Tony made his way to the DJ booth with exaggerated, theatrical movements, his armored form moving to the beat of the music. When he reached the platform, he performed an outrageous hip-thrust motion that looked completely absurd coming from a walking weapons system.
Bulma, who'd just taken a sip of champagne, nearly choked. She coughed and turned to Smith with wide eyes. "Is he always this... shameless?"
Smith couldn't contain his laughter. "Hahaha, no—believe it or not, he's usually quite dignified. Arrogant, definitely, but dignified." He shook his head, still grinning. "This is a first for me too."
Smith's amusement faded slightly as he watched Tony continue his performance. Without the specter of palladium poisoning hanging over him—without the knowledge that every use of the armor brought him closer to death—Tony should have been more measured, not less. This level of recklessness seemed out of character.
Or perhaps it was the opposite. Maybe without that existential dread weighing on him, Tony felt free to actually live rather than just exist in the shadow of his own mortality. Freedom from fear could look a lot like recklessness to outside observers.
Either way, Smith had already made a decision: if Rhodes tried to confiscate an Iron Man suit tonight like in the original timeline, Smith would intervene. That wasn't going to happen. Not on his watch.
Outside the villa, James Rhodes pulled his car into the crowded driveway and killed the engine. His phone rang immediately—he'd barely had thirty seconds of peace since leaving the Pentagon.
He answered with barely concealed frustration. "Yes, sir. I understand."
The voice on the other end was sharp, authoritative. Rhodes closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"No, that's not necessary. I can handle the situation." He paused, listening to whatever objection was being raised. "With respect, sir, we don't need to forcibly acquire the armor. Tony Stark is already protecting people—the practical effect is the same as if we had direct control."
The response was clearly unsatisfactory, but Rhodes pushed back. "Applying force to Ivan Vanko would be a mistake. His father was screwed over by our government once already—do we really want to create another enemy?" He exhaled slowly. "I'll talk to Tony. Just... give me time to handle this properly."
He ended the call and sat in silence for a moment, gathering himself. Rhodes was caught between two immovable forces: military brass demanding results, and Tony's absolute refusal to comply. Neither side was interested in compromise, which left Rhodes trying to build a bridge across an unbridgeable gap.
He finally climbed out of the car and headed toward the villa's entrance, his dress uniform drawing respectful nods from security personnel who recognized his rank.
Inside, he immediately spotted Pepper standing near one of the main entertaining areas, her posture radiating tension.
"Pepper—"
She turned, saw him, and her expression shifted from stressed to almost desperate. "I have to go. I need air. I need..." She grabbed his arm and started pulling him through the crowd.
"What's going on?" Rhodes allowed himself to be dragged along, concern growing with each step.
Pepper didn't answer until they had a clear view of the DJ platform. Then she simply pointed.
"I don't know what to do with him."
Rhodes followed her gesture and his jaw dropped. "Oh my God. This is a disaster."
Tony Stark—wearing full Iron Man armor—was stumbling across the raised platform with a bottle of champagne in one hand. He was clearly drunk, his movements exaggerated and uncoordinated. Below him, a crowd of supermodels and party guests cheered him on, treating the spectacle like the world's most expensive circus act.
"That's enough." Rhodes started forward, his military training demanding he take control of the situation. "I need to—"
Pepper caught his arm. "No! Don't make a scene. That'll only make things worse."
Rhodes turned on her, frustration boiling over. "This is ridiculous, Pepper. I just spent three hours convincing my superiors not to take extreme action, and Tony's up there proving every one of their concerns right!"
Pepper's expression was anguished. "I know. But confronting him publicly will just escalate things." She looked around desperately. "Let me find Smith. Maybe he can talk sense into Tony."
Rhodes bit back a dozen angry responses and settled for, "Fine. But do it fast, or I'm intervening myself. I don't care if it causes a scene."
Near the dessert table, Bulma had wrapped one arm around Smith's shoulders in a casual half-hug while her other hand was balled into a fist. "If you ever act like that," she said with mock severity, pointing at Tony's antics, "I will personally beat you unconscious."
Smith raised his hands in surrender. "Noted."
"I'm serious! It's infuriating to watch. He looks like an idiot."
On stage, Tony had grabbed the microphone and was now cheerfully explaining to the crowd—in excessive detail—exactly how the armor's waste management system worked. The technical specifications of superhero bathroom arrangements were apparently fascinating to the drunk billionaire.
Smith found it more amusing than offensive, while Bulma's expression had shifted from anger to pure disgust.
Yelena leaned toward Ivan with barely concealed mischief dancing in her eyes. "You're not planning to add a waste management system to your armor, are you?"
Ivan's face flushed. "I... have not yet reached that level of sophistication in the Blue Dynamo design, but it is a practical consideration for extended missions—"
"If you ever pee in that suit and then drink the filtered result," Yelena interrupted, her voice deadly serious despite the absurdity of the conversation, "I will break your jaw."
Ivan wisely chose not to respond.
Pepper materialized beside Smith, slightly out of breath. "Mr. Doyle, Tony's clearly out of control. Please—you're his friend, his savior—he'll listen to you. Can you talk him down before this gets worse?"
Before Smith could respond, Tony spotted Rhodes in the crowd. His face lit up with drunken enthusiasm.
"Hey! Want to see some fireworks?" Tony shouted to the models clustered below the platform. "Throw bottles in the air!"
A statuesque blonde immediately grabbed an empty champagne bottle and hurled it upward. Tony's palm repulsor activated with its distinctive whine, and the bottle exploded in a shower of glass and residual champagne.
The crowd went absolutely wild.
Tony's grin widened to manic proportions. "More! Come on, more!"
Additional bottles flew upward. Tony fired with both hands, then activated the chest-mounted unibeam, creating a spectacular display of exploding glass and pyrotechnics. The sound of shattering bottles and repulsor blasts mixed with ecstatic cheering, creating chaos that would have security personnel outside reaching for their weapons if they hadn't been specifically warned this was a Stark party.
Pepper looked like she wanted to murder someone. "Please," she repeated to Smith, desperation clear in her voice.
Smith considered Tony's behavior—the drinking, the showing off, the deliberate provocation. Then he thought about everything Tony had been through: kidnapping and torture in Afghanistan, Obadiah's betrayal, the constant threat of palladium poisoning, endless battles against terrorists and criminals, the weight of being a public superhero with every action scrutinized and criticized.
"Tony's been a superhero every single day for over a year now," Smith said quietly. "He's put himself in harm's way countless times, taken injuries, risked his life. He's entitled to let loose at his own birthday party."
Pepper opened her mouth to object, but Smith continued.
"And really, what exactly is he doing wrong? Breaking bottles on his own property? Dancing badly? Being drunk at his own celebration?" Smith met her eyes steadily. "He's not hurting anyone, Pepper. Let him have this."
The words struck home. Pepper's expression shifted as she processed them, really thinking about Tony's year for the first time in weeks. The kidnapping that had started everything. Obadiah's attempt to kill him. The constant pressure from the military and government. The media scrutiny. The responsibility of knowing that people's lives depended on him showing up when called.
And through all of it, Tony had been... well, Tony. Arrogant and difficult, yes, but also committed. Dedicated. Heroic in his own messy way.
Maybe he'd earned the right to be messy tonight.
Pepper walked to the beverage table without another word, selected a glass of wine, and downed it in one long swallow.
Tony's amplified voice boomed across the party space. "My brother! Smith Doyle!" He pointed dramatically toward where Smith stood. "Get up here!"
Every head in the room swiveled to stare at Smith.
"Come on! Let's celebrate together!"
Smith felt Bulma's questioning gaze and turned to meet her eyes. "Together?" he asked.
She studied his face for a moment, then a slow smile spread across her features. "Together."
They made their way through the crowd, which parted respectfully before them. Tony's grin widened further as they climbed onto the platform.
"Ladies and gentlemen—our genius scientist, the brilliant Bulma Brief!" Tony's arm swept toward her in presentation. "And our resident god, the one and only Smith Doyle!"
Smith walked directly to the DJ booth, where a professional wearing expensive headphones looked up in surprise. "Play 'Happy' by Pharrell Williams," Smith requested.
The DJ's face lit up with understanding. He pulled up the track, and the opening notes filled the space—upbeat, infectious, impossible not to move to.
Tony's face transformed with delight as he recognized the song. The music was perfect—celebratory without being aggressive, fun without being crude.
Smith, Bulma, and Tony began dancing together on the platform. Nothing complex or choreographed—just genuine movement to the rhythm, the kind of unselfconscious dancing that came from actually enjoying yourself rather than trying to impress anyone.
The energy was infectious. Within seconds, the crowd below started moving with them. Yelena grabbed Ivan's hand and pulled him into motion despite his protests that Russians didn't dance to American pop music. Pepper found herself swaying despite her earlier stress. Even Rhodes, still frustrated but unable to resist the momentum, started tapping his foot.
Happy appeared at the edge of the platform and offered his hand to Pepper, who laughed—actually laughed—and accepted, letting him spin her into the dancing crowd.
The party transformed from a showcase of Tony's self-destruction into something else entirely: a genuine celebration. People stopped watching and started participating. The atmosphere shifted from tense to joyful, from worried to carefree.
Tony caught Smith's eye across the platform and mouthed two words: Thank you.
Smith just grinned and kept dancing.
Sometimes the best thing a friend could do was join the chaos rather than try to stop it. Sometimes people needed permission to be imperfect, to let loose, to remember that life was meant to be lived.