It was a tense moment in April 2013; in Avengers Tower's penthouse, Manhattan's skyline stretching beyond wide glass, the TV blared the Mandarin's chilling threat—his bearded face, green cape, voice menacing, "America, your false heroes can't save you—my flames will devour all!" Then, footage from Rose Hill, Tennessee: explosions, crumbling buildings, fire swallowing the sky—this was part of Aldrich Killian's Extremis-fueled schemes, the Mandarin a mere puppet. Tony Stark sat on a leather couch, his whiskey glass idle on the table—stubble thick, dark circles under his eyes, face pale; since the Battle of New York, Tony wrestled nightmares: his Afghanistan kidnapping, the Chitauri invasion, the nuke he flew through a portal—ghosts haunting his mind, now worsened by Mandarin's threats. Pepper Potts, at a table strewn with files, glanced at Tony with worry—yellow blouse sleeves rolled, glasses low on her nose; Natasha, beside me, gripped my hand, green eyes ever vigilant. I made a choice: I'd pause my vendor life to support Tony—my Central Park cart could stay with Maria Teyze, Queens' döner scent surviving without me; this task was tougher, pulling a friend from darkness, and Tony needed it. I turned to Natasha, her gaze meeting mine—I smiled, "Love, you and Ms. Potts probably have girl talk to catch up on," my voice soft but firm, "Mind giving Mr. Stark and me a moment?" Natasha raised a brow, then flashed that sharp, stunning smile—winking, "Sure, darling," she said, slipping her hand from mine, gliding to the kitchen with Pepper, black leather jacket on, steps graceful yet sure. "Smart, gorgeous woman of mine," I thought, "God, I love her." As they moved off, I faced Tony—a friend shines in dark days, and now was time for a heart-to-heart.
Tony sat, eyes distant—he reached for his whiskey, but I was quicker; I darted to the kitchen, whipping up two glasses of Ottoman Sherbet—Herbal Medicine Mastery (Rare) ensured a perfect blend; cinnamon, clove, and rosewater scents filled the air, faint steam curling above. Tony first tried my sherbet in 2010 during his palladium poisoning days—I sold it as a "detox drink" at my cart; he'd quipped, "What is this, magic?" taken a sip, liked it, and became a regular; it didn't cure palladium, but it eased him. I set the glasses down, offering one, "Please, Mr. Stark, drink this," my voice calm, insistent, "Trust me, it's more soothing and better than that whiskey." Tony arched a brow, glancing at his glass, "Sherbet? Seriously, Ali?" he scoffed, but took it, sipping, lips smacking, "Alright, fine—not bad," he muttered, leaning on the table, glass in hand. "How many bottles of whiskey have you downed?" I thought, eyeing empty ones at the bar—the penthouse bar, silent witness to Tony's inner wars; "Booze won't fix this—you need to pull it together, Tony." I looked at him; eyes lost, shoulders slumped—a weary hero bearing the world's weight alone, blaming himself; Afghanistan's cave, New York's skies, now Mandarin's shadows—Tony sank trying to face it solo.
Tony twirled the sherbet glass, eyes far off—he paused, then exhaled deeply. "Those cowardly congress creeps…" he said, voice shaky, angry—during the Battle of New York, the World Security Council fired a nuke at the city to stop the Chitauri, and Tony flew it through the portal, saving millions. "They sent that damn nuke to New York, and I… I shoved it through that hole in the sky," he said, eyes fixed on the sherbet, "I saw space, Ali—that infinite void, the cosmos… Our little world's just a speck in it, so fragile, so defenseless." He sipped, hands trembling faintly—passing through the portal, he'd lost consciousness, suit shutting down, saved by Hulk's catch; but that void lingered as a nightmare. "If another invasion hits…" he went on, voice low, "Can I make that sacrifice again? I don't know. Will just the Avengers be enough? Will we be ready?" He was worn—scared, and rightly so; since New York, sleep evaded him, nightmares waking him—space's unknown, lurking threats, Mandarin's Extremis soldiers, all a mountain on his shoulders, growing daily. I took a breath, met his gaze, "I get it…" my voice steady, firm, "But I don't think we're totally defenseless, Mr. Stark. You, Cap, my fiancée, Hawkeye, Dr. Banner—even someone like me standing up means there's still hope for this world."
Tony turned, frowning, "You?" he said, a wry smirk, "Vendor Ali's the hope?" I sipped my sherbet, smiled, "I believe as long as there are people like us—willing to sacrifice, brave, responsible—there'll be more Avengers out there," my voice carrying faith—"Who knows what dawn brings," I thought; my journey from slicing döner to kicking Loki, toppling Hydra on the Helicarrier, proved it. "Take me…" I said, setting my glass down, "I'm not just a famous vendor anymore—I'm Diabolic, secret superhero." Tony's eyes widened, "For real?" he said, placing his glass down—"I'm new to this hero gig," I added, chuckling, "But I've got Loki's groin kick, Winter Soldier's highway beatdown—not too shabby, right?" Tony laughed, "You're nuts, Ali," but relief tinged his voice—since New York, he'd felt alone; Pepper was there, but he craved a comrade for the fight, and now he saw one in me. "Listen," I said, lowering my voice, leaning in, "The world's big, threats bigger—but we who carry this load aren't alone. When you flew that nuke, I was brawling Loki's goons in New York streets—Natasha hunted Chitauri in a Quinjet, Steve saved folks on the ground, Thor rained lightning. We're together, Tony—and more will come."
Tony fell silent, staring at the sherbet—quiet hung, only Manhattan's distant hum seeping through glass, JARVIS's faint buzz echoing. Then he looked up, "Maybe you're right," his voice soft, eyes thoughtful, "But every time I close my eyes, shut that portal, I see that void—that darkness, that unknown. And I'm scared, Ali—what if I'm not enough? What if it comes back?" I put a hand on his shoulder, feeling his jacket's cool leather, "You're right to be scared," I said, holding his gaze, "But that fear makes you Tony Stark—you built armor in a cave, flew that nuke, saved New York, and you'll stop Mandarin. And you're not alone—me, Natasha, Pepper, we're all with you." Tony smiled, a real ease in his face for the first time, "A superhero serving sherbet?" he said, raising his glass for another sip, "Guess I could get used to that." I grinned, "You will, Mr. Stark—cheaper than whiskey, no hangover," winking—at that moment, a spark lit Tony's eyes; friendship was this in dark days, and I was set on pulling him from that shadow. Mandarin's threat loomed, Extremis' fire neared—but first, we'd win Tony's inner war, and this sherbet-shared moment was a small victory; holding a friend's hand, giving hope, sometimes outshone saving the world.