theories*—"
"Oh, I know. I've seen your Reddit posts." He winked. "Very insightful, by the way. You were right about the Multiverse implications, wrong about the Quantum Realm mechanics, but that's neither here nor there."
I blinked. "You read my Reddit posts?"
"Kid, I've got eternity and omniscience. What else am I gonna do?" He set down his mug, and his expression shifted—still kind, but with an underlying seriousness. "Now, here's where it gets interesting. See, you were a *fan*. A real believer in heroes, in stories, in the idea that people can be better than they are. That kind of thing... it resonates up here."
He gestured vaguely at the infinite white expanse.
"So I'm giving you an opportunity," Stan continued. "A do-over. A second chance. But not just any second chance—I'm talking about the *big* one."
My heart—or whatever metaphysical equivalent I had—started pounding. "You're going to reincarnate me."
"With style!" He spread his arms wide. "I'm sending you to a world of heroes and villains, of gods and monsters, of possibilities as limitless as your imagination. You, my friend, are going to the Marvel Universe."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Every comic I'd ever read, every movie I'd obsessed over, every character I'd loved—it was all *real*. And I was going to be *there*.
"There are conditions, of course," Stan said, holding up three fingers. "First: you're going in as Anthony Stark Junior. Ace, to his friends. Son of one Tony Stark—you know him, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, the whole nine yards."
"Tony Stark's *son*?" My voice cracked embarrassingly.
"The very same! Your mother—wonderful woman, brilliant mind, gone too soon—had a brief romance with Tony back in his MIT days. She raised you alone, never told him about you. Wanted you to have a normal life." His expression softened. "She passed away three days ago in your new timeline. Cancer. She was brave to the very end."
The weight of that hit me harder than expected. A mother I'd never known, already gone. "When am I arriving?"
"May 6th, 2008. Three days after Tony Stark announced to the world that he is Iron Man." Stan grinned. "Your mother's attorney filed a paternity claim yesterday. Tony's about to find out he has a sixteen-year-old son, and *boy* is that going to complicate his week."
I tried to process that. "So I'm waking up right in the middle of—"
"The beginning of everything. The Avengers Initiative is just forming. Fury's making his moves. And you, kid? You're about to become part of the greatest story ever told." He leaned forward. "But here's the thing—you can't just show up as regular you. You need an edge."
"Powers," I said, understanding dawning.
"Three of 'em. Choose wisely—nothing reality-breaking, no time manipulation, no omnipotence. We're keeping things *interesting*, not easy." He produced a glowing tablet from nowhere, handing it to me. "Take your time. Well, not *too* much time. Eternity's long, but I've got a poker game with some Celestials in an hour."
I looked at the tablet, my mind already racing through possibilities. Super strength? Too common. Telepathy? Complicated ethically. I thought about Tony Stark, about the world I was entering, about what I'd need not just to survive, but to *matter*.
Finally, I looked up. "I want NZT-level cognition. The unlimited version—hyperlearning, perfect memory, pattern recognition, enhanced social intelligence. Everything."
Stan raised an eyebrow. "The full Bradley Cooper special. Ambitious. Go on."
"Second: Technomancy. Not creation from nothing, but intuitive understanding and control of technology. I want to be able to interface with machines, enhance them, command them like they're extensions of my will."
"A Stark who can actually *talk* to his tech. Tony's going to love that." He was grinning now. "And the third?"
"Martial arts mastery. Every combat form, peak human reflexes and adaptability. I want to be able to walk into any fight and know exactly how to win it."
Stan was quiet for a moment, considering. Then he snapped his fingers, and the tablet vanished in a shower of golden sparks. "Mind, machine, and body. The perfect trinity for a new kind of hero." He stood, and I stood with him. "I like it, kid. You're thinking like a Stark already."
"There's one more thing," I said hesitantly.
"The looks?" He laughed. "Way ahead of you. Can't have you walking around looking like your old self—this is a *new* life. How about we borrow from someone contemporary? Tall, dark, handsome—the kind of face that stops traffic but doesn't scream 'superhero.'"
He waved his hand, and a mirror appeared before me. The reflection that stared back wasn't mine anymore. The face was sharper, more defined—strong jawline, intense eyes, the kind of features that belonged on magazine covers. I recognized the look: Jacob Elordi, the actor. Six-foot-five, athletic, with an effortless charisma that made my old appearance seem like a rough draft.
"Seriously?" I touched my new face—or the projection of it, anyway.
"You're a Stark now, kid. Might as well look the part." Stan clapped me on the shoulder. "Now, before you go, a few ground rules. One: no meta-knowledge abuse. You know how stories go, but people are *real* there. Treat them that way. Two: your abilities are tools, not crutches. Use your head, not just your powers. And three..."
He looked at me seriously, the twinkle fading from his eyes.
"Be better than the heroes you read about. They're great, don't get me wrong—I should know, I created half of them—but they're not perfect. You've got a chance to learn from their mistakes before they make them. Use it."
I nodded, feeling the weight of responsibility settling over me like a cape. "I will. I promise."
"I know you will." His smile returned, warm and proud. "Now, one last thing before you go—what's your superhero name gonna be? Every Stark needs a good one."
I thought about it. Iron Man, War Machine, Rescue—all taken. I needed something that represented what I was: the synthesis of mind and machine, the son who would forge his own legend.
"Apex," I said finally. "The highest point. The pinnacle of what a Stark can be."
"*Excelsior!*" Stan laughed, throwing his arms wide. "That's the spirit! Now get out there and show them what you've got. And kid?"
I turned back as the white void began to dissolve around me, reality pulling me toward a new life.
"Make it a story worth telling."
The last thing I saw was Stan Lee's smile, proud as any father's, before the light consumed everything.
---
**STARK RESIDENCE, MALIBU - MAY 6TH, 2008**
Tony Stark was having a *fantastic* morning.
He'd woken up at noon—perfectly respectable for a man who'd spent the previous night redesigning the repulsor stabilizers in his Mark III armor. The arc reactor in his chest hummed with steady, reassuring power. The news cycle was still obsessed with his "I am Iron Man" declaration. Stock prices were somehow *up* despite his complete disregard for corporate protocol. And JARVIS had just informed him that the new gold-titanium alloy he'd ordered would arrive by Thursday.
Life was good.
Then Pepper Potts walked into his workshop with *that* expression—the one that meant his good day was about to become infinitely more complicated.
"Tony, we need to talk."
He didn't look up from his holographic interface, manipulating a 3D schematic of the armor's flight stabilization system. "If this is about the Stark Industries Board wanting another meeting, tell them I'm busy. If it's about the Senate hearing, tell them I'm *very* busy. If it's about my personal life, tell them it's none of their—"
"You have a son."
Tony's hands froze mid-gesture, the hologram flickering. For a moment—a rare, precious moment in the life of Tony Stark—he had absolutely no idea what to say.
"I'm sorry, I think I misheard you. The arc reactor sometimes causes auditory—"
"You have a sixteen-year-old son," Pepper continued, her voice carefully neutral in that way that meant she was working very hard not to have an opinion. Yet. "His name is Anthony Stark Junior. His mother was Elena Castellanos. She passed away from cancer last week, and her attorney filed a paternity claim three days ago."
The workshop was silent except for the ambient hum of machinery. Tony finally turned around, and Pepper saw something she rarely witnessed: genuine shock on his face.
"Elena," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice—recognition, memory, maybe even regret. "MIT. Second year. She was in my Advanced Thermodynamics seminar."
"The one you actually attended," Pepper said, consulting the tablet in her hands. "According to the documentation, you two had a relationship that lasted approximately four months in 1992. She left MIT at the end of that semester and never contacted you again."
"Because I was—" Tony stopped himself, jaw tightening. "Because I was twenty-one and an idiot."
"Your words, not mine." Pepper's expression softened slightly. "Tony, the legal team has been going through everything. It's legitimate. Birth certificate, medical records, school transcripts—it all checks out. She raised him alone in Boston. Never asked for money, never went to the press."
"And now she's dead." Tony's voice was flat.
"Yes."
The door to the workshop slid open, and Colonel James Rhodes walked in with two coffees and the exhausted expression of a man who'd been dealing with military brass all morning. "Please tell me we're not dealing with another crisis. I've hit my monthly quota of explaining why you can't keep the Iron Man suit."
"Tony has a son," Pepper said without preamble.
Rhodey stopped mid-step. Coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim of both cups. "Come again?"
"A son. Sixteen years old. Paternity test pending, but—"
"Wait, wait, wait." Rhodey set the coffees down carefully, holding up both hands like a referee calling a timeout. "Tony Stark—*this* Tony Stark—has been sexually active since he figured out what sex was, has gone through women like they're limited edition cars, and has only managed to father *one* kid?"
"Apparently," Pepper said.
"That we *know* of," Tony muttered, running a hand through his hair. He looked genuinely disturbed by the possibility.
"No, seriously." Rhodey was warming to his theme now, pacing. "Tones, you dated *supermodels*. Plural. You had a rotation system. You once brought three different women to three different charity galas in one week and somehow made it work. The statistical probability—"
"I'm aware of the math, thank you." Tony's voice had an edge now.
"I'm just saying, either you're the luckiest man alive, or someone up there really wanted you to focus on exactly *one* consequence of your playboy years." Rhodey shook his head in disbelief. "One kid. *One*."
"Could we perhaps focus on the actual child rather than Tony's questionable life choices?" Pepper interjected, though there was the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes.
Tony shot her a look. "You're thinking the same thing. I can tell."
"I'm thinking many things," Pepper said diplomatically. "Most of which involve how we're going to handle this. The press is going to have a field day."
"The press can—" Tony stopped himself, probably remembering the last three PR disasters that sentence had caused. "What else do we know about him? The kid. My... son."
Pepper swiped through her tablet. "Anthony Castellanos—he goes by Ace. Honor roll student at Boston Latin School. Advanced placement in physics, computer science, and mathematics. No disciplinary record. His mother's attorney says he's been handling her death with remarkable maturity, but—"
"But he just lost his mother and found out his father is Tony Stark in the same week," Rhodey finished quietly. "Hell of a lot for a sixteen-year-old to process."
Tony was quiet, staring at the holographic display that still showed his armor schematics. The Mark III suit—his greatest achievement, the thing that had transformed him from merchant of death to something approaching a hero. And now there was a kid. *His* kid. Who'd grown up without him.
"The paternity test," Tony said finally. "How long?"
"Results should be back within forty-eight hours," Pepper replied. "But Tony, the documentation is extremely thorough. Elena kept everything—photos, letters, medical records. There's even..." She hesitated. "There's a letter. From her to you. Written shortly before she died."
Tony's expression was unreadable. "And?"
"The legal team thought you should read it first before making any decisions." Pepper pulled up a scanned document on her tablet. "I can forward it to JARVIS if you'd prefer to read it privately."
"No." Tony held out his hand. "Give it here."
Pepper handed him the tablet, and for a moment, the great Tony Stark looked uncertain—a rare and uncomfortable sight for everyone in the room.
The letter was handwritten, the script elegant but shaky in places where illness had made her hand unsteady:
---
*Tony,*
*If you're reading this, I'm gone, and you've just learned you have a son. I imagine that's quite the shock. I'm sorry to drop this on you this way, but I was never good at timing—you might remember that about me.*
*I never told you about Ace because I knew who you were. Not the genius or the billionaire or even the playboy—I knew the twenty-one-year-old kid who was brilliant and terrified and trying so hard to be someone his father would be proud of. I knew you weren't ready to be a father. Hell, I wasn't ready to be a mother. But I decided to keep him, and I decided not to burden you with a responsibility I knew you'd take on even if it destroyed you.*
*I don't regret that decision. Ace has had a good life. A normal life, as normal as possible for a kid who inherited his father's brain and his mother's stubborn independence. He's brilliant, Tony. Scary brilliant. He reads quantum mechanics textbooks for fun and builds computers from spare parts like other kids build Lego sets. He has your mind and, God help him, your ego.*
*But he also has a good heart. He's kind to people who can't do anything for him. He stands up for kids who get bullied. He tips delivery drivers too much because he knows they're working hard. He's everything I hoped he'd be and nothing like the life I knew you were living.*
*I'm telling you about him now because he deserves to know his father. Not the Iron Man I saw on the news last week (congratulations on that, by the way—very you). Not the celebrity or the legend. He deserves to know Tony Stark, the person. The one who stayed up all night explaining thermodynamics to me because I was struggling with the coursework. The one who built me a coffee maker that brewed at exactly 196 degrees because I complained the dining hall coffee was always too hot or too cold.*
*He doesn't need your money. The trust I've set up will cover his education. He doesn't need your name—he's been Ace Castellanos his whole life, and he's proud of it. What he needs, if you're willing to give it, is a father. Someone who can understand that brilliant, lonely mind of his. Someone who can guide him to be better than we were.*
*I'm not asking you to be perfect. God knows I wasn't. I'm just asking you to try.*
*If you decide you can't do this, I'll understand. I always understood you, Tony. Maybe that's why I never told you. I knew you'd try to be everything to everyone, and I didn't want you to fail at being a father the way your father failed at being one to you.*
*But if you can do this—if you can be there for Ace—he'll surprise you. He surprised me every single day.*
*With love and no regrets,*
*Elena*
---
Tony read the letter twice. Then a third time. When he finally looked up, his eyes were suspiciously bright, and neither Pepper nor Rhodey commented on it.
"She knew me," he said quietly. "Really knew me."
"She loved you," Pepper said gently. "In her way."
"And she didn't trust me with this." Tony's laugh was bitter. "Can't say I blame her. Twenty-one-year-old me would've screwed this up spectacularly."
"To be fair," Rhodey said, "thirty-eight-year-old you has also screwed up spectacularly on multiple occasions."
"Thank you, Rhodey. Very helpful."
"But," Rhodey continued, moving to stand beside his oldest friend, "you're also the guy who built a suit of armor in a cave with a box of scraps. Who turned yourself into a hero when everyone expected you to be a villain. Who looked the world in the eye and said 'I am Iron Man' like it was the simplest thing in the world." He clapped Tony on the shoulder. "If you can do all that, you can figure out how to be a father."
Tony was silent for a long moment, staring at Elena's letter. Then he straightened, and some of his usual confidence returned—not the cocky playboy persona, but something deeper, more genuine.
"JARVIS?"
"Yes, sir?" The AI's smooth British accent filled the workshop.
"Pull up everything we have on Anthony Castellanos Junior. School records, medical history, social media presence—I want to know everything about my son."
"Already compiled, sir. Shall I display it?"
"Not yet." Tony looked at Pepper. "Get the legal team to expedite that paternity test. I know it's going to come back positive, but let's make it official. And call Elena's attorney—arrange a meeting with Ace. Private, no press. I want to meet him before this becomes a media circus."
"Tony, the press already knows," Pepper said carefully. "The paternity claim was filed through official channels. TMZ is going to have this within hours if they don't already."
"Then we get ahead of it." Tony's mind was already racing, planning, strategizing. "We release a statement: 'Tony Stark has recently learned of a son he was previously unaware of and is taking steps to verify paternity and establish a relationship. The Stark family requests privacy during this sensitive time.' Short, simple, kills most of the speculation."
"The Stark *family*," Rhodey repeated, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Listen to you, already sounding like a dad."
"Don't push it." But there was no heat in Tony's voice. He turned back to the holographic display of his armor, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. "Sixteen years old. Advanced placement physics. Builds computers from spare parts."
"Like father, like son," Pepper said softly.
"Yeah." Tony's expression was complicated—pride, regret, fear, hope, all warring for dominance. "That's what I'm afraid of."
"Sir," JARVIS interrupted, "you have an incoming call from a Boston area code. The caller ID indicates it's from Ace Castellanos."
The workshop went silent. Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey all stared at the holographic display where the incoming call notification blinked patiently.
"He's calling you," Pepper breathed. "Tony, he's reaching out first."
Tony's hand hovered over the interface, and for just a moment, he looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice with no idea how deep the fall was going to be.
Then he pressed accept.
"This is Tony Stark."
The voice that came through was young but steady, with a hint of dry humor that was painfully, impossibly familiar:
"Hello, Mr. Stark. I believe we have some things to discuss. Starting with the fact that my mother's attorney didn't exactly ask my permission before turning my life into a tabloid headline."
Despite everything—the shock, the fear, the weight of sudden fatherhood—Tony Stark smiled.
*He has your ego*, Elena's letter had said.
She hadn't been kidding.
---
Tony gestured sharply, and JARVIS muted the workshop's ambient noise—the hum of machinery, the whir of cooling systems, everything that might interfere with this conversation. Pepper and Rhodey froze, watching him with matching expressions of concern and curiosity.
"Ace," Tony said, testing the name. It felt strange on his tongue—this person he'd never met but who carried half his DNA. "I'm putting you on speaker. I have two people here with me: Pepper Potts, my... assistant—"
"CEO," Pepper corrected firmly.
"—and Colonel James Rhodes, my best friend and the man who keeps me from doing truly stupid things."
"He's only batting about .500 on that last one," Rhodey added.
There was a pause, then a soft exhale that might have been amusement. "Nice to meet you both, I guess. Though I'm pretty sure this violates at least a dozen privacy laws."
"Your mother's attorney already violated those when he filed a public paternity claim," Tony said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. "If we're going to do this, I'd prefer we all start on the same page."
"Fair enough." Another pause. "I didn't know he was going to do that, by the way. File publicly, I mean. Mom's will specified you should be informed, but I thought we'd have time to... I don't know. Figure this out like adults before the world found out."
Tony exchanged glances with Rhodey. The kid sounded tired, composed, and oddly mature for sixteen. But there was something else in his voice—a sharpness, an analytical quality that reminded Tony uncomfortably of himself.
"How are you holding up?" Tony asked, and was surprised to find he genuinely wanted to know. "Your mother—"
"Is dead. I know. I was there." The words were blunt, but not cruel. Just factual. "Three weeks of hospice care. She held on longer than the doctors expected. Long enough to make sure all her affairs were in order and to tell me about you."
Tony's chest tightened. "What did she tell you?"
"The truth, mostly. That you two dated in college. That you were brilliant and ambitious and completely unprepared for a relationship, let alone a kid. That she made the choice not to tell you because she knew you'd try to do the right thing and probably destroy both of us in the process."
"Jesus," Rhodey muttered.
"She wasn't wrong," Tony admitted, running a hand through his hair. "Twenty-one-year-old me was a disaster in human form. Hell, thirty-eight-year-old me isn't much better."
"You announced to the world that you're a superhero," Ace said dryly. "I'm aware of your tendency toward self-destructive decision-making."
Despite himself, Tony smiled. "You watched the press conference."
"Everyone watched the press conference. It's been on every news channel for three days. You know you violated about fifteen different military protocols, tanked your company's stock price, and painted a target on your back the size of California, right?"
"Sixteen protocols, actually. And the stock price recovered. Mostly."
"Only because people are idiots who think having a superhero CEO is cool rather than a catastrophic liability."
Rhodey's eyebrows shot up. Pepper pressed her hand to her mouth, clearly trying not to smile.
"I like him," Rhodey stage-whispered.
"Of course you do," Tony muttered. Then, louder: "So you follow current events. What else should I know about you, Ace?"
Another pause, longer this time. When Ace spoke again, his voice was more guarded. "What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Anything. Your favorite color. Whether you're a dog person or a cat person. If you inherited your mother's taste in music or my complete inability to appreciate anything recorded after 1985."
"This isn't a job interview, Mr. Stark."
"Tony. If we're going to do this, you call me Tony." He softened his voice. "And no, it's not an interview. It's a conversation. I'm trying to figure out how to talk to a son I didn't know existed forty-eight hours ago, and you're probably trying to figure out if I'm going to be a deadbeat dad or an overbearing helicopter parent who ruins your life. So let's just... talk."
The silence stretched long enough that Tony wondered if the kid had hung up. Then:
"I'm six-foot-five. I grew five inches in the last year, and my mom used to joke that I ate my body weight in protein every week." Ace's voice was careful, revealing information like a poker player showing cards one at a time. "I'm on the honor roll. I like physics and computer science. I build custom PCs as a hobby—not the gaming rig kind, the 'let me optimize this system architecture from scratch' kind."
Tony felt something shift in his chest. Pride, maybe. Or recognition.
"I hate team sports but I've been taking martial arts since I was eight—Mom's idea, she thought I needed to learn discipline. I'm better at it than I should be." A slight pause. "I like AC/DC, actually. And Black Sabbath. Mom said I got that from you."
"She remembered," Tony said softly.
"She remembered everything about you," Ace said, and there was something complicated in his voice. "She kept a box. Photos, letters, ticket stubs from concerts you went to. She never talked about it much, but she kept it. I found it when I was twelve and asked her about it."
"What did she say?"
"That you were her favorite mistake." Ace's voice cracked slightly, the first real sign of the grief he was carrying. "That loving you was the easiest thing she'd ever done and that walking away was the hardest."
Tony closed his eyes. "I didn't know. I swear to God, Ace, if I'd known—"
"I know." Ace cut him off gently. "She made sure I knew that. She said you would have tried, and that was exactly why she didn't tell you. She didn't want you to be a father out of obligation."
"And now?"
"Now she's gone, and I'm alone, and apparently the world knows that Tony Stark has a secret son before I've even decided if I want to *be* Tony Stark's son." The frustration bled through now, the carefully maintained composure cracking. "Do you have any idea what it's like? My phone has been ringing nonstop. There are reporters camped outside my apartment. I had to disconnect the landline because someone leaked the number. I'm sixteen years old, my mother just died, and suddenly I'm a news story."
Pepper's expression tightened. She pulled out her phone, already typing rapidly—probably messaging the legal team about restraining orders and cease-and-desist letters.
"Where are you right now?" Tony asked sharply. "Are you safe?"
"I'm at Mom's attorney's office. He's letting me hide out here until things calm down." Ace laughed bitterly. "Which, knowing how the news cycle works, means never."
"Pack a bag," Tony said abruptly.
"What?"
"Pack a bag. Personal items, clothes, anything you need. I'm sending a car—private, tinted windows, the works. It'll take you to a private airfield. I'll have a plane waiting to bring you to Malibu."
"Mr. Stark—"
"Tony."
"*Tony*," Ace said, and the name sounded strange in his mouth, formal and uncertain. "I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know you. Because the paternity test isn't back yet. Because moving across the country to live with a stranger—even if that stranger is technically my father—seems insane."
"You're right," Tony said. "It is insane. But here's the thing: you're sixteen, you just lost your mother, and you're currently being hunted by tabloid journalists who will make your life hell for the next however-many news cycles. You have two choices. Choice one: stay in Boston, deal with the media circus alone, try to finish high school while being 'Tony Stark's secret son' everywhere you go. Choice two: come to Malibu, get away from the immediate chaos, and we figure this out together. Private security, no press access, and a house big enough that we won't be tripping over each other if we need space."
"You're offering me witness protection."
"I'm offering you a chance to grieve your mother without cameras in your face. And yeah, maybe a chance for us to get to know each other without the whole world watching." Tony's voice softened. "Look, I'm not asking you to call me dad. I'm not asking you to change your name or give up your life or any of that Hallmark movie bullshit. I'm just asking you to let me help. Let me do this one thing your mother never let me do."
The silence was deafening. Tony could almost hear the kid thinking, weighing options with what he suspected was the same rapid-fire analytical process Tony used when designing armor upgrades.
"If I come to Malibu," Ace said slowly, "what happens when the paternity test comes back?"
"When it comes back positive—and it will—we deal with it. Together. We figure out what you want, what I can offer, and what makes sense for both of us."
"And if I don't like it? If I want to go back to Boston?"
"Then I put you on a plane back to Boston. No questions, no guilt trip, no dramatic superhero dad angst." Tony paused. "But I think you should come. I think you need space to breathe, and I think—selfishly, maybe—I'd like the chance to meet my son without TMZ live-tweeting the experience."
Rhodey was nodding approvingly. Pepper had stopped typing and was watching Tony with an expression he couldn't quite read—surprise, maybe, or something like pride.
"You're very persuasive," Ace said finally. "Mom said you could sell ice to penguins."
"I prefer 'charmingly persistent,' but sure."
Another long pause. Then, quietly: "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll come to Malibu. Temporarily. Just until things calm down and we figure out... whatever this is."
Tony felt relief flood through him so powerfully it was almost dizzying. "Smart choice. I'll have Happy Hogan—my driver, good guy, former boxer, will absolutely punch any paparazzi who get too close—at the attorney's office in an hour. Pack light. JARVIS can order anything you need once you're here."
"JARVIS?"
"My AI assistant. You'll like him. He's sarcastic."
"I'm contextually appropriate, sir," JARVIS interjected smoothly.
There was a beat of surprised silence, then Ace laughed—a real laugh, startled and genuine. "Did your house just talk to me?"
"Welcome to the future, kid. It's weird here."
"Clearly." Ace's voice had warmed slightly, the defensive edge softening. "I should go pack. The attorney's already looking at me like I've lost my mind."
"Tell him Tony Stark sends his regards and a reminder that all communication should go through Pepper Potts from now on. She'll make sure you're taken care of."
"Legally and otherwise," Pepper added.
"Right. Okay." Ace took a breath. "I'll see you... soon, I guess."
"See you soon, Ace."
The line disconnected, and for a moment, the three of them just stood there in the sudden quiet of the workshop.
"Well," Rhodey said eventually. "That went better than expected."
"He sounds like you," Pepper said, looking at Tony with something approaching wonder. "The way he talks, the way he analyzes everything—he sounds exactly like you."
"Yeah." Tony stared at the now-empty holographic display. "That's what terrifies me."
"Why?"
"Because I know exactly how hard it is to be inside this kind of brain. How lonely it gets when you're always ten steps ahead of everyone else. How exhausting it is to see patterns and possibilities that nobody else sees." He ran a hand over his face. "Elena protected him from that. From me. And now she's gone, and he's about to walk into my world—the Iron Man world, the Stark Industries world, the world where everything I touch either turns to gold or explodes spectacularly. And I have no idea how to keep him safe from that."
Rhodey gripped his shoulder firmly. "You do what you always do, Tones. You figure it out. One day at a time."
"JARVIS," Tony said abruptly. "Prep the guest suite. The big one on the second floor with the ocean view. And order everything a sixteen-year-old genius might need. Computer equipment, books, clothes—"
"I took the liberty of researching Ace's sizes and preferences based on his social media presence and online purchase history, sir. Shall I proceed with the orders?"
"That's deeply creepy and exactly why I built you. Yes, proceed."
"And Tony?" Pepper touched his arm gently. "For what it's worth, I think you're going to be good at this."
"Based on what evidence?"
"Based on the fact that you just talked to your son for the first time and didn't make a single inappropriate joke, didn't deflect with sarcasm, and actually listened." She smiled. "That's growth."
"I made several inappropriate jokes."
"But you also listened."
Tony looked at the holographic display one more time, then turned back to his armor schematics. But his mind wasn't on repulsor upgrades or flight stabilization anymore.
It was on a sixteen-year-old kid with his brain and his mother's strength, who built computers from spare parts and listened to AC/DC, who was currently packing a bag to fly across the country to meet the father he'd never known.
"JARVIS?"
"Sir?"
"How long until Happy gets to Boston?"
"At current traffic patterns, approximately forty-three minutes until he reaches the attorney's office."
"And how long until Ace's plane lands in Los Angeles?"
"Estimating a five-hour flight time, plus transport from the airfield to the residence. He should arrive at approximately 8:47 PM Pacific time."
Tony checked his watch. Six hours. He had six hours to prepare for his son's arrival.
"Right," he said, clapping his hands together with forced decisiveness. "Pepper, handle the press statement. Rhodey, stick around—I'm going to need someone to tell me when I'm about to do something monumentally stupid. JARVIS, monitor Ace's transport and let me know immediately if there are any complications."
"And what will you be doing?" Pepper asked.
Tony looked around his workshop—his sanctuary, his cave, the place where he'd built everything that mattered. The place where he'd become Iron Man.
"I'm going to clean up," he said. "Can't have my son thinking I'm a complete slob."
Rhodey snorted. "Tony Stark, cleaning. Now I've seen everything."
"Shut up, Rhodey."
But as his best friend and Pepper left the workshop, both trying to hide their smiles, Tony stood alone amid his creations and felt something he hadn't experienced in a very long time.
Fear.
Not the kind he'd felt in that cave in Afghanistan, when death was certain and escape impossible.
This was different. More terrifying.
This was the fear of failure. Of letting down someone who hadn't asked to be born, who hadn't asked for Tony Stark as a father, who deserved so much better than the mess of a man standing in this workshop.
"Sir," JARVIS said gently, "if I may offer an observation?"
"Go ahead."
"Miss Potts is correct. You will be adequate at this."
Tony laughed, surprised. "Adequate? That's your vote of confidence?"
"I find it's best to maintain realistic expectations, sir. You are, after all, you."
"Thanks, JARVIS. Really feeling the support."
"However," the AI continued, "I have observed you overcome considerably more challenging obstacles than parenting a teenager. You built me, for instance."
Despite everything, Tony smiled. "Fair point."
He turned back to his holographic displays, but this time he pulled up a different schematic—not armor, but the guest suite layout. Making mental notes of what to add, what to change, how to make it feel less like a hotel room and more like a home.
Six hours.
In six hours, Tony Stark was going to meet his son.
And God help them both.
---
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