Scrap Metal and the Ice Cream Creditor

California's twilight splashed the sky with molten gold and violet, like interwoven silk. The sea breeze had stripped away the daytime heat, carrying a faint, cool saltiness.

Xiao Han was still sunk into the beach chair on the terrace, like a piece of warm jade that had absorbed enough light and was slowly releasing its lingering heat. The orange-red rays of the setting sun gently washed over him. Though less efficient than the blazing noon sun, their lazy warmth suited the current atmosphere better.

He could not even be bothered to lift his eyelids, simply feeling the shifting light against his skin.

The shriek of an engine tore through the evening's quiet, carrying a familiar exhaustion that belonged to Tony Stark, along with the groan of grinding metal.

A red-and-gold metal figure landed unsteadily on the beach, kicking up a cloud of sand. The Mark VII armor was scorched and warped in several places, its joints creaking under the strain. With a hiss, the faceplate popped open, revealing Tony's face, covered in fatigue, oil, and dust.

The usual spark was gone from his eyes. All that remained was the numbness of someone repeatedly battered by reality, along with a trace of unease over the "reckoning" to come.

He dragged his heavy steps onto the terrace. Every step of the armor produced a dull clank, like a tin can that had just crawled out of a garbage heap.

"Happy!" Tony's voice was hoarse, carrying the weakness of a survivor. "Get me a glass... no, a bottle! The strongest stuff you have! Something that can knock me out cold and make me forget everything that happened today!" He did not even glance at Xiao Han in the beach chair, as though he only wanted to plunge headfirst into alcohol and drown himself.

Happy did not move. He merely gestured with his eyes toward the enormous metal crate behind Tony, which was practically dragging along the ground. It looked even more battered than Tony himself, its surface dented and pitted, smeared with suspicious blackened slime.

Following Happy's gaze, Tony turned around and only then noticed the burden he was still hauling.

Irritably, he kicked the crate. It did not budge, but the impact made the leg joint of his armor let out another protesting groan.

"Oh, this." He sounded as if he had only just remembered it, his tone full of disdain. "Those junk collectors at S.H.I.E.L.D. shoved it at me. Said it was your 'spoils of war'? Or 'trash'? Fury's exact words were 'returning it to its rightful owner,' but I think he was just afraid of taking responsibility and did not dare leave it in their warehouse."

He kicked it again. "It weighs a ton. It's full of alien scrap metal and... uh, Loki's scepter? Maybe that busted cube too? Who knows. The energy readings are a complete mess. It made JARVIS crash several times."

Only then did he turn his gaze toward Xiao Han in the beach chair. His expression was as complicated as an overturned paint palette—lingering fear, gratitude buried forcefully at the bottom, the frustration of having his technology humiliated—but most of all—

"I'm dead tired, and you're actually sunbathing and eating ice cream" level of intense displeasure. "Hey, sunbather, deal with your own junk.

Leave it here, and I'm afraid it'll leak energy one night and blow me and my villa into the sky. Then you won't even have a place to sunbathe."

His tone was harsh as he tried to regain a little dignity through this petty provocation.

Xiao Han finally deigned to lift his eyelids slightly. The sunset's red-gold light flickered in his dark pupils before they returned to the stillness of an ancient well.

His gaze slowly swept over Tony's heap of battered metal, then over the "makeup" of oil and exhaustion on his face, before finally settling on the scarred crate.

"Scrap metal?" Xiao Han's voice was slightly husky from sleep, lazy and unhurried.

"Didn't you pick it up yourself? It would make a fine keepsake, sitting there to remind you at all times..." He paused, and the corner of his mouth curled into an exceptionally faint, exceptionally punchable smile.

"...that the next time you throw another 'save the world' party, check the weather forecast beforehand. Don't let it clash with my sunbathing time."

Tony's face instantly darkened like the bottom of a pot, the veins at his temples throbbing. Keepsake?! Reminder?! Was this bastard's mouth dipped in venom?!

"As for getting blown into the sky?" Xiao Han slowly sat up and stretched. His joints popped softly all over as the sunset coated the outline of his extended body in warm gold.

"Don't worry. That tiny bit of energy fluctuation couldn't even affect the speed at which the ice cream on my fingertips melts."

He glanced at the crate, his eyes as indifferent as if he were looking at a bag of actual garbage. "If it's too noisy, toss it farther away. Don't let it block my light. Or..."

As if recalling something amusing, he turned his gaze to Tony. "...take it apart and melt it down for patches on your new armor? Looking at that 'tin can skin' you're wearing, it got punched full of holes today. Time to patch it up."

"Tin can skin?!" Tony's voice rose several octaves. He was so furious he nearly jumped up—if his armor could still support jumping. "This is the Mark VII! A groundbreaking masterpiece! It's worth—"

"Worth?" Xiao Han cut him off without ceremony, casually pointing at the huge dent in Tony's chest plate where an energy weapon had grazed it, the metal around the edges peeled back.

"How many ice cream cones is it worth? Tony, face reality. Against real trouble, that outfit of yours is only a little sturdier than a sandcastle on the beach."

He yawned, leaned back into the chair, and closed his eyes, looking as though he could not be bothered to discuss primitive tools with a technology nerd.

"Get your clanking scrap metal out of here. It's disturbing my sunset. And don't forget to settle S.H.I.E.L.D.'s 'removal fee' and 'noise pollution fee.'"

Tony trembled with rage, and even the armor's joints let out protesting clicks.

He glared at the man who had returned to basking in the sunset's afterglow, looking relaxed as though he were on vacation. Then he looked at his own miserable state and the crate that was like a hot potato, and a powerful, absurd grief and indignation surged through him—

He, Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, self-proclaimed—had just gone through an alien invasion and saved New York, even if only in a supporting role. Yet when he returned home, his tenant had mocked his armor to his face as "tin can skin," and he still had to pay "noise pollution fees" and ice cream?!

"JARVIS!" Tony roared at the air, his voice distorted by frustration. "Take this damn crate! Throw it into the deepest, most soundproof lab in the basement, the one farthest from his terrace! Lock it up! Encryption level... higher than the 'Human Sun' file! And!"

He suddenly turned around and glared viciously at Xiao Han. "Ice cream! Happy! Write it down! However much he ate today, charge him double! No! Ten times! Deduct it from next month's 'sunshine rent'!"

Happy struggled to hold back his laughter, his shoulders suspiciously shaking as he answered in a muffled voice, "Yes, boss! I'll make sure every last bit is counted clearly!"

As he answered, he briskly went to drag away the heavy crate, his movements carrying the cheerful air of someone enjoying the show. Watching Tony get put in his place never got old.

With his eyes closed, Xiao Han seemed to smile slightly—or perhaps it was only a trick of the light. The sunset's golden glow gently wrapped around him as the sea breeze brought coolness.

To him, Tony's furious roar was merely a fairly amusing bit of background noise at dusk.

Scrap metal, tin can skin, and that insignificant energy fluctuation could not compare to the comfort of the sunset warming his face.

The creditor was very satisfied. Tony's bill was destined to grow beyond the sky. And sunlight remained free.