The night sky over Europe was as deep as ink, scattered with a few lonely stars.
The Stark Industries private jet sliced silently through the clouds like a blade, flying steadily into the heart of the continent.
Inside, however, the atmosphere was anything but steady.
The special chair that had restrained Bucky was gone — along with the body that had just been ended, as though it had never been there at all. Yet a faint trace of scorched air still lingered, and with it, a heavy weight.
Tony wasn't drinking. That alone was rare.
Dressed casually, legs crossed, he leaned back into the soft leather sofa, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the clouds rushing past the window. The face that usually wore arrogance and confidence was now flat, unreadable.
Henry sat across from him, equally silent.
He lounged with one leg over the other, a tablet in hand. His finger slid idly across the screen, though the device had long since locked itself for lack of activity. Every so often, he shot a glance at his brooding brother, lips twitching as if to speak, but swallowing the retort each time.
Damn it. This silence was more suffocating than fighting Thanos.
Finally, after opening the lock screen again only to find himself staring blankly at Stark Industries' quarterly financial report, Henry snapped.
"I swear," he cleared his throat, breaking the dead air, "can you not sit there looking like you just got dumped? Do you realize anyone who doesn't know the context would think you had... feelings for a one-armed fridge manager?"
Tony's eyes finally moved. Slowly, he turned his head, giving Henry the look one reserves for idiots.
This damn brother. Always had to argue. Ridiculous.
"Fridge manager? That's the best you've got?" His voice was hoarse.
"I was contemplating a serious philosophical question: when a relic that should've been buried seventy years ago is forcibly thawed and given power that never should've been his, does his existence continue history… or desecrate it?"
"Oh, please." Henry rolled his eyes mercilessly.
"That's not philosophy. That's you wondering if you should've run that repulsor blast in slow motion with Highway to Hell playing in the background, to give it some extra flair."
Tony's mouth twitched.
"Vulgar," he said curtly. "That would desecrate the art. Revenge is a science. Every step, every angle, even the output wattage must be precisely calculated. You're just a caveman smashing things with brute force — you wouldn't understand."
"Is that so?" Henry set the tablet aside, eyebrow raised.
"Then tell me, O Great Scientist, how did it feel to dismantle father's legacy with your own hands? Was it regret, like losing someone you could reminisce with? Or was it relief, knowing he'd never again pop out of nowhere to ask you for hair gel money?"
Clang!
Tony slammed his glass down onto the table. He'd controlled his strength, but the sharp sound still froze the cabin.
"Shut up, Henry." His voice was low, seething. His eyes burned with a mix of pain and fury. "You don't understand anything."
Henry looked at him — at the clenched fists, the trembling shoulders. He said nothing more. He knew. Tony was at it again — his damned self-torture. Hiding behind armor, pretending he didn't care, when in truth he cared more than anyone.
"You're right. I don't understand."
Henry sighed, leaning back, softening his tone.
"I don't understand why, after killing the man who murdered your parents, you're not popping champagne but sitting here brooding. I don't understand why, when your heart is breaking, you insist on pretending you're fine — like you're pondering the origins of the universe."
He paused, watching Tony's tense profile, then continued.
"I only know this: you just ended the tragedy of an entire era with your own hands. If Mom and Dad could see you sulking like this, they'd storm down from heaven just to slap you each in the face and call you a pathetic brat."
Tony stiffened.
He turned slowly, staring daggers at Henry.
Henry met the gaze head-on, calm, unflinching.
The brothers locked eyes in the still cabin, the air heavy with unspoken tension.
At last — long enough Henry thought Tony might leap across the table and punch him — Tony's shoulders slumped.
"You're right," he muttered, exhausted.
"I'm a pathetic brat."
The silver bracelet slid silently from his right hand, revealing fingers still trembling faintly. He had pressed that trigger. He had watched the man disintegrate before him.
And in that instant, there had been no satisfaction. No joy. Only emptiness — a void that threatened to swallow everything.
"Hey."
Henry frowned, got up, and sat beside him. He didn't offer hollow comfort. Instead, he copied Tony's posture, propping his legs on the table, then grabbed two cold cans of Coke from the mini-fridge.
Pfft! One popped open. He handed it to Tony.
"Drink. Sugar boosts dopamine. Might help un-rust that brain of yours."
Tony didn't take it at first. He looked at the frosty can, chuckled bitterly.
"I thought you'd hand me a whiskey."
"And let you get blackout drunk, hugging my leg while crying about your tragic childhood?" Henry snorted.
"Spare me. I don't need tomorrow's headlines reading 'Shocking! Iron Man Drowns His Sorrows, Makes Inappropriate Advances on His Brother!' Stark Industries stock would tank."
Tony: "..."
Whatever sorrow he'd been mustering up evaporated instantly thanks to this bastard.
He snatched the Coke, cracked it open, and chugged a long gulp. The cold liquid burned down his throat, jolting his nerves, clearing his messy thoughts.
"So..."
He lowered the can, looking at Henry, a glint of familiar sharpness back in his eyes.
"Are we doing post-war therapy roleplay now? Because your script delivery is trash. Zero immersion."
"What do you think?" Henry sipped his Coke lazily.
"Your cooperation is even worse. A normal client would be bawling on my shoulder right now, swearing to quit wasting money and handing all his allowance to his wise, glorious younger brother."
"In your dreams." Tony sneered.
"My money goes into world-changing inventions — not funding your endless purchases of black spandex. Honestly, your taste is a disaster. Do you really think slapping black paint on something automatically makes it cool? Why don't you paint your face black while you're at it?"
"At least I don't dress like a walking traffic light," Henry shot back.
"Red and gold? Seriously? You look like you're cosplaying Ronald McDonald."
"That's classic design! That's art, you caveman!"
"Oh yeah? Then explain why your arc reactor looks like a donut. Was that you announcing your love for junk food to the world?"
"That's for stability and power efficiency! You—"
The cabin air slowly shifted. Their pointless bickering — sharp words volleyed back and forth — stripped away the gloom.
Bit by bit, things felt normal again.
***
If you're interested and wish to support me, you can read advanced chapters:
p-atreon.com/Redestro666