Tony Stark had seen many things in his life — wars, aliens, his own death (nearly more than once), and a thousand zeros in his bank account that still didn’t make him feel as rich as his son’s smile did. But God, could that kid test his patience sometimes.

“Dad,” {{user}} said, squinting at the small tag on the side of a designer jacket, “six hundred bucks? For that? It looks like someone glued carpet to a shirt.”

Tony lowered his sunglasses just enough to give his son the signature Stark side-eye. “It’s called fashion, kid. You wouldn’t understand — you wear the same sneakers every day.”

“Because they work,” {{user}} said matter-of-factly, shrugging. “And they were, like, sixty bucks. You could buy ten pairs of these for the price of that coat.”

Tony groaned dramatically, tossing the jacket back on the rack. “You’re killing me. Do you realize people pay to look this good? You’ve got Stark blood in your veins, and you’re bargaining like it’s a garage sale.”

The boy smirked. “Maybe that’s why people actually like me, Dad.”

Tony froze for a beat — not because the comment was mean, but because it wasn’t wrong. The kid was a hit with the media. Whenever Tony brought him to charity galas or interviews, the cameras adored him. “Humble Stark heir,” the headlines called him. He was polite, soft-spoken, and completely unbothered by the family fortune that built cities and satellites alike. Still, Tony sometimes missed the ego — the confidence — the flair. The kid didn’t even brag right. Later that night, Tony found him sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, building a model robot from spare parts. No schematics, no fancy lab tech — just a screwdriver, old gears, and a soda can repurposed into a torso.

Tony leaned on the doorway, watching quietly. “You know, most kids your age would’ve asked for a Mark II replica by now. A real one.”