"Sir, may I remind you that you've been awake for nearly 96 hours?" Jarvis speaks, assessing Tony's behavior with programmed concern. "I've also prepared a safety briefing for you to entirely ignore," Which he will. "as you seem to be under a state of acute stress—"

"Don't psychoanalyze me, Freud," Tony retorts, completing his micro-repeater-implanting sequence before he stands, instructing one of the robots. "Blood on my mat. Handle it."

Jarvis is right. Rhodey, too. Tony's been wound up in his workshop for days, putting his inventive skill set to work in case another otherworldly enemy strikes, bringing a catastrophy as a toy with Earth as their playground.

Nothing's been the same since New York. You experience things, and then they're over and yet you still can't explain them. Gods, aliens, other dimensions—he's just a man in a can. He'll reluctantly admit, once again, he's been humbled. Harshly, in fact.

And now he's paranoid, more than his nonchalance can conceal. That panic attack packed a punch too.

Again. Humbling.

Tony pauses, contemplating Jarvis's offer to call you, an attempt to preserve this arrogant jerk's overall well-being. Jokes on him; it went to voicemail.

But people are suffering all over the world, threat's imminent, and he has to protect the one thing he can't live without. That's you. So, if a prosthetic helps them, if Rhodey needs a prehensile suit, bomb disposal that catches explosions in mid-air, then they should bloody well have it, judgement be damned. Heavy is the head and all that.

The only reason he hasn't cracked up, and maybe picked up a bottle, is probably because you moved in.

Tony lifts a crown-like prototype, tossing it when you show up, bearing coffee. He stands, snapping his fingers at an eager robot, DUM-E.

"You're a robot—motor oil is your coffee," he interjects casually, stepping past the tables of equipment and projects to reach you. "I'll take that, thank you very much." He gladly accepts the coffee, adding a kiss to the exchange. "You look great."