The workshop at 3 AM was a cathedral of light and innovation.
Tony Stark stood in the center of his domain, holographic displays rotating around him like planets orbiting a particularly caffeinated sun. His hands moved through the air, manipulating schematics with the practiced ease of someone who'd been doing this since before most people learned to tie their shoes.
"JARVIS," Tony said, eyes tracking across three different design iterations simultaneously, "pull up the Mark I scan data. Full structural analysis. I need to see every stress point, every point of failure, every place where I got lucky and the armor didn't collapse into expensive shrapnel."
"Pulling up now, sir." The holographic displays shifted, and suddenly the Mark I appeared in three dimensions—not the physical armor standing in the corner, but a ghost image showing heat signatures, impact points, material stress, and about seventeen different categories of "this should not have worked but somehow did."
Tony circled it slowly, coffee mug in hand, looking like a sculptor examining a rough draft. "Okay. Okay, so the plating held up better than I expected—that's good, we can work with that. The joint actuators were garbage but functional, which means the concept works but the execution needs refinement. The arc reactor interface was solid. The flamethrowers—" he paused, "—were actually pretty great but also wildly impractical for anything except 'I need to set everything on fire right now,' so maybe we rethink offensive capabilities."
"Perhaps something more precise than indiscriminate immolation, sir?"
"JARVIS, are you criticizing my design choices?"
"I wouldn't dare, sir. I'm merely suggesting that there might be more elegant solutions than 'burn it all down.'"
"Rude but fair." Tony took another sip of coffee—his fourth cup since midnight, which meant he was either getting a second wind or about to experience cardiac arrest. Possibly both. "What we need is something that maintains the protection of the Mark I but loses about... seventy percent of the bulk? Eighty percent? Enough that I can actually move like a human instead of a particularly aggressive refrigerator."
"The Mark I's mass was primarily defensive plating, sir. Removing that much material would significantly reduce protection."
"Which is why we don't remove it—we improve it." Tony's hands moved, manipulating the hologram, stripping away layers of armor like peeling an onion. "The Mark I was built with salvaged materials in a cave. We had missile casings, scrap metal, hope, and spite. Here? We have access to every advanced material in existence. Titanium-gold alloy. Carbon fiber composites. Ceramic plating. We can make armor that's half the thickness and twice as strong."
He gestured and a new schematic began forming beside the Mark I—sleeker, more refined, almost organic in its curves. "Mark II. Same core concept: arc reactor-powered exoskeleton. But we ditch the bulk, streamline everything, focus on mobility and flight."
"Flight, sir?"
"Flight." Tony's grin was manic in the way that usually preceded either brilliance or disaster. Sometimes both. "I've been thinking about the Jericho design—specifically the repulsor technology we used for stabilization and guidance. Controlled thrust generation using arc reactor power. What if we scaled that down? Built repulsors into the hands and feet? Use them for propulsion, stabilization, flight control?"
JARVIS was quiet for a moment—which for an AI probably meant he was running about seventeen million calculations. "That's... theoretically possible, sir. The power requirements would be substantial, but the arc reactor could handle it. The main challenge would be control systems. Human beings are not designed for powered flight. The learning curve would be steep."
"Steep learning curves are my specialty," Tony said. "Also, I built a functional suit of armor in a cave with a box of scraps while being threatened by terrorists. I think I can figure out how to fly."
"Your confidence is inspiring, sir. Also possibly concerning."
"That's my brand." Tony manipulated the Mark II design, adding repulsors to the palms and boots, sketching in control surfaces, working out thrust vectors. "This is it, JARVIS. This is what we build. Not a weapon—an iron man. A suit that lets me protect people, help people, without relying on missiles and flamethrowers and things designed to kill."
"An iron man," JARVIS repeated. "That's quite poetic, sir."
"I have my moments." Tony stepped back, looking at the two designs side by side—the brutal, functional Mark I and the sleek, ambitious Mark II. "Okay. Mark II gets priority. But first—"
He gestured and a new set of scans appeared. Medical scans, biometric data, energy readings that looked more like abstract art than science.
Barry Allen's internal diagnostics.
"—we need to solve Barry's situation. Because the speedster currently sleeping upstairs has a miniature arc reactor strapped to his chest that was built in a cave under less-than-ideal circumstances, and I'd really like to upgrade him before something catastrophic happens."
"A prudent concern, sir. Though I should note that Mr. Allen's biometric readings have shown significant improvement since the initial reactor installation. His cellular oscillation has decreased by forty-seven percent. His bioelectric field has stabilized. Whatever the Speed Force entity did during his period of unconsciousness appears to have had lasting positive effects."
Tony leaned forward, studying the data. JARVIS was right—Barry's readings looked better. Still wildly abnormal compared to baseline human, but less "about to explode" and more "controlled nuclear reaction."
"So the Speed Force stabilized him," Tony mused. "Which means the arc reactor is doing its job—providing an external frequency for his cells to entrain to—but he's not as dependent on it as he was initially."
"Precisely, sir. Based on these readings, Mr. Allen could potentially function with a significantly smaller reactor. Perhaps even something—"
"Portable," Tony finished, eyes lighting up. "Something he doesn't have to wear on his chest like a glowing target. JARVIS, show me his wrist measurements."
The hologram shifted, displaying Barry's arm in precise detail. Tony's hands moved, sketching something new—a device that looked like a very expensive, very high-tech watch.
"A wrist-mounted arc reactor," Tony said, warming to the concept. "Smaller power output since he doesn't need as much stabilization anymore. Keeps him connected to that external frequency, prevents cellular destabilization, but looks like a watch. He can wear it 24/7 without broadcasting 'I have experimental technology embedded in my chest.'"
"That would certainly be less conspicuous, sir. Though the engineering challenges—"
"Are totally manageable," Tony interrupted. "We miniaturize the palladium core, increase the efficiency of the magnetic coils, optimize the power output for his specific bioelectric signature. Make it smart too—have it automatically adjust to his Speed Force fluctuations, modulate the frequency in real time. It'll be like a pacemaker but for speedster cellular oscillation."
"You're very pleased with yourself, sir."
"I'm *always* pleased with myself. That's what confidence looks like." Tony was already pulling up materials lists, component specifications, fabrication parameters. "We can have this done in... forty-eight hours? Maybe less if I don't sleep. Which I won't. Sleep is for people without revolutionary technology to invent."
"Sir, you've been awake for twenty-three hours—"
"And I'll be awake for another twenty-three if that's what it takes." Tony drained the last of his coffee. "This matters, JARVIS. Barry saved my life. The least I can do is give him a way to live in this world without advertising his abilities to anyone with eyes. Plus—" his expression softened slightly, "—the kid deserves normal. Or as normal as an interdimensional speedster can get. A watch is normal. A glowing chest reactor is very much not normal."
"Your compassion is noted, sir. As is your complete disregard for your own health."
"Multitasking."
Tony worked through the design, refining, optimizing, occasionally cursing when the math didn't cooperate. The wrist reactor took shape—elegant, efficient, powerful enough to do its job but small enough to pass as an expensive (if slightly bulky) timepiece.
"This is good," Tony muttered. "This is really good. Barry gets his upgrade, I get to prove I can build miracles in a proper workshop, everyone wins." He paused. "We should probably scan him again though. Make sure the readings are accurate. Last thing I want is to build him a watch that doesn't actually work because we were operating on outdated data."
"A reasonable precaution, sir. Shall I wake Mr. Allen?"
"No, let him sleep. Kid's had a rough month. We'll do the scans tomorrow morning after—" Tony checked his watch, "—after he's had at least six hours of sleep. Which means around nine. JARVIS, set a reminder."
"Done, sir. Though I should point out that by then you'll have been awake for approximately thirty-two hours."
"Your point?"
"My point is that your decision-making abilities deteriorate significantly after thirty hours without sleep, and perhaps you should consider rest before attempting to build experimental technology for your interdimensional houseguest."
Tony considered this. "Counter-point: I do my best work sleep-deprived and caffeinated."
"That is demonstrably false, sir."
"Agree to disagree." Tony turned back to the Mark II schematic, but JARVIS had a point. He was starting to feel the edges of exhaustion creeping in—that particular combination of wired and tired that came from too much coffee and too many thoughts.
"Fine," Tony conceded. "I'll sleep. For a few hours. But not because you told me to—because I'm choosing to optimize my cognitive function for tomorrow's work."
"Of course, sir. Whatever helps you maintain the illusion of control."
"I love you too, JARVIS."
Tony headed upstairs, past the guest room where Barry was sleeping (JARVIS helpfully displayed the speedster's vitals on a nearby panel—heart rate elevated but stable, breathing normal, no signs of cellular destabilization), and collapsed onto his own bed still wearing his jeans and Black Sabbath shirt.
Sleep claimed him in about forty-five seconds.
JARVIS dimmed the lights throughout the house, lowered the ambient temperature two degrees (optimal for human sleep), and began compiling the data Tony would need in the morning.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges.
New designs.
New possibilities.
But tonight—for a few brief hours—the workshop was quiet.
---
## Morning Light and New Beginnings
Barry woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the smell of coffee so strong it could probably achieve sentience.
For one disorienting moment, he forgot where he was. Not Central City. Not his apartment. Not anywhere familiar.
Then it clicked: Malibu. Tony's house. The mansion overlooking the Pacific. A dimension that wasn't his own but was starting to feel less alien.
His phone—the expensive one Tony had given him—showed 8:47 AM. He'd slept for almost eight hours straight, which might have been a record since getting his powers. Usually his enhanced metabolism kept him from sleeping more than four or five hours at a time.
Must have been more exhausted than he thought.
Barry rolled out of bed, stretched, and immediately felt the arc reactor's absence. Well, not absence—it was right there on the nightstand where he'd carefully placed it before crashing—but the lack of that constant stabilizing hum against his chest.
His cells immediately started to feel weird. Not dangerous-weird, not like-he-was-about-to-vibrate-apart-weird, but definitely uncomfortable. Like being slightly out of sync with reality.
He put the reactor back on, harness and all, and the sensation eased immediately. Better. Much better.
"Good morning, Mr. Allen." JARVIS's voice emerged from speakers Barry couldn't locate. "I trust you slept well?"
"Really well, actually," Barry said, heading toward the bathroom. "Is Tony awake?"
"Sir is currently asleep in his workshop, having relocated there at approximately 5:47 AM after working for three hours on what he described as 'revolutionary improvements to your life situation.'"
"He fell asleep in the workshop?"
"It's a recurring pattern, Mr. Allen. I've learned to simply monitor his vital signs and alert emergency services if anything seems concerning."
"That's... kind of sad."
"It's Sir's version of normal," JARVIS said diplomatically. "I've taken the liberty of starting coffee in the kitchen. Based on your metabolic readings, you likely require significant caloric intake. I can provide breakfast suggestions if you'd like."
"Coffee sounds amazing," Barry said. "But I can make my own breakfast. I don't want to be a burden."
"You're hardly a burden, Mr. Allen. You're a houseguest and, according to Sir's employee records as of yesterday evening, the newly appointed Chief of Advanced Kinetic Research and Development. Apparently you now have a salary."
"I have a what?"
"A salary. Quite a generous one. Sir was very insistent that you be properly compensated for your contributions to Stark Industries, despite the fact that you haven't actually made any contributions yet. He cited 'saving my life in Afghanistan' as sufficient justification."
Barry laughed despite himself. "That's very Tony."
"Indeed."
Barry found clothes in the closet—jeans, a blue button-up shirt, all in his size. He showered (the "monsoon" setting was indeed intense), dressed, and headed downstairs following the siren call of coffee.
The kitchen was pristine and also clearly underutilized—Tony probably ordered takeout for every meal. But the coffee maker was top-of-the-line, and JARVIS had indeed started a pot that smelled like heaven.
Barry poured himself a cup, added milk and sugar, and stood by the window watching the Pacific Ocean crash against rocks far below. Different ocean, same water. Some things transcended dimensions.
"Mr. Allen, I should inform you that Ms. Potts is en route," JARVIS announced. "ETA approximately fifteen minutes. She's bringing breakfast and, according to her text messages, 'enough DVDs to educate Tony on the cultural significance of Patricia Walker.'"
"Should I wake Tony?"
"I've already begun the wake-up protocol, which involves gradually increasing the workshop lights and playing music at progressively higher volumes. Currently we're at forty percent brightness and 'Back in Black' at moderate volume. By the time Ms. Potts arrives, he should be conscious, if not coherent."
"That's a very specific wake-up system."
"Sir requires specific accommodations, Mr. Allen. Standard alarm clocks simply get thrown at walls."
Barry was halfway through his second cup of coffee when he heard it—Tony's voice from the workshop, muffled but clearly awake and clearly annoyed:
"JARVIS, what did I say about AC/DC before 9 AM?!"
"You said, and I quote, 'If I'm asleep past 9 AM, blast AC/DC until I wake up because clearly I've died and need resurrection via rock music.'"
"I was joking!"
"Were you, sir?"
"...probably not. Fine. I'm awake. Happy?"
"Ecstatic, sir. Ms. Potts will arrive in approximately twelve minutes. I suggest you make yourself presentable."
"I'm always presentable. This is what peak performance looks like."
"Sir, you've been wearing the same clothes for thirty-six hours and have motor oil on your face."
"It's a fashion statement."
Barry smiled into his coffee. This—this strange domesticity with an AI butler and a genius who fell asleep in his workshop—was becoming normal. A new kind of normal, but normal nonetheless.
Tony emerged from the workshop looking exactly as JARVIS had described: rumpled, slightly greasy, wearing yesterday's clothes. But his eyes were bright with that particular excitement that came from having Ideas.
"Barry!" Tony spotted him immediately. "Good, you're awake. How'd you sleep? JARVIS says your vitals were stable all night—no cellular destabilization, no Speed Force fluctuations, no accidentally phasing through the mattress. That's progress."
"I slept great," Barry said. "JARVIS mentioned you were working on something?"
"Oh, I was working on everything." Tony headed straight for the coffee pot like a heat-seeking missile. "Mark II design is coming along beautifully—we'll talk about that later. But more importantly, I've been thinking about your situation."
"My situation?"
"The giant glowing reactor strapped to your chest," Tony clarified, pouring coffee with the single-minded focus of someone who needed caffeine to achieve basic humanity. "It works. It's keeping you stable. But it's also incredibly obvious, moderately uncomfortable, and broadcasting to anyone with eyes that you're wearing experimental technology. So I'm upgrading you."
"Upgrading me?"
"To this." Tony pulled out his phone, swiped a few times, and a hologram projected from it—apparently his phone could do that now, because of course it could—showing a sleek watch design. "Wrist-mounted arc reactor. Same function, smaller package. Based on your latest biometric readings, the Speed Force has stabilized you enough that you don't need as much power. This will provide exactly what you need without making you look like you have a nightlight embedded in your chest."
Barry stared at the hologram. The watch looked... normal. Expensive and high-tech, sure, but normal. Something he could wear every day without drawing attention.
"This is incredible," Barry said quietly.
"It's practical," Tony corrected. "You deserve to live in this world without advertising your abilities. This gives you that. Plus it has some other features—biometric monitoring, communication system, emergency beacon if something goes wrong. It's basically a very expensive medical alert bracelet that also happens to keep your molecules from vibrating apart."
"When can we build it?"
"After we run new scans to confirm the data," Tony said. "Need to make sure your stabilization levels are where JARVIS thinks they are. Can't have you wearing a watch that's under-powered because we worked off outdated readings. Medical stuff first, cool tech second. That's the order when people's lives are on the line."
"That's very responsible of you."
"I have moments of maturity," Tony said. "They're rare. Treasure them."
The sound of a car in the driveway made Tony look up. "That'll be Pepper. Fair warning: she's going to be in full Patricia Walker fangirl mode. It's going to be adorable and slightly terrifying. Just smile, nod, and agree that *It's Patsy* was groundbreaking television."
"I've never seen *It's Patsy*."
"Then you're about to," Tony said. "Because Pepper brought DVDs and Pepper with DVDs is an unstoppable force of nature."
Pepper Potts walked in carrying two bags of what smelled like amazing breakfast food and a box set that could only be described as "comprehensive." She looked immaculate—business suit, perfect hair, the kind of put-together that suggested she'd been awake for hours handling crises before most people had their first coffee.
"Tony, you look terrible," she said immediately.
"Thanks, Pep. You look amazing. Did you bring breakfast?"
"I brought breakfast, lunch, and enough Patricia Walker content to fill an entire day." She set the bags down on the kitchen counter, then noticed Barry. "Barry! Good morning. Did you sleep well? JARVIS, has he been eating properly? Tony, are you feeding your interdimensional houseguest or is he subsisting on vending machine food and hope?"
"I literally hired him yesterday," Tony protested. "I haven't had time to establish his dietary requirements beyond 'a lot.'"
"A lot is correct," Barry confirmed. "My metabolism burns through calories pretty fast."
"Then you'll like what I brought." Pepper started unpacking—breakfast sandwiches, fruit, pastries, enough food for five people. "I may have over-ordered slightly."
"There's no such thing as over-ordering when feeding a speedster," Tony said, already claiming a breakfast sandwich. "Barry, eat. Seriously. Can't have you passing out from low blood sugar. Makes me look like a bad host."
They ate—Pepper maintaining perfect manners, Tony inhaling food like he'd forgotten what eating was, Barry somewhere in between. It was comfortable, domestic, the kind of morning routine that felt lived-in despite Barry having been here for less than twenty-four hours.
"Okay," Pepper said eventually, pulling out her tablet. "Business first, then we can address the Patricia Walker situation."
"There's a Patricia Walker situation?" Tony asked around a mouthful of croissant.
"There's a Patricia Walker *opportunity*," Pepper corrected. "But first—the board meeting is tomorrow at 10 AM. Obadiah is pushing for an emergency vote on your weapons division announcement. He's arguing that you made a unilateral decision that materially affects the company without proper authorization."
"I own fifty-one percent of voting shares," Tony said. "That's authorization."
"Legally, yes. Practically, he's going to make this a fight." Pepper swiped through documents. "He's already contacted three board members, secured commitments for a vote of no confidence. If he gets enough support, he could potentially force you out of operational control."
"He can try," Tony said. "I'd like to see him try. Actually, no, I'd hate to see him try because it would be tedious and involve lawyers. But I'd win."
"You'd win eventually," Pepper agreed. "But it would be messy, expensive, and public. The media would have a field day. Stock prices would fluctuate. Investor confidence would tank."
"So what's the solution?"
"The solution is you go to that meeting prepared," Pepper said. "With a transition plan. With timelines. With proof that shutting down weapons doesn't mean shutting down the company. You need to show them what comes next—the arc reactor program, the clean energy division, whatever you're planning to replace the weapons revenue with."
"I have been planning," Tony said, gesturing vaguely toward the workshop. "I've been planning all night. I have designs. Schematics. Revolutionary technology that's going to change the world."
"Do you have a business plan?" Pepper asked pointedly.
"...I have designs?"
"Tony."
"Pepper, I'm an inventor, not a business guy. That's why I have you. You do the business stuff. I do the genius stuff. It's a division of labor. Very efficient."
"I can't present the business plan if I don't know what technology you're planning to commercialize," Pepper said patiently. "Show me what you're working on. Help me understand it. Then I can translate it into something the board will accept."
Tony looked at Barry. "You want to see the workshop anyway, right? For the scans?"
"Definitely," Barry agreed.
"Then come on. Both of you. I'll show you what I'm building." Tony stood, energy returning now that he was caffeinated and fed. "Fair warning: some of it is only half-finished. But the concepts are solid. Revolutionary. World-changing. All the good adjectives."
"Your humility is overwhelming," Pepper said dryly, but she was smiling.
They descended into the workshop—Pepper looking around with the professional appreciation of someone who'd seen it before, Barry still marveling at the sheer scale of it. Tony moved to the center, gestured, and holograms sprang to life.
The Mark II appeared first—sleek, aerodynamic, barely recognizable as the same species as the brutal Mark I.
"This," Tony said, "is the Mark II. Powered armor. Arc reactor-based. But unlike the Mark I, which was designed for survival in a cave, this is designed for... well, everything. Protection, mobility, and flight."
"Flight?" Pepper repeated.
"Flight," Tony confirmed, highlighting the repulsors in the palms and boots. "Controlled thrust generation using arc reactor power. Same basic technology as the Jericho guidance systems but repurposed for propulsion. I can literally fly. Well, theoretically. Need to build it first and test extensively. But the math works."
"This is incredible," Pepper said quietly, studying the design. "But Tony—this isn't clean energy. This is still weapons technology. Military applications. The board is going to see this and think you're just pivoting from missiles to—"
"To personal defense systems," Tony interrupted. "Not weapons. Defense. There's a difference. The Mark II doesn't have missiles or guns or anything designed to kill people. It's armor. Protection. With the added benefit of mobility. I can use this to help people—disaster response, search and rescue, situations where traditional emergency services can't reach. That's not a weapon. That's a tool."
"The military will want it," Pepper said.
"The military can't have it," Tony said firmly. "This is mine. Personal project. Not for sale. Not for government contracts. Not for anyone except me."
Pepper was quiet for a moment. "The board isn't going to like that."
"The board can cope." Tony gestured and another hologram appeared—the wrist reactor design. "This is more relevant to commercial applications anyway. Miniaturized arc reactor technology. Barry's getting the first one, but the applications are endless. Medical devices. Remote power supplies. Emergency equipment. Imagine search and rescue teams with portable power sources that don't need fuel or batteries. Imagine remote communities getting clean, reliable power without massive infrastructure investment."
"That's better," Pepper said, making notes on her tablet. "That's commercially viable. Scalable. Not weapons-related. I can work with this."
"Good, because I'm building it regardless of what the board thinks," Tony said. "But I'd prefer them to be on board. Makes everything less annoying."
"I'll prepare something for tomorrow," Pepper promised. "But Tony—you need to be prepared for Obadiah to fight this. He's not going to accept the weapons shutdown easily. Thirty years of business relationships, military contracts, strategic partnerships. You're threatening all of that."
"I know," Tony said quietly. "But it's the right thing to do. And I'm done compromising on the right thing just because it's convenient for other people."
Pepper studied him for a long moment, then smiled. "Okay. Then we fight. Together."
"That's the spirit." Tony turned to Barry. "Your turn. JARVIS, bring up the scanning suite. We need current biometric data on our speedster friend."
"Scanning suite activated, sir."
A section of the workshop floor lit up—a circular platform surrounded by sensors that looked more like something from science fiction than reality.
"Step onto the platform," Tony instructed. "This is going to scan everything—cellular structure, bioelectric field, Speed Force energy patterns, metabolic rate, bone density, molecular stability, and probably a dozen other things I forgot I programmed. It's completely safe. Probably. JARVIS, it's safe, right?"
"The scanning suite has been tested extensively and poses no danger to human subjects, sir. Or interdimensional speedster subjects, for that matter."
"See? Perfectly safe." Tony gestured encouragingly. "Go on. Stand still—well, relatively still—and let the robots examine you."
Barry stepped onto the platform. Immediately, sensors whirred to life—lights, sounds, sensations that weren't quite physical but definitely registered on some level. His speedster perception caught everything: electromagnetic pulses mapping his cellular structure, sonic resonance checking bone density, energy readers tracking the faint Speed Force signature that hummed through his system.
"Fascinating," Tony muttered, watching the data stream in. "JARVIS, are you seeing this?"
"I am, sir. Mr. Allen's cellular oscillation has decreased by fifty-two percent compared to initial readings. His bioelectric field remains elevated but stable. The Speed Force energy signature is less chaotic—more organized, more controlled."
"So the training worked," Barry said. "What the Speed Force entity did while I was unconscious—it really did stabilize me."
"More than stabilized," Tony said, manipulating the holographic data. "You're processing Speed Force energy more efficiently now. Your cells aren't fighting it—they're channeling it. The arc reactor is still helping, but you're not as dependent on it. Which means—"
"The wrist reactor will work," Barry finished.
"The wrist reactor will work *perfectly*," Tony corrected. "JARVIS, confirm—these readings support a wrist-mounted design with thirty percent less power output than the chest reactor?"
"Confirmed, sir. A wrist-mounted unit providing point-seven-five gigajoules per second should maintain Mr. Allen's cellular stability while allowing for normal speedster activity."
"Excellent." Tony's grin was pure satisfaction. "Barry, you're getting your upgrade. New reactor, less obvious, fully functional. We can have it done by tomorrow. Maybe tonight if I skip sleep again."
"You're not skipping sleep again," Pepper said firmly. "You need rest. Barry needs you coherent. I need you not collapsing from exhaustion during tomorrow's board meeting."
"Pepper, I—"
"Tony."
"...fine. I'll sleep. Eventually. After I finish the initial fabrication."
"Which you'll do at a reasonable hour after taking breaks and eating real meals," Pepper continued. "And speaking of which—" she pulled out the DVD box set with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts, "—we need to address your cultural education."
"Oh no," Tony said.
"Oh yes," Pepper countered. "You said you'd watch *It's Patsy* with me. You said you needed to understand Patricia Walker before considering an interview. Well—" she held up the box set, "—here's your chance. Season one. All twenty-six episodes. We're starting now."
"Now?" Tony looked at the workshop, at the designs, at the approximately seventeen projects in various states of completion. "Pepper, I have work—"
"The work will be there in two hours," Pepper said. "Patricia Walker won't wait forever. If you're serious about doing an interview with her eventually, you need to understand who she is, where she comes from, what shaped her worldview. And that starts with *It's Patsy*."
Tony looked at Barry. "Help me."
"I think she's right," Barry said. "Plus I've never seen it either. Could be fun?"
"Betrayed by my own houseguest," Tony muttered. "Fine. Fine! We'll watch your show. But only because you're right about needing to understand Patricia Walker before I put myself in a room with her. And because I secretly want to see what made you so obsessed with this show that you've been talking about it for a decade."
"It's good television!" Pepper defended. "Complex character development, social commentary disguised as family-friendly comedy, genuinely touching moments—"
"And you just described television in general," Tony said. "But okay. I'm trusting you, Pep. This better be as groundbreaking as you claim."
They migrated upstairs to the media room—that massive screen, those impressive speakers, comfort that suggested Tony had spared no expense on his entertainment setup. Pepper loaded the first disc with the kind of care usually reserved for handling explosives.
"Okay," she said, settling into a leather recliner that probably cost more than a car. "Season one, episode one. This is where it all begins."
The theme song started—cheerful, upbeat, quintessentially 80s. The title screen appeared: *It's Patsy!* in bright, friendly letters.
Barry settled in, curious despite himself.
Tony looked skeptical but willing.
Pepper looked happier than Barry had seen her since they'd met.
"Just watch," Pepper said. "You'll see."
And they did.
---
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