[Stark Industries Private Jet. En route to California.]
"You look like you fought a blender and lost, Tones."
Rhodey sat opposite Tony, nursing a drink. He looked exhausted, but the relief in his eyes was palpable.
Tony was lying on the leather couch, an IV drip in his arm—administered by Sebastian, not a medic. "You should see the other guys. Oh wait, you can't. Sebastian cleaned them up."
Rhodey glanced at the butler. Sebastian was standing perfectly still near the cockpit door, reading a newspaper. "Yeah, about that. Your butler... the intel said he was in Malibu. How the hell did he get to the crash site before the medevac?"
"Sebastian is very efficient with travel arrangements," Tony said vaguely, biting into a cheeseburger.
It wasn't just any cheeseburger. Tony had demanded Burger King the moment they landed at the base. Sebastian had looked at the fast-food bag with utter contempt, holding it with two fingers as if it were radioactive waste, but he had delivered it.
"Sir," Sebastian interrupted, his voice smooth. "We are beginning our descent. Pepper is waiting on the tarmac. I suggest you wipe the grease off your chin. It is not a dignified look for a resurrected CEO."
"You sound like my dad," Tony grumbled, wiping his mouth.
[Malibu Mansion. That Night.]
The press conference was over. The stock market was crashing. Obadiah Stane was furious, though he hid it behind a tight smile and a stiff pat on the back.
Now, the mansion was quiet.
Tony stood in front of the bathroom mirror, his shirt off. The blue glow of the Arc Reactor illuminated the dark circles under his eyes. The metal ring looked alien against his skin, a harsh reminder of the cave.
"It looks painful."
Tony didn't flinch. He saw Sebastian's reflection in the mirror behind him. The demon was holding a fresh towel.
"It's not comfortable," Tony admitted, tracing the rim of the device. "But it keeps the shrapnel out of my heart."
Sebastian stepped closer. The air in the bathroom grew cold. The reflection in the mirror changed—Sebastian's eyes were no longer human reddish-brown, but a glowing, predatory fuchsia.
"You know I can remove it, Young Master," Sebastian said softly.
He raised a gloved hand. Dark, smoky tendrils curled around his fingers.
"I can extract every shard of metal from your bloodstream. I can heal the tissue. I can make it as if the bomb never detonated. No scars. No battery. You could be... whole again."
Tony looked at the smoke, then down at the glowing light in his chest.
It would be so easy. Just say yes, and the pain goes away. The constant fear of the magnet failing would vanish.
"No," Tony said.
Sebastian paused, the smoke dissipating slightly. "No?"
"If you fix it, I'll forget," Tony said, staring into his own eyes in the mirror. "I'll go back to being the guy who makes weapons and sleeps with swimsuit models. I need this. It's... a reminder."
He tapped the glass surface of the reactor.
"Besides," Tony turned around, a smirk returning to his face. "This thing outputs three gigajoules per second. Do you know what I can power with that?"
Sebastian studied him for a long moment. Then, a genuine smile—not the customer service one—touched his lips. It was a smile of amusement.
"You intend to build another suit," Sebastian concluded.
"Better than the last one," Tony said, walking out of the bathroom. "The Mark 1 was a tank. I want a hot rod. And Sebastian?"
"Sir?"
"Get rid of the furniture in the basement. We're going to need a lot more room."
[Stark Industries. The Executive Office.]
Obadiah Stane poured himself a drink, his hand shaking with rage. He looked at the TV screen, which was replaying Tony's announcement: "Stark Industries will no longer manufacture weapons."
"He's lost his mind," Obadiah muttered. "Decades of work. Billions of dollars."
"Perhaps he simply had a change of heart."
Obadiah spun around.
Sebastian was standing in the corner of the office. He hadn't heard the door open. He hadn't heard footsteps.
"You!" Obadiah barked. "You were supposed to watch him! You let him go to Afghanistan!"
"I cannot chain the Young Master to his bed, Mr. Stane," Sebastian said calmly, adjusting his cufflinks. "Though, considering his current behavior, perhaps I should have considered it."
"He's ruining the company!" Obadiah slammed his glass down. "Do you know what the board is going to do? They're going to file an injunction. They're going to declare him unfit!"
"Is that so?" Sebastian asked politely.
"Yes! And I might have to help them. For Tony's own good." Obadiah narrowed his eyes. "You're his butler. You have influence. Talk to him. Tell him to reverse this decision."
Sebastian walked forward. He picked up the bottle of scotch Obadiah had been drinking from. He inspected the label.
"Mr. Stane," Sebastian said, his voice dropping to a low purr. "I serve Tony Stark. I do not serve the stock price."
He placed the bottle back down.
"However," Sebastian continued, "if you attempt to declare him unfit... or if you attempt anything else that might shorten his lifespan... I shall be very displeased."
Sebastian leaned in close. Obadiah smelled sulfur again. He saw the shadow behind the butler writhe and snap.
"And you would not like to see me displeased."
Sebastian turned and walked out.
Obadiah stood there, sweating. He waited until the door clicked shut. Then, he pulled out his secure phone and dialed a number.
"Raza?" Obadiah whispered. "It's me. The hit didn't work. We need to go to Plan B. And bring everything you have... he has a bodyguard."
[End of Chapter 5]
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