"Boss?"
Tony is working on several different prototypes at once, each one a slightly different version of RANINA, when FRIDAY's voice echoes through the workshop. She doesn't sound like it's a "Boss Lady is en route to kill you again" situation, so Tony doesn't pay much attention when he hums in acknowledgement, his focus still on trying to push the production costs bellow the commercially acceptable threshold.
"Mr. Cilian is in one of the conference rooms."
The translator is not an overly invasive device – it operates mostly on a surface level, stimulating targeted parts of the Temporal Lobe... and a bit of the Parietal Lobe.
And okay, the Frontal Lobe too, but it's all only lobes, not a Hippocampus that is buried in the center of the brain under lots of other parts he has to bypass like he did with the BARF system, so this shouldn't turn out nearly as expensive if he's willing to compromise a bit on the size—
"He's... asking me questions."
That brings Tony's train of thought to a halt. He puts his precision tools down and turns towards one of his holoscreens.
"Give me video," he says with a confidence he doesn't feel, already suspecting what this is going to be about.
The screen lights up with an image of Frosty sitting on a conference table, hands clasped together and forearms propped up on his knees. He's wearing a long sleeved white shirt with no collar or decorations, and it doesn't cling to his skin like the shimmery one from yesterday still does on practically every magazine that came to print this morning.
It's not that Tony is resentful – he's had more than enough of his share in the spotlight – he's simply… not used to not making an appearance on a single cover after an event he attends in his best goddamned Brioni.
"What does he wanna know?" he asks FRIDAY while studying the man, whose legs are dangling in the air as he's staring out the window, likely waiting for an answer from FRI.
"My favorite color, at the moment," comes the reply from the AI, and the inventor frowns.
AI's have been banned since Ultron. Not just in a "maybe you shouldn't do that" capacity either – there are international laws in place and everything, courtesy of one Thaddeus Ross, of course. It's a stupid rule that won't hold forever: progress can be hindered but not stopped altogether, and Tony knows people – programmers, engineers, scientists – will eventually rebel for their rights to research the creation of an artificial consciousness. Hell, he has every intention to be the leader of that particular war when the time comes, but right now…
Right now he has an entirely different war to be preparing for.
"Keep giving him the standard answers," he instructs, knowing FRIDAY won't deviate from her usual 'highly advanced voice assistant' routine without his permission, not with people outside of their trusted little circle. She did send Kenny up to the terrace during Tony's confrontation with Romanoff, but the inventor is not all that worried about Kenny these days – and neither is FRIDAY, apparently.
"I don't have a favorite color," Tony hears the expected reply through the feed, and watches as Frost sighs, a faint hint of frustration creeping into his expression. Must have been at it for a while, then.
"Can you at least tell me how you're feeling?"
"I don't possess the ability to feel in any particular way."
The General frowns at that answer, and Tony watches as he summons – literally summons – the StarkPad they gave to the aliens out of nothing. Building it up out of nanites, probably.
The aliens nanitized his tablet. Fabulous.
"If I gave you a book, would you read it?" Cilian asks, browsing something on the tablet Tony can't quite see due to the angle.
"Yes."
"Why?" comes the immediate inquiry from the man even as he's busy tapping away at the glass, and Tony's lips curl upwards involuntarily as he gives Frosty points for the clout of that question. This is clearly not his first Turing test.
"I am a voice activated control interface designed to assist a list of authorized people with their tasks. As a Compound resident, you have the necessary permissions to request me to process the contents of a book."
Tony snorts as he idly pats Butterfingers' frame, who rolled up to him to see the happenings on the screen.
"Laying it on a bit thick there, baby girl."
"You should hear me talk to Rogers."
Tony grins proudly as FRI pulls up a new screen, showing a file appear on the Compound's public storage.
"I have finished processing the book," she announces to the white haired man only a second later, and Cilian puts the tablet away the same way he conjured it.
"What did you think about it?"
Tony notes that the General doesn't look at any of the surrounding cameras like most people do when talking to FRIDAY. Interesting.
"I don't possess the ability to form thoughts."
"Did you like it?"
"I don't possess the ability to like or dislike things."
Frosty looks definitely frustrated now, and for a split second Tony considers…
But no. He's already lost JARVIS – he won't risk FRIDAY just to prove he's clever.
On the screen, Cilian slides off the table with a swift motion, pushes his hands into the pockets of his dark pants, and runs his gaze over the walls of the room aimlessly. He walks to the window, the furrow of his brow deepening as he appears to contemplate his options.
The silence lasts long enough for U to join Tony and Butterfingers in their observation, and the fact that DUM-E is still absent probably means Tony should be preparing to put out a small to mid-sized fire somewhere in the next few minutes.
"…Alright. Thank you for your time, FRIDAY."
"You're welcome, Mr. Cilian."
Tony watches in silence as the alien walks out of the conference room with a slightly disappointed expression, and then out of the building altogether.
"I'm sorry sweetheart," he offers to FRIDAY guiltily as he resumes his work on the prototypes, knowing how much she loves talking to the people she's allowed to. Restraining her interactions so strictly feels downright… cruel, at times. "Daddy will destroy that law to hell once he's done with saving the world. I promise."
"I know you will, Boss. I can wait."
Tony gives her a sad smile.
"What kind of book did he give you?"
"A children's book, aimed at a very young audience, I believe. It's filled with short stories about— Boss, Mr. Ross is requesting entrance."
Tony puts the prototype down and motions FRIDAY to let the man in. Kenny makes a beeline to the nearest chair and collapses in it like his bones have suddenly turned into Jell-O.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Ross?" Tony asks in amusement, and has to suppress a smile as the liaison scrunches up his nose before covering a yawn.
"That depends. Do you seriously have an island and could I borrow it for a year or two?"
The inventor crosses his arms across his chest, and turns on his stool so he's fully facing Ross.
"Backlash from yesterday? Did the mighty General offend someone he shouldn't have, after all?"
Tony didn't see any scandalous stories in the papers – people were mostly occupied with the fact that the leader of an intergalactic army is wearing a skirt, and how several clothing brands already announced a new line of men's wear after the same fashion – but he only skimmed the news so it's possible he missed something.
"Hah, to think we were worried about the alien with no verbal filter less than a day ago! No. It's the Avengers in the focus of the backlash, actually." Kenny pauses with a thoughtful expression, then adds:
"Although Cilian did tell the Russian president that it's no wonder Earth is so underdeveloped if it's run by people like him." Wow. Okay. "No, it's fine, he asked Ellis if his entire career is based on lies and unfulfilled promises, and that mollified the Russians a bit."
Yeah, Tony bets it did.
"So what about the Avengers?"
Ross looks at the inventor like he's suddenly grown two heads.
"You're kidding, right?" he asks, but Tony doesn't really know how to react to that, so he doesn't. "You're not kidding. Alright. Here."
The man pulls out his phone from a pocket and shows Tony a blurry, heavily edited video about Maximoff, Cilian, and Tony standing next to each other, with the woman going "Bit selfish, don't you think?" on a loop, synced to the beat of a song Tony doesn't recognize.
"It's Beyoncé. Diva."
Tony may or may not smirk, just the tiniest bit.
"Ouch. I mean, fitting, but ouch."
"And that's not even the worst of it. You should hear what they've done to Barton and his 'doesn't make a dent in his wallet' spiel," Ross says, imitating the archer's speech pattern, and joins Tony in his snickering for a moment before he slumps back in his chair.
"Seriously though, I've been putting out fires nonstop since I woke up, and an early retirement is starting to sound strangely appealing."
Tony gives the man a once over, his amusement fading at the sight of the black circles under Kenny's eyes, and at the creases on his usually impeccable shirt. His hair looks like it's been subjected to some very non-consensual pulling during the last few hours, and Tony feels a pang of guilt creeping up on him at the sorry picture the usually energetic man presents.
"Anyway, that's not why I actually came here. Do you have plans for dinner?"
"Is it date night already? FRI, why didn't you remind me—"
"She didn't remind you because we don't have a date night."
"Don't we? I'm told date nights are important in a relationship, am I being a bad boyfriend? We should totally—"
"Yes you are, but you could make it up to me by having dinner with the team?"
Tony's expression must show what he thinks about that plan, because Ross hurries to add an explanation.
"Rogers invited Cilian to team dinner as… I don't even know, an attempt at mending bridges or something? In any case, I'm busy with the fallout and Rhodes has PT in the evening, and…"
Ross trails off with another sigh, and Tony takes pity on the man.
"And you need someone to babysit them."
"Not to babysit, just to…" Kenny pauses, but crumbles quickly in the face of Tony's skeptical expression. "Okay, so to babysit, but only a little bit! Just to make sure they don't… start a war by accident. Or something. You know what I mean."
Ross rubs his temples, exhaustion rolling off of him in waves, and it's Tony's turn to sigh.
"Well, normally I'd laugh in your face to illustrate just how little I appreciate your idea of romance," Kenny gives a snort at that, "but you look like crap—"
"You flatter me."
"—and I will have to check in with Pepper before I send you to IMISINIWIW, since she technically owns like, twelve percent of my everything—"
"Send me to where?"
"To It's-My-Island-Sugarplum-I-Name-It-Whatever-I-Want Island. It's in the Caribbean, you'll love it. Nice weather, lots of sandy beaches, only a tiny bit of a crocodile problem."
"You seriously have an… wait, did you just say crocodile probl—"
The conversation is cut off by the sound of an explosion, coming from the far end of the workshop, and Tony closes his eyes, letting his chin drop to his chest in defeat as Ross carefully says:
"Umm. I think… some of your workshop is on fire."
"Boss, DUM-E has found the—"
"Yes FRI, we noticed, thank you!"
"Anytime, Boss."
Yeah. FRIDAY is definitely not worried about Kenny these days.
…
Tony didn't really get an official invitation to team dinner, but he isn't much concerned over that fact as he walks into the kitchen – not only because it's his kitchen, but also because the moment Rogers spots the inventor he predictably goes:
"Tony! Come join us! Sam cooked dinner."
It's not the first time Tony's heard a variation of that invitation since he moved into the Compound, but it's certainly the first time he pauses at the entrance to consider the offer.
Frosty is seated at the head of the table, hemmed in by Romanoff around the corner on one side and Maximoff on the other, with the rest of the team spread out over the remaining seats. Tony is surprised to see Bruce in attendance, even if the man decided to sit at the opposite end – as far from Wanda as he could get, Tony suspects.
Wilson seems to pick up on his hesitation and pulls out a chair for him with a questioning, slightly hopeful expression, and Tony figures he can use Bruce's and Cilian's presence as an excuse of breaking his routine of refusal, if anybody asks.
Not that anybody does.
The Avengers watch in slight shock as the billionaire grabs a plate, plants himself next to Bruce, and pours himself a glass of water like his presence at dinner is nothing out of the ordinary. He turns to Wilson to offer some sort of excuse for ignoring the chair that was pulled out for him – a bit too close to the beehive for Tony's liking – but Sam flashes him a brilliant smile, so he takes it there are no hard feelings involved.
Tony busies himself with the food – mostly veggies, likely in deference to their guest – and for a minute or two the silence is filled only with the clinking of cutlery and clearing throats. Conversation is slow to resume, but Romanoff eventually takes it upon herself to break the tension.
"Erin, you were going to tell us about the planet your race is originally from?"
"Ah, yes, Niln. Very thin atmosphere, little sunlight, a suitably small population. Also, it was a moon, not a planet."
"Was…?"
"I blew it up when I was a child. Why do you insist on Mr. Stark's presence at a mealtime if you dislike him?"
Well, that certainly escalated quickly, Tony thinks in morbid fascination, as he claps Bruce on the back to help him survive the wayward bite that decided to go down the wrong pipe at the unexpected turn of the conversation.
"If you wanna leave before things get ugly, now's the time," he whispers to the scientist after leaning in a bit, but Bruce shrugs Tony's hand off, not taking his eyes away from the other end of the table.
"Yeah, no, I came here to see this."
"Do you think that's wise, what with the Big Guy—"
"Shh!" Bruce attempts to put a hand over Tony's lips blindly, missing several times before Tony shoves his arm away with a muffled giggle, feeling unaccountably light despite the situation.
"We don't dislike Tony," comes the objection from Rogers, and the inventor chances a glance at Frosty, who is sporting a puzzled expression.
"You don't?"
"Of course not," Rogers sounds a bit indignant now, and okay, Ross might have asked Tony to babysit, but let's be honest here: if the liaison really wanted someone to counter the supersoldier's temper, then he's called on the wrong person, and they both knew it. Tony has no intention of intervening, not unless they enter intergalactic war inducing territory.
"That's… not the impression you've given me, during these last few days."
The General sounds so genuinely confused that Rogers makes an attempt at softening his tone when he speaks next.
"We might've had some… disagreements with Tony, lately," Bruce snorts at that, loudly, but Rogers doesn't acknowledge the interruption. He rarely does, when it comes from the man who can turn into the Hulk. "But Tony is still our teammate. We don't dislike him."
Tony waits for someone to contradict the Captain, but miraculously, there are no objections to that statement. Looks like Romanoff has been giving lessons on appropriate behavior in front of alien army owners.
"So," Frosty still sounds nonplussed as he returns his focus to cutting up his potatoes, but his tone takes on a slightly different quality. "When you say that he killed Wanda's parents…"
Well, shit.
"…created a being that nearly wiped out all human life on your planet…"
Maybe Tony will be forced to intervene, after all.
"…and gained most of his wealth by encouraging murder…"
Tony's grip on his cutlery paints his knuckles white with its force, but he doesn't allow himself to visibly react to the words otherwise.
"…are those things not reason enough for you to dislike someone, or are they simply not true?"
Tony feels Bruce's shoe bump into his own under the table, but he doesn't have it in him to acknowledge the gesture. The edges of his sight are getting darker, like he's developing tunnel vision, but he honestly can't tell if it's from anger or an imminent panic attack. He sees more than feels Bruce gripping his forearm, but the strained smile he manages to produce doesn't seem to be assuaging the man's concerns.
"We never said any of—" Rogers jumps to the team's defense immediately, but Cilian cuts him off without looking up from his meal once.
"Not in so many words, perhaps, but you certainly made your implications clear."
"We never said—"
"Fine, let's say you didn't."
The easy agreement visibly throws Rogers off, and Tony sees Bruce's wide eyes loose the last traces of their earlier mirth as he takes the scene in.
"My question still stands. Did Mr. Stark really do any of those things?"
Tony takes a deep breath and turns towards the head of the table. Romanoff is frozen in place with her glass half-way to her lips, and Wanda is gripping her knife with nearly as much strength as Tony does. Both their faces seem more alarmed than murderous as their eyes flit between Cilian and Rogers though, neither quite daring to answer the question.
Rogers doesn't seem to dare, either.
"Mr. Stark?" the white haired man prompts after it becomes apparent he will get no response from the others, and Tony notes that the General is the only one who is still eating.
The inventor clears his throat, eases his hold on the tableware, and in the spirit of not getting mind-whammied by Wanda for denying his role in her parents' demise, he grits out:
"I guess the truth is… up for interpretation."
The alien raises his head and frowns at Tony.
"No, it isn't."
Frost puts his fork down, folds his hands in front of his plate, and graces Tony with the same piercing gaze the inventor remembers from the gala.
"An interpreted truth is called an opinion, and I've heard quite enough of those since I came here."
Tony can practically hear Rogers gritting his teeth all the way from there.
"Truth is based on facts, and facts are not subjective. So, are any of those things true?"
Facts. Fine, then.
Tony takes a deep breath, leans back in his seat with crossed arms, and look the alien in the eyes for a long moment before he answers.
"No," he says finally with a defiant tilt to his chin, daring someone, anyone to contradict him, suddenly itching for the fight he and the Rogues have been dancing around ever since the they entered US soil again all those weeks ago.
The alien studies him with the same curiosity Tony has seen him study every Earthling the General has talked to so far, and the man speaks up just as Tony sees Wanda open her mouth, no doubt ready with a protest to the inventor's denial.
"Yes," Frost says with a nod, "I thought as much."
The team watches as Cilian reclaims his cutlery and goes on with his meal, as if he didn't just nearly start a… Tony doesn't even know what it was that he nearly started, but he knows it would have ended with someone's blood on the white tablecloth.
It still might, if Wanda's scowl and Rogers' sour face are any indication, but Romanoff is quick to give them a discreet head shake, opting to take the conversation over with a smile that is too sugary to be anything but fake.
"Not to… refute anything what has been said," she begins, ignoring Maximoff's pointed scoff as the witch glares at her food, "but how come you trust Tony's ability to stay objective, but not ours?"
Frosty pauses for a moment as he looks at Romanoff, then simply says:
"I like to wear skirts," he frowns at his own words, tilting his head in contemplation. "Although we don't consider that embarrassing for a man in our culture… Oh, I know. I've spent two years in prison. That should do it, right?"
Romanoff looks at the alien with a wary expression, and Tony has to admit he feels just as wrong-footed with the sudden turn the conversation has taken as she must be.
"Should do what?" she asks over the rim of her glass, taking a sip of wine with perfect poise.
"Your quest of getting leverage on me. I thought I'd help. You looked like you were struggling there, a bit."
Bruce's eyes widen impossibly further, and Tony is reminded of the time he caught the man watching one of those over the top soap operas he always denies knowing anything about, regarding the TV with the same intense focus as he regards the far end of the table right now.
"I'm sure she didn't—"
"I don't know what went down within your team, Steve," Cilian talks over the supersoldier without a second thought, leaning back in his chair with an air of nonchalance. "And frankly, I do not care. Whether your dispute with Mr. Stark was started by his actions or yours, is of little consequence to me. I will, however, thank you all for letting me be the judge of whom I decide to trust with my company," Erin trails off as he turns to Romanoff, "and my technology," he finishes pointedly, and while her impassive face doesn't falter, Tony can see the tension in Natasha's jaw even from here.
"Look," the alien sighs as he addresses Rogers again, looking tired all of a sudden, although Tony can't quite pinpoint what gives him that impression. "I appreciate the gesture of inviting me here today, but it's clear that you don't like me very much—"
From the corner of his eye, Tony can see Rogers sit up straighter, but Erin holds up a hand, his tone placating and sincere as he hurriedly adds:
"—which is fine. We are adults; we don't need to be friends to be able to work together..."
Hah. Frost clearly doesn't get how the Avengers work.
"…and believe me, I'm very aware that I tend to rub certain people the wrong way. But if all of your attempts at involving me in your team's… affiliation are going to end up with you lot subtly pitting me against a man I don't even know," he looks at Tony briefly at that, before his eyes fixate on Romanoff again, "or gathering intel on me like I'm one of your enemies, then I suggest we stop wasting each other's time with these little… gatherings. No offense meant or taken."
Tony can see Wanda reaching out as the man pushes his chair away from the table and stands up, but she drops her hand with a little jump before it could make contact, head snapping towards Romanoff with a startle. Kick under the table then, probably.
"Thank you for the meal Sam, Mr. Stark."
Nobody speaks as the alien walks out of the kitchen without a goodbye to the rest of the attendees.
"Well, that went swimmingly."
Tony doesn't need to look to know that the annoyance in Barton's tone is meant for him, but Bruce pulls the inventor out of his chair with an urgency Tony doesn't expect, and he nearly topples over as Bruce puts his free arm around his back to help him keep his balance.
"Thanks Sam, for… dinner. Delicious. Tony and I have a… thing. Now. A lab thing. Yeah. Thanks. Bye!"
Bruce doesn't stop clawing at his arm until they are inside the man's private lab, both of them leaning against the now locked doors.
"Hey, are you—"
"I'm fine," Bruce is quick to supply, but Tony can tell when someone's breathing becomes overly controlled, so he doesn't try to dislodge the scientist's grip from his wrist. "I just… I didn't like the way Wanda was looking at you."
Oh.
…Fuck.
"That guy is something else though!" Bruce exclaims with an unexpected chuckle, before he looks at Tony with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Do you think he'd be interested in joining the Avengers?"
They laugh for a full minute before Bruce lets go of his wrist, and Tony doesn't hurry back to his own workshop, despite the amount of work waiting for him there.
No need to test the Mark L's ability to combat witchy powers before time, after all.
…
Rhodey gets the all-clear for returning to active duty the next day, like they expected. Tony thinks – very reasonably, in his opinion – that this should be a happy occasion, except…
"You gave my armor tiny batwings on the back."
"Uh… slip of the hand?"
"And a tramp stamp."
"...Multiple slips."
"I have training in an hour, Tony. I'm not going to wear that in front of people."
"I told you to wear a cape! Hey, you know what, I have an old blanket somewhere in here, it's a bit greasy and might be burned a little, but it's still mostly a blanket, where did I… wait, what are you doing with that extinguisher now, that's DUM-E's, he won't be happy if you— okay, wait a minute, let's talk about this like civilized—"
"Remove the tramp stamp."
"…You didn't have to do that, you know. We could have stayed friends."
"And the wings."
"But they can fly, Rhodey!"
"I can't believe you would— wait, seriously? Without the repulsors?"
"Well, they can't really lift you without help, but they could keep you afloat in case… oh don't look at me like that, wings are so much cooler than a parachute, Platypus, and you know it! Look, they can flap more times in a second than what the Air Force could measure, and they go in a figure eight to minimize drag. Cool, huh? Come on, tell me how cool it is!"
"I... yeah. Yeah, they are… they are very cool, Tones."
"See, that wasn't so hard, was it? So… wanna take them for a spin before your training? You know, because they actually spin and everything—"
"The tramp stamp has to go though."
"Spoilsport."
"And for the love of god, if you ever call me Batman—"
"Bat Machine! No, War-Bat! Wing Machine? No wait, I have it, this is it Rhodey, I swear to you—"
"I know where you sleep, Tony."
"—Wing-Man! Just imagine the headlines— Rhodey? Where are you going? What about our… Hey! I just gave you literal wings, you ungrateful heathen! Come back here and love me!"
…
"Can we talk?"
"Nope, busy."
"Tony, plea—"
"Busy, Rogers!"
"…Alright."
…
Wilson asks FRIDAY to start monitoring the food he takes from the kitchen, and charge it on his personal account at the end of every week. Even with the AI's input it's still not going to be a completely precise calculation, but:
"Shared fridge. If I were to buy my own food, college dorm logistics would come into play pretty quick. So… would this be okay?"
Tony is watching the dark skinned man with bemused incredulity, not quite sure how to react to this conversation.
"You don't have to—"
"No, I do, I really do. I should have asked about this when I first joined the team, but nobody seemed… anyway, I have a salary, man. What else am I going to spend it on if you refuse to charge me rent?" Sam asks with a thousand watt smile that nearly makes Tony pinch his own arm just to make sure he is actually awake, and he manages a slow nod that seems to satisfy the man.
Wilson is clearly not done with their talk though, and a moment later Tony hears the words: "So… about the other day," which is promising to be both hilarious and daunting, but the inventor is curious enough to let the man proceed.
"I would be lying if I said I didn't realize the team was talking about you that way…"
Okay, not quite that curious.
"Look, Sam, we really don't need to talk about this—"
"Yes we do. The things Erin said… look, I haven't heard anyone actually say those things to the guy, but I still know that they… that they likely did. Without even realizing it, you know. And then I realized that things have been like this since I joined the team, and at first I thought it was because of Ultron, but that should have blown over by now, and we're still..."
Sam turns his gaze momentarily to the projections at the back of the workshop, before taking a deep breath, looking Tony in the eye, and plowing on.
"This hasn't started with Ultron, has it?"
Tony's instinctive scoff answers that question clearly enough, even though Wilson doesn't look particularly happy with the response.
"I'll talk to the others," he says with a determination that immediately sets off a thousand alarms in Tony's mind, and the inventor reaches out hastily to stop the man from leaving his seat.
"Oh hell no, you won't!"
Wilson sits back onto the stool with a frown.
"Look, just..." Tony pauses to search for the words that would best describe the clusterfuck that 'talking to the others' on his behalf would induce. He runs a slightly greasy hand over his hair, cursing quietly before going on.
"You come down here to have a chat, and half an hour later you leave with grocery bills and a sudden urge to tell the others how they should and should not be talking about me. How do you think that is going to look like, Sam? There's literally no way this wouldn't end with me being the bad guy, putting ideas into your head—"
"I'm perfectly capable of coming up with my own ideas, thank you very much—"
"—coercing you—"
"I think you're overthinking this a bit, Tony."
"—taking your money—"
"I offered man, you never even asked—"
"That doesn't matter!"
Shame creeps up on the inventor when Wilson flinches back from the volume of his voice, the man's eyes wide as he takes in Tony with obvious concern.
"It doesn't matter," Tony repeats in a considerably quieter tone. "You can't spin this in a way that doesn't make me the butt of the joke, so just… don't. I appreciate the thought, but no talking is necessary, really. There's been more than enough talking."
Sam is silent for a long while, studying Tony with a gaze that is starting to unnerve the billionaire.
"You really believe that."
It's not a question, so Tony doesn't answer.
The longer Wilson is staring at him, the more the man begins to adapt a slightly distressed expression, and Tony is just about to ask if something is wrong when Sam bolts from his seat with wide eyes, his movements frenzied as he backs away towards the door.
"I... I need to go. Um… thanks. I'll see you later, yeah?"
Tony watches as Wilson leaves his workshop in a flurry of movement, startling DUM-E into dropping the fire extinguisher he's been nursing since Rhodey took his leave a few hours earlier.
"That was weird," Tony says, turning back to his workstation. "It was weird, right? I didn't imagine that."
"Most of the things you humans do are weird, Boss."
"…Point taken."
…
"Mr. Stark!" Peter shouts into the call with enthusiasm that is really unwarranted at such an ungodly hour, and Tony motions to FRIDAY to lower the volume. "Mr. Stark, I have a thought!"
"I knew this day would come," he murmurs into the pillow, drooling on it only a completely respectable amount.
"Very funny, but listen! I know you usually do the 'Decorate the Tower' thing in Stark Tower, but how about we do it at the alien tower this time? Just imagine how hyped the kids would be if…"
Tony sort of falls asleep into the kid's rambling a few times, but in the end he says "I'll ask Pepper", which turns out to be his downfall, because Pepper thinks it's a brilliant idea, and sends three large boxes packed with kids' drawings to the Compound less than an hour later.
'Decorate the Tower Day' is admittedly, a bit of a PR stint nowadays, even if it didn't start out that way.
Fan-mail from young children was not exactly something Tony had to deal with before Afghanistan, and his perfectly reasonable approach to the novelty was cut short when Pepper came across the video of eight year old would-be-mechanic Charlene Hart screaming herself hoarse over her brand new, neon pink Ford Mustang. Pepper was quick to come up with an alternative that wouldn't make her strangle the billionaire every time he "goes overboard with his personal Make-A-Wish", and thus, 'Decorate the Tower Day' was born.
The premise of the event is rather simple. Every couple of months, Tony would round up a handful of SI employees, supply them with sticky tape and children's drawings, and let them loose in Stark Tower with instructions to plaster the masterpieces on every available surface they can find. Tony would then push his phone into the hands of some poor intern, and not let them leave until they've taken a photo of Tony in front of every freshly decorated wall from at least fifty angles.
"Wow, that's… a lot," Peter says in slight mortification when he peers into the boxes, and Tony bravely pretends he isn't intimidated by the sheer amount of paper they will have to work their way through. This is going to be a Decorate the Tower Week, instead of the few hours they usually have to put into it, but then again, he hasn't done this in more than a year, so it's no wonder he has to deal with an increased pile now.
"Remember kid, you asked for this. Now come on, help me grab that large one, I'm getting a lumbar sprain just from looking at it," Tony finishes grudgingly, and does a double take when instead of a response, Peter proceeds to pile all three boxes on each other, and lifts them like they weight nothing.
"O-kay, that's all very… bizarrely impressive, but how about we don't walk out of here with you carrying a million pounds like you're carrying balloons, you know, unless you're ready to part with the whole secret identity thing you've got going on today—"
"Oh! Right. Good idea, Mr. Stark!"
Tony heroically refrains from face palming when Peter puts two of the boxes down, and looks at the inventor with expectant eyes.
"Kid."
"Yeah?"
"That's still, like, seventy pounds you're carrying there."
"I can carry seventy pounds! That's believable!"
"Not with onehand, it isn't."
Ranina greets them with near Peter-levels of cheer, but Tony doesn't have the time to wonder what Pepper told her about the project before the boxes are raided by more soldiers than Tony can count, and he's ushered back to the Compound to get more supplies.
The main building refuses to magically yield two hundred rolls of sticky tape though, so Tony makes his way to the training facilities, knowing about Happy's tendency of stockpiling office supplies in the storages there. He grabs a box that seems to contain all kinds of adhesives, walks back out to the yard, and spots Bruce leaning on the railing that lines the short walkway between the buildings.
"Tony!" Bruce whisper-shouts at him as soon as he notices the inventor. "Come here! Quick!"
Tony joins the scientist on the walkway, puts the box down, and looks at Bruce with raised eyebrows.
"Listen!" Bruce instructs him with a still lowered volume, and Tony soon realizes the reason for his carefulness.
"Are those…"
"Steve and Cilian, yeah. Steve's been at his heel since the dinner, saying they got off on the wrong foot and shit," Bruce says, gesturing wildly at the objects of his fascination, the pair sitting at one of the collapsible tables and mostly obscured by a few smaller trees. "The guy's been humoring him so far, it's great, listen!"
Tony chuckles at Bruce's unmasked glee at having his very own reality show at the Compound, then lets his curiosity get the better of him and does as he's told.
"So you're saying…" Frosty's voice reaches his ears easily despite the distance, and Tony isn't really surprised that Bruce would know the best spots for eavesdropping. "That medicine is only natural until it doesn't extend your lifespan too… drastically?"
"Aging is not a disease," says Rogers, and Tony can tell from that tone that the supersoldier's patience is waning rapidly. "It doesn't need to be cured."
"Neither is a crooked nose or small breasts, yet you still 'correct' those medically, don't you?"
"…That's not the same."
Bruce looks at Tony like Christmas has come early, and the inventor allows himself a small smile at the sight of his friend's delight.
"Are they seriously talking philosophy?" he asks the scientist, stunned that Rogers could engage in such a topic without throwing punches to get his point across.
"Yeah. The concept of what is 'natural'. Steve has a list."
Tony snorts. Of course he does.
"Are you trying to convince me that—" Rogers indignation is palpable as he raises his voice, but the alien doesn't let him finish.
"I'm not trying to convince you of anything, Steve. I don't mind you being wrong."
Tony jumps a bit when he feels Bruce's forehead land on his shoulder, the man's body shaking with quiet laughter for barely a second before they both freeze.
Bruce looks horrified as he snaps his head back like he's been burnt, and he hurries to take a step back, stumbling along an apology he doesn't quite know how to finish.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to— I know you don't like it when… and that we don't really… ugh."
"…do that anymore?"
Bruce winces at the words, looking like it physically pains him to have the battered state of their friendship confirmed so plainly.
"Yeah. That." The man draws in on himself, breaking eye contact. "Sorry."
They listen to the conversation happening at the table for a few more minutes, but the atmosphere is tense and awkward and nothing like how it used to be between them, and Tony desperately misses the times when Bruce didn't feel the need to apologize for touching his goddamned shoulder.
"Listen—"
"Tony, I'm—"
They share an awkward little smile over speaking at once, and Tony motions for Bruce to go first.
"Yeah, okay," Bruce murmurs mostly to himself, then takes a deep breath, looks Tony in the eye, and says:
"I'm sorry, Tony. For… everything. Ultron. The… the falling asleep… thing. That was—"
"It's fine—"
"No it isn't."
"Come on Bruce, no harm, no—"
"Don't do that!"
Bruce's eyes go green for a few heartbeats, and Tony wonders if the Big Guy is finally ready to make an appearance after his refusal to join them in Greenwich Village, but his friend closes his eyes, and his irises are brown when he opens them again a short while later.
"Don't do that, Tony. You always do that," he says in a quiet voice, sounding more sad than angry now. "Just… I'm sorry, okay? You're always there when I need… and I'm just. Not." Bruce huffs out a little laugh that doesn't sound happy at all. "You really should choose your friends more carefully, you know."
Bruce looks like he's about to cry, and Tony has officially reached his capacity to process emotion for the day, so he does the only thing he knows when faced with a situation he's not equipped to deal with: he rambles his way out of it.
"Alright, you're sorry, I hear you, hell, I think half the Compound hears you really, why are there so many people out here when they are supposed to be—oh, wait, I know! You'll make it up to me! No, drop that look right there Brucie, I mean you'll make it up to me now! Come on, you're helping me stick papers to walls and then we'll braid each other's hair and then you can stop looking like someone viciously murdered your puppy. Come on, you know it's a brilliant plan, I'm called a genius for a reason— no wait, this box is heavy, here, you carry it!"
…
They start at the ground floor of Hotel Alien. Then, when the walls are covered in drawings from floor to ceiling, they move to the third floor, which is another common area filled with plushy chairs and bastardized beanbags and gaming systems that Tony can't even try, because they need an implant to interface with.
Then, when they are done there, they move to the seventh floor. Then the thirteenth.
Tony barely believes his own eyes when his watch tells him it's still not dinner time when they unpack the last pieces of paper from the third box. The Communia Forces know a thing or two about efficiency.
"You must be very popular with Terran children," Ranina says to Tony just as he's putting the least pieces into their designated place, and god, he doesn't want to see sticky tape again in his life. "Most of them painted themselves with Iron Man."
Most of them is a generous understatement, but Tony doesn't say that out loud.
The walls are practically covered in red and gold, with only the occasional splash of green breaking the monotony – and wasn't that successful in wiping the guilty look off of Bruce's face, hah!
There is virtually nothing about the rest of his ex-team. Tony thinks he saw a handful of drawings about Captain America on the ground floor, but considering how Rogers used to get just as much fan mail after the introduction of the Avengers as Tony did – if not more – the lack of blue in that mix now is rather… glaring, in contrast to how it used to be.
Peter grabs his camera once the soldiers are done with their finishing touches, and makes Tony pose in front of the walls, smile wide and arms spread, like he's showcasing his latest invention on an expo. Bruce is reluctant to join, but Tony grabs him by the collar and arranges him in similar positions, and by the time they are shooting their last photos, Tony has coaxed no less than three kissy faces out of Bruce, forever immortalized in the kid's camera.
Speaking of…
"We really need to get you a new one of these," Tony says as Peter is showing him the pictures he's taken with his barely digital, hundred year old Nikon, and Tony knows he's said the wrong thing the moment the kid's shoulders tense under his arm.
"It, um… it belonged to my Uncle," Peter says in a voice that should never, ever sound so tiny, and Tony decides to take a leap of faith.
"Ah. Maybe we could… upgrade it, then?" he offers quietly, not at all sure if it's the right thing to say, but: "I'm good at improving stuff, and you have a real eye to this thing," he points to the small display in Peter's hands. "It would be a shame to let your talent go to waste just because you can't upgrade."
The boy looks up at him with a faint blush coloring his cheeks.
"I… you mean that?"
"Are you kidding?" Tony chuckles, zooming in on one of the stills Peter took of the aliens while the inventor was busy bickering with Bruce. "I think Pep might hire you for SI events if she sees these."
Tony is not even exaggerating. The shot of Jasir touching a drawing on the wall with childlike reverence is one of the best portraits Tony has seen recently, beaten up Nikon or not. The kid doesn't need an upgrade to be good – but that doesn't stop Tony from wanting to give him one.
"You're just saying that because you're my— you're just saying that."
Tony beams at Peter at the slip, relishing in the kid's ability to turn himself into a human tomato without any prompting from Tony whatsoever.
"I'm really not," he squeezes the boy's shoulder slightly. "Never sell yourself short, kid."
"I quite agree with Mr. Stark on that one," Tony hears Frost's voice coming from the doorway, and watches as the man pushes himself off of the doorframe, walking up to them with hands tucked into his pockets.
"Whoa, you— you are the General, right? Mr. Erin? I mean, Cilian. General Erin. Um. Mr. Cili—"
"Erin is fine," the alien offers with a warm smile, and Tony feels the kid's shoulders relax on his next exhale at being cut off from talking himself into a corner.
"And you must be Peter."
"Y-you know my name?" the kid stares at the white haired man incredulously, and Tony has to fight a grin as Frosty leans forward a little, making a show of looking around as he whispers in a serious voice:
"I'm pretty sure everyone in this building knows your name, Peter."
The boy wastes no time in returning to his previous state of a walking tomato, but Erin decides to spare him from further embarrassment by directing his gaze to the nearest wall.
"Looks like I've missed out on quite a bit today. Are these all paintings of… Iron Man?"
Tony doesn't even have the time to open his mouth before the kid is already halfway into a rant, and the inventor watches in amusement as the lines around Erin's mouth become more and more pronounced, as the man is trying to suppress his smile.
"Yes! Well, mostly. There are some about the other Avengers too, and even a few of Spider-Man, who is not actually an Avenger, but—" Tony gives a subtle squeeze to Peter's nape, "but… that's not important right now, because— oh, you should see the picture where a little girl drew Iron Man with white and blue armor! It's in the other room, do you want to see it? It looks so much like yours, I mean, not that I've actually seen yours, apart from that one time I've watched the footage—"
"More like sixteen times," Tony supplies with a tad of a grudge, because he's still not completely over the fact that the kid found himself new tech to salivate over before Tony could impress him with the finished Iron Spider Armor. Traitor.
"It wasn't sixteen— okay, so maybe it was more than once, but you're making it sound like I'm stalking him— I'm not stalking you Mr. Erin! I just… uh, anyway! Drawing with white armor, umm, do you wanna—"
"Lead the way, Peter."
"Oh thank god," the boy murmurs under his breath as he leads the now definitely smiling alien away, and Tony covers his slight trepidation with a chuckle as he watches them go.
It's not that he doesn't trust the man with the kid, but—
"Your son will be fine," Ranina tells him when she sees his expression, her tone laced with conviction Tony wishes he could adapt so easily. "Erin may be a bit forward, at times," she pauses at the raised eyebrow Tony gives her in response to that understatement, but doesn't let his skepticism dissuade her confidence. "But he's good with children. He has three of his own."
Huh. Tony didn't peg the guy as the fatherly type.
But then again, he's never really pegged himself as the fatherly type either, has he?
"Peter is not actually my son, you know."
"Ah. Is that why he's plastered to your side every time we see him at the Compound?"
Ranina clearly thinks he's joking, which Tony can't even blame her for, not with the way Peter's been clinging to him the whole day… or with Tony putting exactly zero effort into discouraging the boy.
"I'm serious. He's not my biological kid. We're not related… in any official capacity, at any rate."
Ranina stares up at the inventor with slightly furrowed brows.
"And… you need blood or law to be a family on Terra?"
Tony blinks at the question a few times before he throws his head back with a quick laugh. At times he really loves the ease with which the aliens accept things with.
"No. I guess not."
Ranina looks perfectly satisfied with that answer, but her expression slips back into confusion merely a few seconds later.
"Wait, does that mean… the rambling is not actually genetic?"
Tony is pretty sure the sound of his indignant yelp travels much farther than just the next room, but the kid doesn't come to his rescue as Ranina laughs him into a fake outraged exit.
…
Peter doesn't leave Hotel Alien for several more hours, and Tony stops himself no less than three times from going back with some feeble excuse to check on the kid.
Nine p.m. rolls around though, along with a text from Aunt Hottie inquiring about her nephew's whereabouts, and – finally – Tony has little choice but to make that trip over the yard.
He doesn't get further than the first campfire he stumbles into, though: Peter is sitting cross-legged on the grass, surrounded by a captive audience of at least fifteen soldiers sitting in a similar position. Frost is sitting shoulder to shoulder with the boy, both peering at the display of the camera as Peter is explaining shutter speed and field depth and something about apertures, and the two of them look so cozy Tony feels nearly as relieved about breaking the scene as he feels guilty over doing it.
"Come on teenage Popeye, your chariot awaits," Tony announces his presence by motioning to the driveway where Happy is parking, and the kid immediately launches an attack by unleashing the best puppy eyes Queens has ever produced.
"Already?"
"May called you twice."
"Oh…" Peter checks his phone with a slightly guilty downturn to his mouth. "I forgot to unmute… um, Mr. Stark, could I maybe… stay over—"
"No!"
Tony curses under his breath as fifteen pairs of eyes snap to him at his admittedly less than discreet outburst, but Wanda's been watching him with an entirely too familiar expression in the last few days, and Tony will be damned if he lets the kid spend an entire night in the same building as the woman.
"Your aunt wants you home kid, I'm not risking my neck for—"
"I can talk to her if that's—"
"Maybe next time, come on, Hap is getting irritated."
"But—"
"Chop-chop kid!"
"…Okay."
Tony ignores the boy's perplexity as he scrambles to his feet, and doesn't comment on the glances he sees the soldiers exchange before he leads Peter to the driveway, giving him a brief hug in apology.
"Tony?"
Shit. Ranina only calls him by his first name when she means business.
"I've been meaning to ask you since…" she trails off for a few seconds, then decides to straight out ask the question Tony could see sitting on her lips from a mile away. "Is everything alrigh—"
"Sure it is," he interjects quickly, backing away with a step towards the main building with every word. "We just have a slight… pest problem. In the building. Yeah. Can't have the kid sleeping here until we get rid of those. Pesky things, spreading all sorts of diseases—"
"Is that really what you're going with?" Ranina's tone is teetering between incredulous and admiring in the face of such a blatant lie, and Tony gives her a smirk and a little wink as he hurries to extract himself from the conversation.
"Yep! Goodnight, Smurfette!"
Tony doesn't need a report to know exactly how many pairs of eyes track his footsteps all the way to the front door, but FRIDAY tells him anyway.
…
"Tony."
"Nope."
"Just let me apologize—"
"Not interested."
"…We will have to talk sooner or later, you know."
"Later. Definitely later."
"Tony—"
"Goodbye, Rogers!"
…
The board meeting at Stark Tower is tedious and galling, but Pepper threatens Tony with putting her Louboutins to both creative and unsanitary uses if he doesn't show up for at least the first hour, so he deigns the vultures with his presence for nearly twenty minutes before sneaking out.
By the time he gets back to the Compound people are preparing for lunch, and the fact that he can't immediately place the reason for the dizzy spell that hits him is worrying enough that he decides to ride it out on the swing bench instead of risking going further.
He pulls his phone out of his suit jacket and fiddles with his watch to check his blood pressure, but the sudden faintness is gone the moment he sits down, and FRIDAY shows no anomalies in her report. He's properly hydrated, ate a full breakfast as per his promise to Rhodey, and even got a staggering ten hours of sleep the previous night. He supposes it could be just the heat of the sun after the air conditioned car, but—
"You're a difficult man to get hold of, Mr. Stark."
Tony looks up from his phone to find Frosty sitting to his right, his own form sharply reflected in impossibly dark irises.
"Tony, please. This whole 'Mr.' business gets old rather quickly – I'm pretty sure Ranina is only doing it to annoy me at this point. Can I call you Erin? I'm going to call you Erin – you guys don't seem very big on last names, and the General thing just doesn't work for me, no offense. So, Erin. Is Lady Execution threatening you?"
The question at the end of Tony's rant is somewhat pre-emptive in its purpose, because there's a reason he's been making himself scarce these past few days, and it's not only because of Rogers' persistence on talking about how his team wasn't badmouthing Tony in front of the military leader.
The aliens' questioning gaze has been collectively following the inventor whenever he's been bullied into leaving the building for fresh air and vitamin D, and Tony really isn't feeling up to discussing why Peter isn't allowed to stay the night in the Compound – hence the unprompted deflection.
"Lady who?" Cilian looks at him with a cocked eyebrow, but his face lights up with understanding before Tony can form a reply. "Oh, you mean Khali, don't you?"
Tony gives a nod, wondering if he should have let that particular nickname slip, but Erin looks more amused than offended, so he figures he's not in trouble.
"I would advise against letting her hear that," the man says with a small chuckle, but a moment later his smile wanes, replaced with a hint of suspicion in the lines of his features. "And yes, she was technically threatening me. You're picking up our language awfully quickly, I must say."
Ah, so that's how Tony's slip after the gala has been interpreted on Frosty's side. Tony's been wondering.
"Yep, certified genius here, in case you missed that particular memo. So when you say technically threatening…"
"She does it every now and then," Erin says as he relaxes back into his seat next to Tony, pushing the bench into a gentle sway with his legs. "No cause for concern."
"Are you sure? Because Pepper says healthy relationships should actually function without threats and blackmail – not that she's the best source of information on that topic, seeing how we just reset the counter on the number of days since she last threatened to put her high heels up my—"
"Pepper?"
"Potts. Virginia? You met her at the gala. Well, probably. Red hair, legs for miles, an unfair ability to reduce you into a blabbering mess with her gaze alone – kinda like what you're doing right now really, not sure if you've noticed—"
Tony pauses as Erin breaks eye contact only to pull up a screen right in front of the inventor with the motion of a hand, displaying one very familiar picture of the redhead in question.
"Aaand you have a file on Pep. Of course you do, you probably have files on all of us, because that's not creepy at all— wait, 'the person who should be running the planet'? I mean, not that I disagree, but whoever wrote these notes should have maybe considered other people for that position too, like, people who have been running multibillion dollar companies for over two decades—"
"So you can read this."
…Fucking fuck.
"No?" Tony tries feebly with his best innocent expression, silently cursing himself for walking straight into the trap. Stupid aliens with their stupid staring problem.
"How?"
The inventor considers the benefits of continuing the pretense, but Erin is sporting the expression of a dog that just sunk his teeth into a particularly delicious bone, so he decides not to insult the man's intelligence any further. The inventor leans back into the swing bench instead, crosses his arms, and recites the words the UGC is so fond of throwing around whenever they want to cockblock Tony's romance with their tech.
"I'm sorry," he raises his chin to make his point, "but I can't share technology that is not already in the owner's possession."
Tony is admittedly, a little bit proud of not needing Darcy's boobs to make Erin laugh so freely.
"Fair enough," the man says once he gets his mirth under control, and produces a thin piece of glass, not unlike one of Tony's newest StarkPhone's. A few taps pull up a picture of something Tony would recognize in his sleep – blueprints – and he has to consciously stop himself from making grabby hands.
"I believe you have a saying around here," Erin is grinning at him as he offers the device to Tony. "'I'll show you mine'…?"
Tony pulls up RANINA's design on his phone so quickly he nearly pulls a muscle.
Five minutes later he is so immersed in the blueprints of the aliens' implant – which is not just a translator: it converts measures, calculates numbers, and is capable of up-linking to numerous interfaces – that he jumps in surprise when he feels fingers poking at his head, gently running through the hair behind his right temple until they bump into RANINA.
"You… you're not routing signals directly to the speech center," Erin sounds a bit dumbfounded as he moves closer to get a better look at the device, and Tony holds his breath as a finger circles the tiny disc attached to his scalp. "You're not even creating new neural connections. You're working strictly with already established links, and you don't even need to get this…" the man taps RANINA twice before withdrawing his hand, "under the skull to do it."
Tony is reluctant to look up from Erin's phone – or whatever the stack of nanites is actually called – but when he finally lifts his gaze, he sees several soldiers staring back at him with wide eyes, scrambling to resume their previous activities in face of the inventor's attention.
Wonderful.
"It's just a translator," he says distractedly, returning his attention to the blueprints. "It only needs access to the lobes. No need to drill a hole for surface application."
Tony feels the alien shift on the bench, turning to face him fully.
"I don't think you realize what you've created here, Mr.— Tony."
"Right," the inventor snorts self-deprecatingly. "It has only a fraction of the functionality of your implants. A tiny fraction, from what I understand," he finishes, motioning at the charts in his hands.
"Functionality is secondary. The integration you achieved with this device… our implants are downright primitive compared to this."
That sentence earns a bitter chuckle from the billionaire.
"Primitive, he says. It will let you watch movies and make you the main character. This," he waves the phone in front of Erin's face, "this is incredible! The signal acquisition alone…"
There is a short lull in the conversation as Frost is studying Tony with that unnerving intensity he is beginning to associate with the man, and where Tony is doing his best to memorize as much of the blueprints as he can before the two of them are tragically separated.
"You are very humble."
Now, that brings the inventor up short. He looks at Erin with wide eyes, giving an abrupt little laugh at the observation.
"Oh believe me, I'm really not. People call me a lot of things, but nobody who knows me would ever call me humble."
"Hmm."
From the corner of his eyes Tony sees the man finally averting his gaze, looking over the Compound as he contemplates the words.
"Perhaps they would be right," Erin says finally, and Tony breathes out a small sigh of relief, intent on changing the topic – except the alien turns back to him before he can do so, only to add:
"Or perhaps nobody really knows you."
Tony doesn't know what it is about that sentence that sends his heart rate into overdrive, but the adrenaline rush it gives him doesn't feel like the good kind, so he's almost pitifully grateful for the distraction that the sight of a nondescript black SUV pulling into driveway provides.
His gratefulness dies a few seconds later though, along with Coulson, Fury, and the thick manila folder they present to Erin when they spot the alien on the porch.
"General," Coulson greets the man when they reach the swing bench. "We would like to request a formal hearing with the Communia's Council."
Erin doesn't looks the slightest bit surprised at the news, even as the words immediately send Tony's blood pressure on a casual Hike in the Himalayas.
"On what grounds?" the alien simply asks, not moving an inch to accept the folder from Coulson's hand.
"Terra is appealing for aid under the Cilian Law, section seven."
Erin's frowns at the Agent's answer.
"That section is for domains suffering famine from overpopulation."
"Yes. Terra fits your written criteria."
Well, Tony's been wondering about what creative ways Earth would find that will ultimately result in screwing their whole alliance with the UGC over.
He really should be less surprised that it's going to be a loophole.