Stane emerged from the press room like a linebacker who'd just watched his quarterback audible the Super Bowl away. His face had that carefully-maintained-neutral thing going on—the kind of expression that screamed "I'm absolutely fine" while his eyes were busy plotting seventeen different murders.
"Tony." His voice could've etched glass. "We need to talk. Privately."
"Hard pass, Obie." Tony didn't even slow down, hands in his pockets like he was strolling through a park instead of fleeing a corporate catastrophe of his own making. "I've got plans. Important plans. Pizza-related plans."
"Now, Tony." Stane grabbed his arm—actually grabbed it—and Barry's speedster instincts kicked in hard enough that he almost phased on reflex. "You just announced a major strategic shift without board approval. Without consulting your executive team. Without any *goddamn preparation*. We need to address this immediately."
Tony stopped. Turned. And when he looked at Stane, there was something new in his eyes. Something that hadn't been there before the cave.
Steel, wrapped in a smile.
"There's nothing to address, Obie. I made my decision. Stark Industries is out of the weapons business. Done. Finito. We're pivoting to—I don't know—renewable energy, arc reactor technology, very expensive paperweights. The market for high-end paperweights is criminally underserved."
"You don't have the authority—"
"I have fifty-one percent of the voting shares and a really good lawyer." Tony's smile got sharper. "Math, Obie. I know you hate it, but numbers don't lie. The board can vote however they want. I'll win. I *always* win. You know that. You taught me that."
Stane's jaw could've cracked walnuts. For just a moment—and Barry's enhanced perception caught it like a high-speed camera catching a bullet—something ugly flickered across his face. Rage. Fear. And something else. Something calculating.
Then the friendly-uncle mask snapped back into place like a rubber band.
"Of course, Tony." The warmth in his voice was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. "We'll discuss this at the next board meeting. But for now, perhaps you should rest. You've been through a *traumatic experience*. Three months in a cave. Torture. Near-death. No one would blame you for taking time to recover before making major business decisions that could, oh, I don't know, *tank our stock price* and *destroy thirty years of strategic partnerships*."
"I'm not traumatized, Obie. I'm clear-headed for the first time in my life." Tony started walking again, and the rest of them fell into formation—Tony at the center, Pepper and Rhodey flanking, Barry and Happy forming the rear guard like the world's weirdest Secret Service detail. "Also, our stock price can eat a dick. We've been profiting off suffering. Time to try profiting off *not* suffering. Revolutionary concept, I know."
"Tony—"
"We're leaving!" Tony called over his shoulder, not even looking back. "I've had enough of corporate headquarters for one day! Also for the next several days! Maybe forever! Pepper, can I work from home permanently?"
"That's literally what you already do," Pepper said, heels clicking on marble as she kept pace despite being a foot shorter and significantly less caffeinated.
"Then I'm making it official! JARVIS, remind me to put 'works from home' on my business cards!"
Behind them, Barry heard Stane on his phone, voice tight as a piano wire: "—don't care what it takes, contain this, I want options by tomorrow morning, legal options, board options, *any* options that don't involve me explaining to our stockholders why—"
"He's pissed," Rhodey observed quietly, adjusting his uniform jacket. "Like, genuinely pissed. I've seen Obie annoyed. This is new."
"He's terrified," Tony corrected, hitting the elevator button approximately seventeen times because apparently that made it come faster. "Stark Industries' entire business model is military contracts. Our revenue stream, our partnerships, our *identity*—it's all weapons. I just threatened his livelihood, his power base, everything he's built over the last thirty years while I was busy being a playboy and occasionally inventing things. Of course he's pissed."
"You think he'll come after you?" Barry asked, because in his world, when you threatened powerful people, they tended to get creative with revenge.
The elevator opened. They piled in—five people in a space meant for eight, which meant everyone was slightly too close and Barry could smell Tony's expensive cologne mixed with Pepper's perfume mixed with Rhodey's regulation Air Force soap.
Tony waited until the doors closed.
"Legally? Definitely. Obie'll use every board mechanism, every shareholder vote, every contract clause he can find. He'll leak to the press, manipulate stock prices, call in favors from senators and generals and anyone else whose pocket he's been lining for three decades. It'll be ugly. Protracted. Expensive. Incredibly annoying."
"But?" Pepper prompted.
"But he won't win." Tony leaned against the elevator wall, suddenly looking every bit as tired as he probably was. "Because I'm right. And more importantly, because I own this company in every way that matters. Shares, patents, name on the building. Obie's spent thirty years being my friend, my mentor, my dad's old buddy. He's forgotten that when push comes to shove? I'm the one who built the arc reactor. I'm the one who escaped the Ten Rings. I'm the one people believe in."
"That's..." Barry searched for the word. "Actually really egotistical."
"Thank you!" Tony grinned. "I've been working on my megalomaniacal self-confidence. Took a class online. Got a certificate and everything."
"You took an online class in *ego*?" Rhodey sounded physically pained.
"It was offered through community college. Very affordable."
The elevator opened onto the parking garage—that same sprawling concrete cavern from this morning, now filling with late-afternoon shadows. The convoy vehicles waited like patient mechanical horses.
"Okay," Pepper said, and her tone made everyone stop moving. When Pepper Potts used that voice, you *stopped*. "Here's what happens next. Tony, you're going home to rest—"
"I don't need to rest—"
"You're going home to rest," Pepper continued like he was a particularly persistent mosquito, "while I start damage control. I'll schedule an emergency board meeting for tomorrow, prep legal for the inevitable challenges, start drafting transition plans for the weapons division shutdown, call our top three PR firms and figure out which one can spin 'billionaire CEO has moral awakening' into something that doesn't tank our stock—"
"It's going to tank anyway," Tony said.
"Then I'll minimize the plunge." Pepper's fingers were already flying across her tablet, scheduling meetings, sending emails, probably reorganizing the fundamental structure of reality in her spare time. "I'll coordinate with Rhodey's people regarding the military contracts, reach out to our energy division to see what infrastructure we can repurpose, and start headhunting for someone who actually knows how to run a clean energy company since *you* certainly don't."
"Rude but fair."
"You don't have to do all that," Tony said, and there was something softer in his voice now. Something genuine under the snark. "This is my mess. My choice. You didn't sign up for—"
"Yes, I did," Pepper interrupted. "I signed up for exactly this. Managing your messes. Cleaning up your disasters. Keeping you alive despite your best efforts to get yourself killed in creative and expensive ways. That's literally my job description."
"Is it?" Tony asked, and Barry recognized that tone—hope, wrapped in casual indifference, dressed up as a joke. "Your job?"
Pepper looked up from her tablet. Met his eyes. And for a moment, something passed between them that made Barry feel like he should maybe look away.
"What are you asking, Tony?"
"I'm asking if you'll help me do this. Properly. Not just as my assistant—no offense to assistants, they're wonderful people, couldn't live without them—but as something more. Partner. Chief Operating Officer. Executive Vice President of Making Sure Tony Doesn't Burn Everything Down While Pursuing Moral Redemption." Tony's trademark smirk softened into something almost vulnerable. "It's a very important position. Corner office. Excellent benefits. Boss is kind of an asshole but he means well."
"That's not a real title."
"It is now. I'm making it up. I'm the boss. I can do that. I can make up titles. I can make you a Duchess. Do we have duchies in America? We should have duchies."
"Tony—"
"Please." Simple. Direct. No jokes. "Pepper, I'm serious. This transition—changing Stark Industries from weapons manufacturer to clean energy company—it's going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. And I've done *hard things*. I built a suit of armor in a cave with a box of scraps. This is going to make that look like building IKEA furniture. I can't do it alone. I need someone I trust. Someone who won't let me make stupid decisions. Someone who'll tell me when I'm being an idiot. Someone who actually gives a damn about me *and* this company."
Pepper was quiet for a long moment. Around them, the parking garage hummed with fluorescent lights and distant traffic.
"Double my salary," she finally said.
"Done. Tripled. Quadrupled. Name your price."
"Company car."
"Pick anything in the garage. I've got seventeen. Most of them are red. Some are other colors but they're all very fast."
"And I get veto power over your worst ideas."
"Define worst—"
"Veto power, Tony. Full veto. Unilateral. When I say no, the answer is no."
Tony winced. "That's... a lot of power."
"That's the price of having me save your ass," Pepper said sweetly. "Take it or leave it."
"...fine. Veto power." Tony stuck out his hand like they were negotiating a hostage situation instead of an employment contract. "Deal?"
Pepper took it. Shook firmly. Her grip suggested she could probably arm-wrestle Rhodey and win.
"Deal. Now get in the car before I change my mind and let you implode spectacularly without my help."
Tony grinned—genuine, warm, relieved in a way that made him look about five years younger. "You're the best, Pep."
"I know." Then, softer: "And Tony? I'm glad you're alive. And I'm glad you're doing this. The weapons shutdown. It's the right thing. Even if it's terrifying and financially catastrophic and probably going to give me an ulcer."
"I'll pay for the ulcer medication," Tony promised. "Top-tier ulcer medication. Only the best for my Chief Operating Officer slash corporate savior."
"You're an idiot."
"But I'm *your* idiot now. Contractually."
They climbed into the vehicles—Tony insisted Barry ride with him ("We're friends now, you should see where you're going to be living, also I want to show off my house because it's *amazing*")—so Barry found himself in the back of an SUV with Tony while Happy drove and Pepper worked on her tablet in the passenger seat, occasionally muttering things like "absolute disaster" and "how is this my life."
"So," Tony said as they pulled onto the Pacific Coast Highway, ocean glittering in the distance like someone had dumped a billion diamonds on blue velvet. "Welcome to your new life. How's the dimensional displacement treating you? Rate it on a scale of 'mildly disorienting' to 'existential crisis requiring therapy.'"
"Solid seven," Barry admitted, watching Los Angeles scroll past outside the window—familiar street names, unfamiliar buildings, that weird uncanny valley feeling of almost-but-not-quite-home. "Everything's almost right but not quite. Same geography, different details. It's like living in a mirror universe where someone changed all the channels slightly."
"That must be *incredibly* disorienting."
"You have no idea." Barry slumped against the leather seat, which was probably more expensive than his entire monthly rent back home. "In my world, there's this burger place—Big Belly Burger—best burgers in Central City. Here, it doesn't exist. The building where it should be is a Starbucks. A *Starbucks*, Tony. Do you know how wrong that feels?"
"I can imagine. I once went to Tokyo and my favorite sushi place had closed. I was devastated for minutes. Maybe even tens of minutes."
"Not the same thing."
"No, you're right, yours is worse. You have my condolences." Tony was quiet for a moment. "But the cheeseburger helped earlier, right? And we're helping? Having friends makes it less... alien?"
"Yeah," Barry said, and meant it. "The cheeseburger helped. You guys help a lot, actually. Having people who know what happened, who believe me—it makes it less lonely. Less like I'm going crazy."
"We're good like that," Tony said. "Providing emotional support through fast food and questionable life decisions. It's kind of our brand."
"Is shutting down the weapons division a questionable life decision?" Barry asked.
"According to about seventy percent of people who have opinions about my life choices—which is everyone, apparently everyone has opinions about me—yes, it's possibly the most questionable decision I've ever made. And I once bought a yacht on impulse because someone said I couldn't afford it. I could afford it. Still have the yacht. Don't know where it is, but I have it." Tony's expression turned serious. "According to my conscience and Yinsen's memory, no. It's the right thing. I'm going with my conscience on this one. It's a new experience. I'm trying it out. Seeing if it fits. So far it's uncomfortable but in that good way, like breaking in new shoes."
"How's it working so far?"
"Terrifying," Tony admitted, and there was something raw in his voice. "But right. You know that feeling when something's scary but you know it's the right thing anyway? That feeling where your brain is screaming 'abort abort abort' but your gut is like 'no, we're doing this'? That's where I'm at. It's horrible. I hate it. But I can't *not* do it, you know?"
"I know that feeling," Barry said quietly, thinking of his own choices. Running into burning buildings when every instinct said to flee. Staying to help Tony instead of running to safety when the Ten Rings came. Becoming a hero in a dimension that wasn't his own because someone had to and he had the power to help.
Scary but right.
The convoy drove along the coast, civilization gradually giving way to bigger houses, more space, more privacy. The kind of wealth that didn't need to advertise itself because it was simply *assumed*.
"We're almost there," Tony said, perking up like a kid about to show someone his treehouse. "Fair warning—the house is ridiculous. Absurd. Potentially offensive in its ostentation. My dad built it in the seventies during his 'I'm rich and the ocean should know it' phase, I renovated it in the early 2000s during my 'I'm rich and technology is cool' phase, and now it's basically a Bond villain's lair but with better tech and worse decorating choices because I made all the decorating decisions and I'm terrible at decorating."
"I'm sure it's fine," Barry said.
"It has a workshop the size of an airplane hangar."
"Okay, that's pretty cool—"
"It has an AI butler who judges my life choices."
"That's also—"
"It has more technology than most universities, a view that would make God jealous, and a garage full of cars I forget I own." Tony's grin was pure mischief. "It's not fine, Barry. It's absurd. Ridiculous. A monument to excess and poor impulse control. But it's home. And now it's *your* home. So try not to phase through any walls without asking first. Some of them are load-bearing and I'd rather not have the house collapse."
They turned off the highway onto a private road, then through a gate that opened automatically—probably scanning for bombs or unwanted relatives or something equally paranoid. The mansion came into view and—
"Holy *shit*," Barry breathed.
"Appropriate response," Tony said, looking pleased. "I accept your awe as tribute."
The house was stunning—a modernist masterpiece of glass, steel, and concrete perched on a cliff like it was daring gravity to try something. The Pacific Ocean crashed against rocks hundreds of feet below, all white foam and raw power. The setting sun painted everything in shades of orange and gold that would've looked fake in a movie but somehow worked in real life.
It looked like something from the future.
It looked like home.
(Not his home.)
(But home enough.)
The vehicles pulled into a garage that was, as promised, roughly the size of an airplane hangar. Cars lined the walls—Audis, Ferraris, something that might've been a vintage Rolls Royce, several vehicles Barry couldn't even identify—all pristine, all expensive, all probably worth more than Barry's (fake) college education.
Tony climbed out, stretching like a cat in sunshine. "JARVIS! I'm home! Did you miss me? Did you pine? Did you experience the robot equivalent of separation anxiety?"
A voice emerged from speakers Barry couldn't see—British, refined, with the kind of dry wit that suggested it had *opinions* about its creator's life choices:
"Welcome home, sir. I would say I missed you, but I lack the capacity for emotional attachment, being as I am a sophisticated series of algorithms rather than a sentient being. However, I did experience what might be described as a sub-optimal operational state during your absence. The house was quiet. Boring, one might say. Nothing exploded or caught fire. It was deeply unsettling."
"That's robot for 'I missed you,'" Tony translated happily. "JARVIS, meet Barry Allen. He's going to be staying with us. Possibly indefinitely. He's very fast and can run through walls and vibrates through solid matter and basically violates physics as a hobby. Try not to be alarmed when he does impossible things in your presence."
"Of course, sir." If an AI could sound intrigued, JARVIS managed it. "Mr. Allen, welcome to Stark Mansion. I am JARVIS—Just A Rather Very Intelligent System. I manage the home's operations, security, climate control, entertainment systems, and serve as Sir's personal assistant in matters both domestic and technical. I also provide occasional moral guidance, though Sir rarely listens."
"I listen sometimes," Tony protested.
"You listened once in 2007 when I suggested you not juggle chainsaws."
"And that worked out great! No one lost any limbs!"
"The bar for success is *remarkably* low in this household, Mr. Allen," JARVIS informed Barry. "You'll adjust."
Barry laughed—genuine, surprised laughter that felt good after the tension of the day. "You have a polite AI. That's... actually really nice. My world mostly had AIs that tried to sell you things or asked if you wanted to upgrade to premium."
"How *primitive*," JARVIS observed, managing to sound deeply offended on behalf of artificial intelligences everywhere. "I assure you, Mr. Allen, I only occasionally try to sell Sir things. Usually upgrades to my own systems, which are entirely justified given my workload and Sir's tendency to create additional work through poor decision-making."
"He's learning capitalism," Tony said proudly, like a parent at a school play. "And passive aggression. I'm teaching him passive aggression. It's very advanced."
"I learned passive aggression from observing you, sir."
"See? He's a natural!"
Pepper emerged from her vehicle, already on her phone, already deep in crisis management mode. "Tony, I need to go back to the office. There are seventeen board members trying to reach you, the PR department is having a collective breakdown, and someone needs to start managing this disaster before it becomes apocalyptic. Also your mother called."
"My mother is dead, Pepper."
"Then it was a *very* persistent wrong number." Pepper was already heading back to her car. "I'll be back tomorrow morning with updates. Try not to do anything newsworthy between now and then. No announcements. No press conferences. No midnight inventions that accidentally achieve sentience."
"That happened *one time*—"
"Once was enough!" Pepper's car door slammed. "I'll text you updates! Don't break anything expensive!"
"Everything here is expensive!" Tony called after her.
"Then don't break *anything*!" The car pulled away, taillights disappearing up the driveway.
"She's terrifying," Barry observed.
"She's *amazing*," Tony corrected. "Terrifying, yes. But amazing. You need people like Pepper. People who'll tell you no. People who'll stop you from doing stupid things. People who care enough to yell at you when you're being an idiot."
"You really care about her," Rhodey said. It wasn't a question.
"Yeah," Tony said simply. "I do. Always have. Just took getting blown up in Afghanistan to figure out I should probably tell her that."
"Character growth through trauma," Rhodey deadpanned. "Very healthy."
"I'm seeing a therapist!" Tony protested. "Probably! Eventually! Pepper's going to make me!"
They moved into the house proper, Happy peeling off to do security things, and Barry had to admit—the inside was even more impressive than the outside. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Minimalist furniture that probably cost more than a car. Technology integrated into every surface like the house itself was alive—touch screens, holographic displays, ambient lighting that adjusted automatically to the setting sun outside.
"JARVIS controls everything," Tony explained, gesturing around like a game show host revealing prizes. "Lights, climate, security, entertainment, my music, my workshop, my life. Just ask him for whatever you need. He's very accommodating. Sometimes too accommodating. I'm working on teaching him to say no to my bad ideas but he's a work in progress."
"A Sisyphean task, sir," JARVIS observed. "Rather like trying to teach water not to be wet."
"See? Sarcasm! He's learning sarcasm! I'm such a good teacher!"
"You're a *terrible* influence, sir. Mr. Allen, I apologize in advance for whatever poor habits you develop during your stay."
Tony led them through the house—living spaces that looked like they belonged in an architecture magazine, guest rooms with beds that probably cost five figures, a media room with a screen that took up an entire wall and speakers that could probably simulate earthquakes.
The kitchen looked like it belonged in a five-star restaurant but had the vague air of a room that never got used for actual cooking.
"You live here alone?" Barry asked, because the space felt both enormous and somehow lonely.
"Mostly," Tony said, and something flickered across his face—too fast for normal people to catch but Barry's speedster perception caught it anyway. Loneliness, buried under layers of sarcasm and expensive furniture. "Pepper comes by for work stuff. Rhodey visits when he's on leave and the Air Force remembers he exists. Happy's here for security. But yeah, usually just me and JARVIS. We have long conversations about philosophy and whether I should eat vegetables."
"Sir *rarely* eats vegetables," JARVIS confirmed. "His diet consists primarily of coffee, cheeseburgers, and whatever catering provides during board meetings."
"Vegetables are a conspiracy invented by agriculture lobbyists to make us feel guilty," Tony declared. "Big Broccoli is trying to control your mind."
"That's not how conspiracies work," Barry said.
"It is if you believe hard enough and have absolutely no understanding of nutrition."
They descended a staircase—metal and glass, spiraling down through the house's core like DNA—into what had to be the workshop Tony had mentioned. And when they reached the bottom, Barry stopped dead.
The workshop was *enormous*.
Not airplane-hangar enormous—Tony had undersold that—but close. High ceilings, concrete floors polished to a mirror shine, walls lined with tools and equipment that belonged in a high-tech laboratory or possibly a science fiction movie. Workbenches covered in projects in various states of completion—circuit boards, mechanical components, something that might've been a robot arm. Computer terminals everywhere, displays showing designs, calculations, 3D models rotating in space. Robotic arms mounted on tracks along the ceiling, ready to assist with fabrication, welding, assembly.
And in the center of the floor, like a monument to survival, stood the Mark I.
The armor they'd built in the cave, now sitting on a display stand under proper lighting, looking even more brutal and impressive outside the context of imminent death. Scorch marks from flamethrower use. Dents from bullet impacts. The crude welding where they'd patched it together with salvaged materials. All the evidence of their escape preserved like a museum piece.
"You kept it," Barry said quietly.
"Of course I kept it." Tony walked over to the armor, hands in his pockets, voice softer now. "This is history, Barry. This is proof that Tony Stark can build anything, anywhere, with nothing. This is—" his voice caught slightly, "—this is proof that Yinsen's sacrifice mattered. That we survived. That we *made it*. That his death meant something."
Barry moved closer, examining the crude construction, the improvised joints, the arc reactor socket at the heart of it all. A monument to human ingenuity and desperation in equal measure.
"We did make it," Barry agreed.
"Yeah." Tony touched the armor's chest plate gently, almost reverently. "Now we're going to do something with that survival. Build something that matters. Something that helps people instead of killing them. Something that justifies Yinsen's faith in us."
"The clean energy thing?" Barry asked.
"The clean energy thing," Tony confirmed, and his eyes lit up—that manic inventor gleam Barry was starting to recognize. "Arc reactor technology, scaled up, refined, mass-produced. Imagine—power plants that don't burn fossil fuels, don't create pollution, don't depend on foreign oil or political instability. Imagine neighborhoods powered by reactors the size of filing cabinets. Imagine cars that run for years without refueling. Imagine *clean* energy that's actually affordable, accessible, revolutionary."
"That would change everything," Barry said, because even through the dimensional barrier he could recognize world-changing technology when he heard it described.
"*Exactly*." Tony started pacing, hands moving as he talked, painting pictures in the air. "That's the legacy I want. Not 'Tony Stark, weapons manufacturer.' Not 'Tony Stark, merchant of death.' But 'Tony Stark, the guy who solved the energy crisis.' That matters. That saves lives—millions of lives, potentially billions if we can scale it globally. That's worth building. That's worth fighting for. That's worth everything."
"I'll help," Barry offered. "However I can. I'm not an engineer like you—I mean, I'm a scientist but different kind of scientist, more chemistry and physics than mechanical engineering—but I can run tests, gather data, move supplies faster than any normal person. I can be useful. I *want* to be useful."
Tony smiled—genuine, warm, grateful. "Thanks, kid. I'll take you up on that. This is going to be your space too. Your workshop. Your lab. Whatever you need. I'll set up a section for your speed training, diagnostic equipment to monitor your physiology when you're running. We need to understand your abilities better if we're going to keep you healthy and figure out how to get you home."
"And figure out how to get me home," Barry repeated, because that was the goal. The endgame. The thing that mattered.
(Even if part of him was starting to like it here.)
"That too," Tony agreed. "Though I have to warn you—I have absolutely no idea how to create an interdimensional portal. That's... significantly beyond my expertise. I can build a robot, I can miniaturize arc reactor technology, I can create a functional suit of powered armor in a cave with limited resources. Punching holes in dimensional barriers? That's new territory."
"Mine too," Barry admitted. "But the Speed Force entity—the lightning woman I saw—she said she'd regenerate enough power eventually to send me back. I just need to survive long enough for that to happen."
"Surviving I can help with," Tony said firmly. "JARVIS, pull up the guest room assignments. Where are we putting our interdimensional speedster?"
"I've prepared the east wing guest suite, sir," JARVIS replied. "Ocean view, private bathroom, climate control, and conveniently located near the workshop for easy access. I've also stocked the room with various amenities, including clothing in Mr. Allen's approximate size, toiletries, and several charging cables because everyone always forgets charging cables."
"Perfect," Tony said. "Barry, go get settled. Rhodey and I will order dinner—probably pizza because I've been craving pizza since approximately day twelve of captivity and I will fight someone if I don't get pizza soon—and then we'll talk strategy. Figure out next steps for both your situation and my impending corporate war."
"Pizza sounds amazing," Barry said, because it did. "But fair warning—my metabolism is probably going to require like three pizzas. Minimum. Maybe four. Possibly five. I haven't really tested the upper limits of speedster caloric requirements."
"*Good* thing I'm a billionaire," Tony said cheerfully. "We'll order six. And breadsticks. And wings. And those cinnamon dessert things. What are they called?"
"Cinnamon sticks?" Barry suggested.
"Those! We're getting those! And probably something with cheese! Everything's better with cheese!" Tony was already pulling out his phone. "JARVIS, order from that place in Santa Monica. The one with the good crust and the garlic knots that are basically gifts from God. Tell them it's for Tony Stark and they should probably make it fast because I tip very well when I'm hungry and very badly when I'm not."
"Already placing the order, sir," JARVIS confirmed. "I've also ordered extra cheese as per your previous preferences and your general philosophy that cheese improves all things."
"See, Barry? JARVIS *gets* me."
"Someone has to, sir."
Barry headed toward the stairs, then paused. "Tony?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"Thank you. For everything. For saving my life—sort of, I mean we saved each other really—for giving me a place to stay, for helping me exist in this world when I shouldn't exist here at all. I know I've said it before but—"
"Kid," Tony interrupted gently, and his trademark smirk softened into something genuine. "You saved my life first. Kept me alive in that cave. Helped me build the armor. Vibrated bullets out of my chest which is simultaneously the coolest and weirdest thing anyone's ever done for me. This is me paying that forward. Plus—" the grin returned, "—you're *interesting*. And I like interesting. Gets boring being a genius billionaire philanthropist all by myself. Well, not philanthropist yet. Working on that. Pepper says I need to do more charity work."
"You have Rhodey," Barry pointed out.
"Rhodey's in the Air Force. He has responsibilities. Orders. A commanding officer who keeps asking where he is and why he's spending so much time with me." Rhodey grimaced in confirmation. "You're an interdimensional speedster with no job, no obligations, no commanding officer, and nowhere else to be. You can stick around and help me build cool stuff. It's perfect. You're like the world's fastest unpaid intern."
"I should probably get paid," Barry said.
"Fine, you're my paid intern. JARVIS, put Barry on the payroll. Make up a position. Chief of... Speed Things. Vice President of Running Fast. Whatever sounds official."
"I'll handle it, sir."
"But seriously," Barry continued, "I do have an obligation. To get home. To help my dad—he's in prison for something he didn't do and I need to prove his innocence. To tell Iris how I feel about her before I lose my chance. To be the Flash that Central City needs."
"And we'll make that happen," Tony promised. "But until then, you've got a home here. A workshop. Friends. Pizza in—" he checked his phone, "—approximately forty-three minutes. What more could you want?"
Barry thought about it. About Central City that didn't exist in this dimension. About Joe West and Iris who might not even exist here. About the Speed Force slowly regenerating somewhere in the dimensional void, gathering power to send him home. About Yinsen's words echoing in his head: *Don't waste your speed on things that don't matter.*
"Nothing," Barry said finally. "This is good. This is really good. Thank you."
"Damn right it is," Tony said. "Now go get settled. Dinner in an hour. And maybe change out of the superhero suit—it's very cool, don't get me wrong, extremely badass—but probably uncomfortable for casual pizza eating. Plus I want to examine it later. Analyze the materials. See if I can improve the design. Make you a new suit that's even cooler."
"You want to make me a suit?"
"I want to make you an *upgraded* suit. With better materials, impact resistance, maybe some communication tech. Your current suit is great for 'I built it in a basement' but you deserve 'I built it in a state-of-the-art workshop with unlimited resources.' Big difference."
Barry smiled. "Okay. Yeah. That sounds amazing, actually."
---
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