The Audi R8's engine purred as Tony slipped through Los Angeles evening traffic with the effortless confidence of someone who had never once cared about speed limits. In the next lane, Smith's 1955 Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR Uhlenhaut Coupé kept pace, its silver frame reflecting city lights like flowing mercury.
Tony tapped his earpiece. "You remember when I promised to show you my private jet?"
Smith glanced across the lane, seeing Tony grin through the window.
"I have been buried in the Mark II project," Tony continued, voice relaxed, "so I forgot to schedule that little tour. So I ordered you one instead. Put the request in with Boeing three days ago. Should be ready in a few months. Similar specs to mine. I figured our taste in aircraft is compatible."
Smith blinked, processing that. A private jet was not exactly small talk. "Does it come with the same magazine cover models that follow you around?"
Tony laughed loud enough that it nearly drowned out his engine. "Ha! Hear that? Jealous. You absolutely sound jealous."
Their conversation carried them through the final stretch of the drive. The Walt Disney Concert Hall rose ahead, its stainless-steel curves gleaming under a flood of camera flashes. The red carpet stretched outward like a long crimson river, bordered by photographers eager to catch a story.
Tony guided his Audi R8 into the VIP lane. A moment later, Smith's 1955 Mercedes-Benz 300 SLR Uhlenhaut Coupé pulled in behind him, its silver body drawing glances even before the doors opened.
A parking attendant appeared at Tony's door, smile practiced and immediate. "Good evening, Mr. Stark."
He turned as Smith stepped out of the Mercedes. There was a flicker of uncertainty. Not a celebrity, not an actor, not someone on the tabloids. Just a man who had arrived with Tony Stark.
Tony crossed over and clapped a hand on Smith's shoulder with relaxed familiarity. "This is Smith Doyle. My good brother."
The attendant straightened, understanding the significance. Tony Stark did not casually grant titles. Respect replaced confusion as he accepted both key fobs.
Tony and Smith walked toward the entrance.
The reaction was immediate.
Heads turned.
Cameras angled.
Whispers rose like sparks catching wind.
"Oh my God, is that Tony Stark?"
"He actually showed up!"
"Who's that with him? The tall one, he's gorgeous!"
"Must be some international heir. He looks so young, anyone recognize him?"
Whispers cascaded through the gathering crowd like ripples across water. Camera flashes intensified, reporters pivoting toward the unexpected arrivals with predatory interest.
Inside, Obadiah Stane had been mid-interview with a society columnist when the commotion reached him. He turned toward the entrance, his practiced smile faltering for just a microsecond when he spotted Tony, and more interestingly, Smith Doyle beside him.
Tony and Smith cut through the crowd with the ease of someone who'd never questioned his right to be anywhere. They approached Obadiah directly, Tony's expression carrying amused defiance.
"What kind of charity gala doesn't invite the person it's named after?" Tony's tone was light, but the implication landed heavily.
Obadiah studied both men carefully. Tony's presence was unexpected but explainable, the man had always been unpredictable, prone to dramatic gestures. But Smith Doyle's presence raised questions.
Obadiah knew about Smith, of course. Pepper's expenditures and contract negotiations had crossed his desk. The rescue operation in Afghanistan, the weapons distribution agreement, the recent pivot to research equipment procurement, all documented, all filed away in Obadiah's meticulous mental catalog.
What he didn't understand was this: why had Tony brought Smith tonight? The relationship seemed warmer than simple business associates, more personal than a transactional arrangement between a rescued billionaire and his mercenary savior.
Still, Obadiah kept his expression welcoming. Smith Doyle had, after all, delivered a golden egg, Tony, alive and productive, continuing to generate breakthrough innovations. That alone earned some goodwill.
"Well, look who decided to grace us with his presence!" Obadiah's smile widened as he extended his hand toward Smith. "Mr. Doyle, I can't thank you enough for bringing Tony home safely. Stark Industries needs Tony Stark like..." He paused dramatically. "Like Hollywood needs a spotlight!"
The flattery was laid on thick, almost comically so. Smith shook the offered hand, his assassin's training cataloging everything, Obadiah's grip strength, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes didn't quite match his smile's warmth.
This was the man who'd orchestrated Tony's kidnapping, who'd sold weapons to the Ten Rings, who'd eventually try to murder Tony outright. And here he stood, playing the role of devoted mentor with Oscar-worthy commitment.
"Tony's got luck on his side," Smith replied smoothly, his own smile carefully calibrated. "He would've made it back even without my help."
Tony noticed the photographers circling like sharks scenting blood. "Obie, we'll catch up inside. Don't let us interrupt your interview."
He turned to leave, but Obadiah's hand shot out, gripping Tony's arm with barely concealed urgency. The genial mask slipped for just a moment, replaced by something sharper, more calculating.
"Hey, listen, don't do anything hasty tonight, okay?" Obadiah's voice dropped lower, meant only for Tony's ears. "I think I've got the board situation handled. Just... give me a little more time."
Tony's expression softened slightly. "Relax, Obie. I'm just here on impulse. Smith and I won't be staying long."
Relief washed visibly across Obadiah's features. The last thing he needed was Tony announcing some revolutionary breakthrough tonight, sending Stark Industries stock soaring before Obadiah could position himself advantageously. He'd been planning to buy substantial shares once the price bottomed out, then ride the wave of Tony's inevitable next innovation.
But as Tony and Smith walked away, Obadiah's mind churned with questions. Why this closeness between them? Tony Stark didn't form genuine friendships easily, his narcissism and abrasiveness kept most people at arm's length. Yet here was Smith Doyle, treated like a confidant rather than a hired gun who'd completed a job.
What was he missing?
Tony and Smith entered the main ballroom without challenge. No one from event management dared approach them to verify Smith's invitation status. Everyone understood the unspoken rule: this was Tony Stark's charity gala in all but official hosting duties. He could bring one guest or a hundred, questioning it would be professional suicide.
The dining area sprawled before them, an elaborate spread of culinary excellence. Pastries arranged like edible architecture, artisanal cheeses, exotic fruits carved into decorative displays. Live cooking stations featured chefs preparing fresh seafood and perfectly seared steaks to order.
"The food here's actually decent," Tony observed, grabbing a plate. "Not quite up to my personal chef's standards, but it'll keep you from starving." He flagged down a server. "Whiskey, neat."
Smith didn't bother with Tony's commentary. His enhanced appetite had already locked onto the available food like a targeting system. He began loading a plate with the single-minded focus of someone whose Saiyan physiology demanded constant fuel.
Across the ballroom, Agent Phil Coulson had been strategizing his approach to Pepper Potts, planning the most diplomatic way to extract information about Tony's activities. Then a familiar voice cut through the ambient conversation, and Coulson's attention snapped toward the dining area.
Tony Stark's presence wasn't surprising, this was his event, after all, even if he'd been expected to skip it. But Smith Doyle standing beside him? That warranted immediate attention.
Coulson's mind raced through their intelligence files. According to SHIELD's surveillance, Smith and Tony hadn't made contact for nearly a month after the Afghanistan rescue. The assessment had been clear: their relationship was transactional, professional, unlikely to develop into genuine friendship given Tony's historically difficult personality.
Yet here they were, arriving together, Tony's body language suggesting comfortable familiarity rather than obligatory gratitude.
Smith Doyle had become a priority observation target for SHIELD, higher priority than Tony Stark himself, in fact. Especially after Natasha Romanoff had gone undercover at the Fraternity and begun sending back reports that had made Director Fury himself take notice. Whatever was happening within that organization, whatever Smith Doyle represented, it warranted careful monitoring.
Coulson's expression remained professionally neutral, but internally he felt a spark of opportunity. If both targets were here, accessible, perhaps he could gather intelligence directly rather than relying solely on surveillance and infiltration.
Tony turned at the sound of someone approaching, surprise crossing his features. "Oh, you actually know Smith?"
Smith was mid-bite, cheeks bulging with an impressive quantity of food that would've been comedic if not for how quickly he was consuming it. Coulson filed the observation away, enhanced appetite, possibly metabolic, worth investigating.
"Agent Coulson," he introduced himself with his trademark pleasant-but-forgettable smile. "We've met briefly, Mr. Stark."
Tony grabbed a drink from a passing server, his expression suggesting vague recollection mixed with complete disinterest. "Oh, right, yeah... you're from that thing, aren't you?"
He snapped his fingers, trying to dredge up the memory. Pepper had mentioned some government agency bothering her for information, but Tony hadn't paid much attention. Government agencies all blurred together in his mind, different acronyms, same bureaucratic tedium.
Coulson maintained his patient smile, clearly accustomed to this reaction. "Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
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