The trouble with having a stubborness contest with your kids is that they have your stubborness gene. - Robert Brault.

"What the hell is that?"

James Howard Stark, gave a start as he was pulled from his methodical calculations. He swiveled around on his work stool to face his accuser.

His dad, Tony Stark, stood in the threshold of the door, looking like someone had just painted the IM suit in hot pink. (it was only that one time…)

James glanced around the garage for the object of offence, but found nothing. No one here but us chickens.

"What the hell is what, Pops?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. Tony just looked even more offended.

The older Stark gestured wildly at the ceiling. "This-This STUFF!" James glanced up.

There was nothing there.

He then blinked very slowly. Once. Twice…

"Dad? Are you okay?" He spoke with measured calm, not allowing the "Oh, crap. Is this the onset of dementia?" display on his face. Perhaps it was brain damage collected from the past decade of SHEILD missions. Should I have Jarvis page mom?

Tony clapped a hand to his chest dramatically, momentarily causing his son to fear cardiac arrest. "I'm fine! You're the one with the problem!"

"…huh?" James replied numbly, trying to pay attention while planning out how to get his dad to the nearest hospital to check for brain damage, heart problems, and- wait, what?

"Problem? What problem? I have a problem?" He sputtered thoroughly confused. Tony looked pleased that James was finally starting to get over his denial.

"Yes! You do. Because no sane kid your age would listen to this stuff." He declared firmly, jabbing his finger at the ceiling again from which James realized that a male tenor was singing "Nessundorna".

James suddenly remembered that he had asked Jarvis to play-

"Best of Pavarotti?" He gaped at his father. That's what his whole thing was about? "But it's a classic!"

Tony's face crinkled in disgust.

"It's OPERA!" He exclaimed like it was some kind of sin against humanity.

"He's the best tenor in recorded history. It's-"

"It's OPERA!" James scowled.

"That's not even an argument." He quipped. "Besides, it's a lot better than that stuff you listen to."

Tony scoffed. "I have great taste in music!" James rolled his eyes.

"Right. You can't even understand what they're saying under all that noise."

"Well, this is old fart music. Even the geezers at the company don't listen to this stuff."

"So I like geezer music, it's cultured."

"It's geezer music."

"Once again, that's not an argument."

They stared at each other heels dug in like the stubborn mules that they were. James' Pavarotti playlist ended and switched over to the Ratpack playlist. Frank Sinatra's "Under My Skin" started up.

Tony leaned back, crossing his arms triumphantly. "See, geezer music."

"Not an argument." James sniffed, turning back to his work, but not before discreetly turning up the volume. Normally he would never stoop to such a juvenile tactic, but insult Sinatra…

Oh, this is war.

The next day, Pepper woke up to ACDC "Shoot to Thrill" blaring from the garage. Not a second later, it was cut off by an even louder rendition of Bach's "Toccata and Fugue" that actually made the floor vibrate. Her alarm clock rattled until it fell off of her bedside drawer and tumbled away. She desperately wrapped he head in her pillow, praying that it would stop.

ACDC suddenly cut off the organ scales, only to be replaced with Nat King Cole belting out "Unforgettable", the normally peaceful song, now a booming war cry.

When a particularly shrill version of "Stairway to Heaven" assaulted her ears, she'd had enough.

Storming downstairs, she found the two Stark men engaged in what seemed to be an elementary school slappy-fight. They were furiously hitting the buttons on the garage speaker controls that Tony had installed into the table in the middle of the room and wrestling each others' hands away.

Had Pepper not been so irked, and the music not so deafening, the scene might have been funny.

But not today.

"ENOUGH!" She bellowed, Wife and Mother now mixed together in an explosive chemical reaction that threatened to blow the garage and everything in it to kingdom come.

The boys didn't stand a chance.

The two men froze in a rather comical way, while Jarvis, finally given a moment, shut off the music; the sudden silence emphasizing the awkwardness of the situation.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? IT'S THREE IN THE MORNING, ON A SUNDAY!" she shrieked at them. They flinched like two scolded children (well, James sort of had an excuse). Tony's eyes flicked from her to the floor and back again, while James just stared at the floor silently like it was the latest Droid phone.

"I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE PROBLEM IS, I DON'T CARE WHAT THE PROBLEM IS," She was now trembling in rage, her face as red as her hair.

"YOU'RE BOTH GROUNDED!"

Tony's mouth opened to protest, but Pepper wasn't having it.

"If I hear a peep out of this garage today," She turned to her son, "I'll take your record collection," to Tony "and your cars, and sell them! Do you understand?"

Wide-eyed, they nodded vigorously.

"James, bed."

"Bu-"

"TO BED." He skittered away, leaving Tony at Pepper's mercy.

"Tony, the couch."

"Yes, Ma'am."

It was about a month later, when they were finally allowed to go back to the garage, that they ended the dispute.

They stood across from each other, the speaker control between them.

James extended the olive branch first.

"I like what I like; you like what you like. Truce?" Tony mulled it over.

"I guess Sinatra isn't half-bad."

"Sinatra is awesome, but I accept your apology."

"Who said it was an apology?"