"I think you might be missing the point…"
On the other end of the line, Natasha didn't miss a beat.
"No need to explain. And by the way—S.H.I.E.L.D. covers family health benefits. Told you already. Our package is the best. Dental included."
Schiller blinked. "Wait. There's money in this? Thirty percent of whatever Fury files goes straight into family funds? That high? Cap's bonus too!"
"Indeed!" she said, deadpanned.
With a pause in between, she continued:
"Also—Stark's hiring neuroscientists. Upgrading the suits again. Just… remind him: Rhodes may be out, but the military isn't. Army, Navy—they're still circling. This isn't over."
"I get it," Schiller said. "But Stark can handle his own mess now."
And technically, he was right.
Tony had to go it alone. Worse—he had to learn how to exist without a personal assistant, a COO, a babysitter, and a therapist rolled into one.
Obadiah was gone—deep in a coma, body worn out, brain fried. No coming back.
Pepper, once just Stark's secretary (and occasional fire extinguisher for his chaos), was now running the entire damn empire. She hadn't slept through the night in weeks. People joked she'd cloned herself. The truth? She was just that exhausted.
And everyone knew the real problem: Tony Stark couldn't survive five minutes without someone telling him to eat, sleep, charge his armor, and stop texting exes at 3 a.m.
Rhodey was on vacation. J.A.R.V.I.S. was brilliant—but no AI could say "no" when Tony wanted to test a plasma cannon in the kitchen.
So here they were.
Face to face. Door cracked open. Snow swirling behind him.
Stark knocked again. Insistent. "Come on! It's daylight. You don't follow office hours?"
"You don't have an appointment," Schiller said flatly. "So no."
"Bullshit! Natasha walks in whenever she feels like it. So does Peter. Why not me?"
"They come and go. You?" Schiller narrowed his eyes. "How long are you planning to stay? Don't say a month."
"A month? Nah." Stark waved a hand. "Depends on how fast Pepper gets her groove. With that brain? Three weeks, tops."
"Three weeks?" Schiller exhaled. "Turn left. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s hiring."
"Yeah, no thanks. Too many of Howard's old war buddies were sipping tea and reminiscing about D-Day." He made air quotes. "'Back when men were men and Nazis were fun.' I'd rather chew glass."
He shoved forward. Schiller braced the door.
"You pulled an all-nighter on neuro-research for me," Schiller said. "I appreciate it. But that doesn't mean you get to squat here like a broke college roommate."
"The Spider kid lives here!"
"That's different."
Stark paused. Looked up. Uncharacteristically vulnerable—scarf askew, hair messy, no armor, snow melting on his coat. For half a second, Schiller hesitated.
That was all it took.
Stark shoved past, brushing snow off his shoulders. Took one look around.
"This place is a crime against architecture."
Schiller closed his eyes.
He already regretted it.
And things got worse. Fast.
Because here was the truth about Iron Man:
If he showed up once a month, you'd call him the best friend alive—rich, loyal, world-saving genius.
But if he lived in your house for a week?
You'd want to bury him in the backyard.
Tony Stark was best admired from a distance. Rhodey hadn't fled to Antarctica out of boredom. He'd done it to survive.
By morning, the clinic was chaos.
Schiller wasn't even awake when the clattering echoed downstairs. He opened his eyes to find Stark grinning like a madman, wrestling with the fridge—until his sweater caught on the table edge.
"Goddamn it!" Stark yanked it free, cursing under his breath, then bolted upstairs to change.
Ten minutes later, the complaints started.
"Jesus, this air's thick with oil fumes. When's the last time you cleaned? Dust on this railing could qualify as a fossil. And these picture frames? Petri dishes with sentimental value."
Then he spotted Pikachu rummaging in the fridge.
"Whoa, back up! I'm allergic to fur! Is it vaccinated? Please tell me it's not carrying bubonic plague."
After breakfast, Stark sprawled on the couch, phone pressed to his ear.
"Hey, sweetheart… No, barely any downtime. Magazine cover? Talk to the bald editor-in-chief. Hollywood's keeping me busy. Olivia? Cute, sure, but not compared to you. Obviously, you'll be the hottest thing at that premiere."
From his desk, Schiller hurled a pen.
Thwack.
"Ow! What the hell?!"
Peter arrived later that day. Within ten minutes, he and Stark were neck-deep in a gaming marathon.
Together, they embodied one simple rule: Stay up all night. Sleep all day.
Stark worked on nightmare hours—started at 7 p.m., coded till 8 a.m., passed out by noon. His motto: "Genius doesn't punch a clock. It strikes at 3 a.m."
Peter used to pull all-nighters as well. But since moving in during his apartment's renovation, Schiller's rigid schedule had dragged him toward sanity. Out of respect, Peter tried to sleep by midnight.
Pikachu? Nocturnal. Peak activity: 3–4 a.m.
Now, add Stark to the mix.
Three-and-a-half residents. Four conflicting circadian rhythms.
When Schiller was heading to bed at eight, Stark was cracking open Red Bulls.
When Stark and Peter hit boss-level intensity in-game, Peter would crash mid-battle.
When Stark and Pikachu rage-quit at dawn, exhausted and ready to pass out, Schiller was already up, tea in hand, telekinetically flipping pages.
And that was before factoring in the heroics.
Iron Man patrolled by day—sacrificing sleep to save Manhattan.
Sometimes around 10 a.m., he'd suddenly "resurrect," suit roaring to life, blasting off mid-sentence. Woke Pikachu every time.
Once, the mouse also peed in Stark's coffee cup. On purpose.
Spider-Man preferred nights. Every time Peter snuck out or crawled back in, Schiller's floating pens and teacups found their mark—usually his forehead.
Steve Rogers and Stark? Oil and water.
Every morning, Steve jogged past in sweats and determination. Stark, bleary-eyed and half-naked, would yell something obnoxious.
Cap would try to reason. Stark, sleep-deprived and furious, would suit up just to dogfight him over Queens.
Fights usually ended around noon—right when Peter, who'd been up all night, groggily rolled out of bed for the second time.
Natasha once stood outside the clinic, arms crossed, squinting at the front door.
"There should be three people living here. Why do I only ever see one?"
"The stats department gave up tracking your schedules," she added. "It's like predicting lottery numbers every time I show up."
Inside, Schiller seethed.
"This is my house. They should follow my routine. Bed at eight. Up at five. Who's more disciplined than that?"
Stark scoffed. "No real genius sleeps on schedule! Nighttime is God's gift to innovators. My midnight breakthroughs change the world. Why should I adapt?"
Peter threw up his hands. "Who even goes to bed at nine anymore? All my friends are online. Plus, six major games dropped this month. If I'm tired, blame Steam—not me."
Pikachu, munching cheese at 3 a.m., didn't even look up.
"I'm a rat. You really expect me to sync with human nonsense?"
Even the symbiote whined in Schiller's head:
Their brains smell so good at night… I can't help it…
Then came the breaking point.
One dawn, Schiller jolted awake—the symbiote drooling audibly in his mind, whispering about neural snacks.
Before he could react, Stark burst into the room, eyes wild, holding up a tablet like Moses with the Ten Commandments.
"I cracked it!!! Look—nanoneural clusters! Self-replicating, biocompatible, plug-and-play neurons! I'm a god!"
Schiller stared. Silent.
Then, without a word, he got up.
Walked to the front door.
Opened it.
Grabbed Stark's suitcase.
Dumped it—and Stark—on the curb.
Pepper arrived twenty minutes later.
Found Tony sitting on the sidewalk, suitcase beside him, blinking at the sunrise like a man who'd just lost faith in humanity.
She sighed.
"Took you long enough."