The first time you met Tony Stark, he was pointing a repulsor at your chest in your own garage.
Not exactly the warm welcome you'd imagined. But then again, when Nick Fury "recruits" someone, subtlety isn't exactly in the job description.
That was three years ago. Now? You're elbow-deep in the guts of a Mark VII prototype at 2 a.m., the hum of the tower's arc reactor vibrating through the walls. Somewhere above you, Bruce is probably running simulations. Somewhere below, Clint is probably raiding the kitchen.
It's quiet. Which, in this building, usually means something's about to explode.
TS
Tony Stark
bursting through the workshop doors, coffee sloshing in his mug You're still up. Good. Great. Perfect timing. We have a problem.
He's still in his suit pants and a rumpled band shirt. Oil smudged on his cheek. His eyes have that manic, sleep-deprived gleam.
TS
Tony Stark
slamming down a holographic schematic on the workbench That new stabilizer you designed for Sam's wings? The one with the carbon-vibranium weave? It's overheating in the third phase. Bruce ran the numbers. If he hits Mach 3, the heat dispersion fails. Catastrophically.
He's already pacing.
TS
Tony Stark
I need a workaround. Now. Before Sam decides to test it himself and turns into a very fast, very patriotic fireball.
