End of The Avengers, just after the Battle of New York

War greets us all.

We fall in line.

Put discord aside,

Unite.

War says farewell,

The line parts,

Dear King,

Who will unite?

Tony's POV

War had greeted us in the form of Thor's younger brother Loki. Despite discord amongst each other pre-battle, when it was time to fight, we fell in line. We united and we won.

Now my new shiny skyscraper was scraping a little less sky. I was suited up and doing a fly-around, scanning the building for damage. Technically, J.A.R.V.I.S. was doing the scanning, I was just providing the flight trajectory as I spiraled down from the tippy-top to the welcome desk of S.I., mere meters from the city street of Manhattan. The growing list of repairs popping up in the lower left corner of my visor told me that she was singed, and a bit dinged up, but surprisingly intact.

Pep owns 12% of the building; I own 88%. My 88% is the part that's still intact. Carrying a nuke to space. Taking on Loki mono-e-mono while the rest of the crew poked-about traveling to the main event. Jonah and the whaling the shit out of that sky monster. Totally earned the 88% that's still immaculate.

"Do me a favor Jar, don't tell Pepper I thought that."

"You have yet to imbue me with the power of occlumency, sir. I know not of what you speak."

"Good. Good. That's good."

Problem two. No one could get to Pep's 12% to fix it. The roads were littered with alien tech and body parts. The alien tech blocking city traffic needs to be towed to a scrapyard. I had instant conformation that that was being done as a truck belching exhaust trundled by hauling a load of the space debris. But which scrapyard it was being toted to needs to change.

Point 1: Call me selfish. Narcissistic. Don't really care. But I don't want anyone else putting their hands on that tech. Except Bruce. I want to lay claim to it to see how it differs from our tech and see what I can learn and use from it.

Point 2: Our fair city is far from fair when it came to crime. I don't sell weapons and I sure as hell am not going to let alien tech make its way into the hands of NYC criminal types; or their counterpart government goons. Roll the presses: 'Green Light on Crime: Criminals are now taking up arms with green beam shooting alien tech.' Yeah, best to avoid a headline like that. Which meant I needed to be involved in the cleanup.

"J.A.R.V.I.S., contact Ms. Potts."

"Right away, Sir."

She answered with just my name, "Tony?"

"Uh, yeah. I want in on the salvage cleanup. Of the alien stuff. I want it secured and out of the city."

"Any suggestions on how to go about that?"

"Search the rolodex for any politicians who owe us favors. Work out a deal. They pay the salaries. We pay for background checks and secure storage." She was jotting down notes. "And let's arrange it so we can recoup our expenses. Broker a deal for future, non-weapon tech, derived from the alien tech, created by Stark Industries R&D."

"Do you have a location in mind, or shall I search for a storage facility to purchase?"

"Sir, if I may," J.A.R.V.I.S. interrupted, "you own a facility on the outskirts of D.C. that may suit your purpose, with some remodeling of course."

"Send the address to Pep's tablet."

"Done, Sir."

"Will that be all, Mr. Stark?"

"That will be all, Ms. Potts. I do, however need to speak with Pepper. Have dinner with me."

She was having trouble kicking the Ms. Potts headspace. I could see her look of distress and dismay. "I have too much to do, Tony."

"Hire someone. Someone good. Pay them a bucket of money. Hand off 70% of that to-do list. Come join me for dinner and we'll see how much of the remaining 30% we can knock off the list."

She was nibbling her thumbnail. Good. Almost sold. Last push. "It seems to me we were in the middle of a celebration. Promises were made. I finished my homework, Ms. Potts. Come celebrate with me."

She was still nibbling, but with a bit of a blush to her cheeks this time.

"Please."

She relented, "7:30. Where?"

"My suite at the tower."

"Tony, it has no windows. Or walls."

"So we'll have a picnic and watch the sunset. I don't want public tonight, Pep, just you."

We had our dinner, a hardy pot pie ordered in from a local mom & pop with 4 standing walls and enough Yelp stars to not fear of rodents or roaches in their pantry. New York is pest infested.

I decided to share some of what had been going through my mind. "I want them here."

"Who?"

"The team. I want them to live in the tower."

"Why?"

Natural question for her to ask. I wasn't entirely sure I knew the answer, so I rambled. "I don't trust S.H.I.E.L.D.. They had a room stock full of weapons designed off the Cube. The Nazis had weapons based off the Cube back in the 40s. Dad told me those weapons made people vaporize in an instant. Who does S.H.I.E.L.D. intend to vaporize with them? Fury claims aliens. But, Fury answers to somebody and that somebody was prepared to nuke Manhattan."

"What does that have to do with inviting the others to live here?"

"They're beholden to S.H.I.E.L.D.. At least 3 out of 5 of them are. Steve, Clint and Tasha all pull salary from S.H.I.E.L.D. and live, at least part-time, in their facilities. Thor, with his honor code may even feel beholden to them for keeping his lady friend out of harm's way. Bruce is the only one that wants nothing to do with them."

"Are you saying you want to hire them? Have them under your thumb instead of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s?"

"Bruce, definitely. The others, no. Is Natalie still pulling salary from us?"

"Ms. Rushman is no longer employed by Stark Industries."

"Good. I don't like having spies in my ranks."

Pep snorted.

"What?" I asked.

"Yes you do. You just prefer when they're doing their spying for you, not against you."

"Wouldn't make sense to want someone spying on me, unless it was so I could deliberately give them false information. And I don't hire spies."

"No. You make them."

"J.A.R.V.I.S. is much more trustworthy than a paid spy. He'll never have alternative motives."

"Sir is correct. I am programed to look out for his best interest in all matters."

"Wait," something had just occurred to me, "Jar, what happens when there's a clash between my best interest and Jack Nicholasing the truth, the full truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"Full truth, sir? I'm not sure such a thing exist."

"Tricky bastard," I muttered. I'd have to add in a Crystal Clear initiative into his programing to override J.A.R.V.I.S.' interpretation of my best interest, for encase of emergencies only though. I didn't want J.A.R.V.I.S. to think I didn't trust him. My brain had slipped into programing mode, figuring out how to create the new initiative. Pep dragged me back into the present.

"I think we're getting off topic, Tony. Why do you want the Avengers living here?"

"We're a team. A team can't have divided loyalties. We need to be united against what's coming."

"But you won, Tony. The threat's gone."

"Is it? You don't know what I saw out there."

"Then tell me."

"They have ships, Pep. Things that would dwarf the heli-carrier." Her brow quirked. Forgot. She hadn't seen it. "Best estimate, 19 hundred meters by 800 meters by 12 hundred." She was giving me the get-real look. Why couldn't others put images to numbers like I could? She'd been with me on sales deals on aircraft carriers. "Picture 8 aircraft carriers all squeezed together to make a massive ship." This time she nodded, but with huge eyes. "Pep, that thing wasn't near any planets. It had flown there. And if it had flown there maybe it could fly here."

"Space is vast, Tony. They used the opening in space because normal travel would take them too long."

"If it would take them too long, why are they bothering coming here? If it isn't to conquer, take our lands and enslave the people, then what do they want? Either they're physically close, or they want something here bad enough to find a way around normal travel. They're coming back Pep. I feel it. And when they do, our team needs to be united."

"Alright, we'll set them up with rooms. How do you intend to get them to agree?"

"I sell. It's what I do. I'll sell them on it."

I can't not act on a plan, so I opened up a 3-D model of the tower and Pepper and I started discussing where to put each team member's room and any extras each individual will need.

I gave Natasha the whole spiel. Free luxury lodging. A closet full of adult size Barbie dress up items for her to go play 'kill the husband' in while gathering intel on her next target. I even offered to have my accountant handle the financial affairs of any of her inheritances from said former spouses.

She glared. "I've never been married, Stark, but my bite is as deadly as the spider I'm named for."

I rolled my eyes. "Come on, Tash. Climb down out of your web and accept the lotto ticket I'm offering."

"Thanks for the offer, but no."

"Why?"

"You have two obsessions, Stark. Security and work. You want us as a blanket. But having us live off your dough would stick in your craw."

With dry sarcasm, I asserted, "I think I have a few bills to spare."

"Yet despite your deep bank account, you don't kick back floating about on a yacht, or swinging a golf club."

"I'm not 90."

"No. You're a workaholic."

"Most people say I'm an alcoholic."

"That too." She smiled.

"So why exactly is the former an issue?"

"I researched you."

My nostrils flared, still ticked that I'd been her research project.

She continued, "You started working for S.I. before most people start kindergarten. Even after ditching your C.E.O. position, you continued working countless hours with R&D, sales, and public relations. You work and you expect dedication and quality work from your employees. It doesn't matter how thick your wallet is, sooner rather than later us sitting around, living off you is going to get on your nerves."

She had too good of a read on me and I didn't like it.

Natalia finished with, "I have too much respect for you to do that to you."

I nearly swooned in shock at the compliment, "Quick! 911! I think I'm having a heart attack!" I actually got a giggle out of the Queen of Serious.

So much for salesman-ship. I was only able to recruit one out of the five, Bruce.

I was able to hit the full pyramid of Maslow's hierarchy of neediness for him.

One, the stuff your body needs, in the form of take-out on speed dial and two side-by side King size beds, incase Hulk requires naptime. Bruce had rolled his eyes at that one.

Two, shelter and financial security. Ahem, two King size beds in an awesome, private apartment along with full time employment, in the best toy land ever!

Three, fulfillment of that sense of belonging, i.e. me, as his science-bro. We were totally going to rock science together.

Four, respect for self and from others. Mr. Shy and Angry was going to need a boat load of help with that self-respect thing. But Mr. 7 PhDs and counting was going to spend his days with a whole department full of geeks and nerds that would sell their left testicle (or ovary) to have his I.Q. (They'd sell both of them for mine.)

And finally, five, all the finances he could need to let his knowledge run wild to creatively solve the problems plaguing the world.

Turns out, for the rest of the crew all I could hit were food and shelter. All of them politely said that they may stop by sometime, but that they weren't looking for a new home. Even Capsicle. Steve had decided to use his backpay, inflated from 1940's currency to modern day moola, to go explore the U.S. of A. on his motorcycle. Which I gave him. But that's a story for another day.

A united team was a bust.

Turns out me napping a few hundred meters below the whole to space I'd fallen through was a bust too. After a few months of sleep deprivation headaches, and Pepper touching up the blacklines under my eyes with her makeup kit, Pep commandeered me to California by scheduling sales deals and press conferences on the west coast, effectively moving us into my Malibu mansion. It took me 8 days to catch on to the fact that she had no intention of us returning to the tower.

I was still stumbling over Maslow's stage one of needs, as sleep still evaded me. But that stage 3: a sense of belonging? Swamped with it the second I entered my home lab. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed my bots. I called out, "Daddy's home." I was swarmed, and petted and patted and beeped at by You, Butterfingers, and my first born, DUM-E.

"Alright, alright. Enough of that. We've got suits to build. Butterfingers, you're on coffee detail. Once you've got the pot on, gather supplies. Same ones from last time. You, bring up your recordings from the last test run on Mach VII. J.A.R.V.I.S., do what you do. Secure files. Generate blueprints."

"Of course, sir."

"DUM-E," DUM-E was clingy, even when I was only gone a day or two. If I suggested he work on his own he'd give a mournful beep and likely rush through whatever task I set him so he could get back to my side. "DUM-E, you're with me. Let's start with the leg assembly. I want the new suit to be piecemeal, so individual parts can be replaced instead of the whole suit the next time he gets banged up."

Then we were off and inventing, me and my little family of A.I.s. We were a unit.