"Pepper, I'm telling you," Tony said, swirling the drink in his hand with that trademark Stark smirk, "it's not a partnership. It's a playdate. You just dropped me off at daycare with Brendon here to keep me busy while you and May gossip."
Brendon arched an eyebrow, lips twitching. "Playdate? Stark, I don't think I'm the one who needed a babysitter in a cave. With your track record, I'd say you should stick to juice boxes and nap time."
Pepper sputtered into her water, trying not to laugh. May shook her head but her lips curved with amusement.
"Juice boxes, huh?" Tony jabbed a finger at Brendon. "You'd look ridiculous handing me one. Actually, wait, you'd look like you belonged in kindergarten too."
"Difference is," Brendon deadpanned, "I'd graduate before you learned to share your toys."
The room cracked—Pepper's laughter warm and clear, May chuckling behind her hand, Tony pretending to sulk but clearly enjoying the banter. The tension that usually lingered in Stark's villa melted into something lighter, something that almost resembled family.
Brendon let the moment linger before raising a hand slightly, drawing their attention. His expression shifted—still casual, but with a weight that told them he had something important to say.
"Alright," he began, tone leveling out. "Jokes aside, I wanted to bring something to the table." He looked at Pepper first, then Tony, then May. "Two things, actually. First, Tony—I'll be ready to perform the operation in a week. Seven days. We'll have everything prepped by then."
Pepper went still. Her hands tightened around her glass, knuckles pale. "Operation," she repeated softly, almost under her breath, as if testing the word.
Brendon nodded gently. "Yes. The one we discussed. Removing the arc reactor dependency, stabilizing your heart, fixing what's been holding you hostage since Afghanistan."
Tony leaned back, mask of bravado twitching just slightly at the edges. He lifted his glass, but his hand paused before he drank. "A week, huh. Guess I better clear my schedule for open-heart surgery performed by a teenager. No pressure."
"None at all," Brendon quipped, then softened. "Don't pretend you're not nervous. You've earned the right to be."
Pepper's voice trembled despite her efforts. "And you're certain this will work?"
"As certain as I am about anything," Brendon replied calmly. "The Baymax project is the core of it. Which brings me to the second thing."
He shifted, now looking at May. "In two days, I'm announcing a prototype. A medical assistant—something designed not just for Tony, but for the world. It's part of Nirvana's humanitarian arm."
May blinked. "Medical assistant? Like… a device?"
Brendon smirked faintly, teasing. "You'll know in a couple of days. Let's just say—he'll make you smile."
May tilted her head, suspicious but intrigued, while Pepper gave Brendon a sharp, knowing look. She didn't ask, but she already suspected he was planning something big.
Brendon continued, "At least five of these units will be assigned directly to you, May. For your humanitarian efforts—travel, community work, emergencies. Wherever you go, they'll go. No more worrying if you have the right equipment or people on hand. You'll always have a safety net."
May's breath caught. She looked at him, startled. "You mean… me? My work?"
"Exactly," Brendon said firmly. "You've been carrying too much alone. This gives you the backup you deserve."
Her lips parted, eyes glistening, but no words came. Pepper reached out, squeezing her hand, and May let out a small laugh, shaky but heartfelt.
Tony watched the exchange, uncharacteristically silent. Then he set his glass down with a soft clink and asked, "And this—prototype—it's going public?"
"In two days," Brendon confirmed. "World announcement. People will finally see what Nirvana's been building for months."
Two Days Later
The launch wasn't subtle. Brendon never intended it to be.
Screens across the world flickered, feeds hijacked for a moment before cutting to a crisp Nirvana broadcast. Standing in the center of a bright, white stage, Brendon King looked more confident than ever.
He smiled faintly. "The future of healthcare isn't hidden in labs or gated in boardrooms. It's standing beside you. Protecting you. Healing you."
The crowd buzzed—and then gasps rang out as Baymax waddled onto stage. A round, soft, balloon-like figure, eyes blinking with serene innocence.
"I present," Brendon declared, voice carrying with calm authority, "Baymax. Your personal healthcare companion."
The internet exploded.
May Parker sat in her modest Queens living room, hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. "He… he made this for us?" she whispered. She felt the weight of Brendon's words click into place. You'll know in a couple of days.
Peter, Ned, and MJ crowded around a laptop, Ned yelling, "He's so squishy! I want one!" MJ arched a brow, muttering, "Of course Brendon's idea of a doctor looks like a plush toy. And somehow it works." Peter just grinned, pride swelling in his chest.
Gwen sat in Nirvana's compound, jaw slack. "He actually did it," she murmured. Alicia, beside her, smiled knowingly.
Corporate offices buzzed in panic and awe. Stark's competitors couldn't even begin to wrap their heads around it—Hammer Industries was already gone, but even the surviving arms of Roxxon and others felt the pressure. This wasn't a gadget. This was disruption incarnate.
Hospitals around the country were glued to the broadcast. Nurses whispered. Doctors leaned forward. Some scoffed, others stared, but every single one of them felt a twinge of hope.
Baymax bowed on stage, his synthetic voice calm and warm. "Hello. I am Baymax, your personal healthcare companion."
The world's collective heart melted.
That night, Stark's villa was quiet again. Brendon sat across from Tony, both nursing drinks, the television still replaying highlights of the launch.
"So," Tony started, voice oddly soft, "about this operation. Is it absolutely necessary?"
Brendon looked at him steadily. "Even with the new element reactor, the arc reactor is still a crutch. It sustains you, yes. But the trace toxicity, the strain on your body—it doesn't just vanish. You can survive with it, maybe even thrive for a time. But every time you push yourself, every fight you take on, you'll be reminded of it."
Tony frowned, swirling his drink. "And your fix changes that?"
"Yes," Brendon said simply. "It makes you whole again. No reactor dependency. No shrapnel threat. No hidden clock ticking down."
Tony tried to smirk, but the edge faltered. He opened his mouth—probably to make another quip, to deflect the gravity—but Brendon leaned forward first, cutting him off with a sly smile.
"And before you argue," Brendon added, voice casual but pointed, "remember this: it's going to affect your performance when you're with Pepper."
Tony froze mid-breath. Pepper, who had been listening quietly, flushed crimson.
Brendon leaned back, utterly calm, sip of his drink masking his smirk. Tony sputtered, Pepper covered her face with her hands, and May—watching from across the room—just burst into helpless laughter.
For once, Tony Stark had no comeback.