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No matter how careful Henry tried to be, eating fast always made noise. The clatter of cutlery, the steady crunch and chew—enough to grate on Tony Stark's nerves until the young heir rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck.
Finally, Tony snapped. With the defiance of a sulking teenager, he grabbed his cheeseburger and took an exaggerated, noisy bite, chewing with all the subtlety of a lawnmower. The message was clear: two can play at this game.
Normally, such atrocious table manners would have earned either boy a sharp rebuke. Katherine Hepburn had lectured full-grown men into shame for less. Audrey wasn't much gentler. But today, both women said nothing. They just watched, quietly indulgent, while the two "boys" waged their ridiculous contest.
Of course, the playing field was uneven. Henry had ordered half the menu. Tony had… one burger. He was doomed.
Sure enough, when the burger was gone, Tony didn't stop. He reached across the table, snatched up Henry's untouched honey-drizzled pancake, and tore into it with a savage bite. Sticky syrup smeared his fingers as he chewed noisily, glaring at Henry like a challenge.
Henry didn't growl, didn't bristle. He just raised a hand, caught the waitress's attention, and said calmly:
"Another peach pie, another apple pie, another stack of honey pancakes, and a large order of fries."
Even Audrey, used to Henry's Kryptonian appetite, blinked in surprise.
Henry gave a sheepish little grin. "You all made it look good. Figured I'd better have some too."
When the food arrived, Henry kept up his steady, thunderous pace, polishing off plate after plate. Tony slowed down eventually but never stopped—shoving, grabbing, eating like a half-starved wolf.
By the end, the table was stripped clean.
Henry leaned back, toothpick in hand, looking comfortably satisfied. About seventy percent full, by his measure. Tony, on the other hand, was wrecked—slumped in the booth, belly stretched, licking honey from his greasy fingers.
And that was when Katherine lost patience.
Smack! Her hand came down on his wrist. "You filthy boy!"
She fished a pack of wet wipes from her purse and, with all the brisk authority of a grandmother handling an unruly grandchild, scrubbed each of Tony's fingers clean. He scowled the whole time but didn't fight her off.
Instead, he kept his glare fixed squarely on Henry.
Henry could almost feel the heat of those eyes burning holes through him. If Tony Stark had heat vision, the Kryptonian would've been ash by now.
But Tony didn't. And Henry wasn't the least bit bothered.
After all, envy from a genius meant you were doing something right.
Finally, Tony broke eye contact, rubbed at his reddened eyes, and said casually—as if it were nothing—"What if I just… walked away from Stark Industries? Quit. Gave it up. What would you say to that?"
The Hepburn women both froze, shocked into silence.
Henry, however, didn't even blink.
"What would I say?" He shrugged. "I'd say it makes perfect sense. Honestly, I'm more surprised you hadn't thought of it sooner."
Tony sat up straighter. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Henry took a long sip of coffee, waved for a refill, and then answered at his own unhurried pace:
"If Howard Stark were still alive and you'd chosen to step away, to build something from scratch, it would've been harder. Much harder than just taking the reins of Stark Industries. But now?"
He leaned forward, tone sharpening.
"Now your father's gone. And you're surrounded by vultures. If you walk away, if you decide to build something of your own in peace… that's smart. Sensible, even. Trying to keep Stark Industries intact when every greedy bastard on Wall Street is circling? That's suicide."
Tony opened his mouth, but Henry pressed on, voice steady.
"From scratch, you could rebuild. Maybe it'd take seventy years. But your father did it. Don't tell me you couldn't. You could make Stark Industries Two. No question.
"But if you stay? If you inherit, if you try to wear the crown—whatever happens, you lose. Keep it running, and people will say it's only because Howard laid the foundation. Fail, and they'll sneer that you're nothing like him. Either way, you'll never get credit."
He set his cup down.
"So yeah. Starting over looks pretty damn good. Cleaner. Easier. No dead father's shadow, no boardroom parasites, no empire to chain you down. Just you, your workshop, and whatever you want to build. That sounds like you, Tony. That sounds consistent."
Then his gaze flicked up, calm and merciless.
"And don't pretend this is about difficulty. It isn't. You're not running because it's too hard. You're running because it's his. Howard Stark's. And you can't stand it."
The words hit like a hammer.
Tony's jaw clenched, but no sound came out. His knuckles slammed the table instead, over and over, punctuating each strike with the same shouted curse:
"Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!"
The plates rattled, coffee sloshed, and for a moment the whole diner seemed to shake with his fury.