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Chapter Text

The first truly strange thing she noticed in this new life was her own reflection. Growing up, she slowly realized her face wasn't just pretty—it was uncannily similar to that of a young Emma Stone. This bizarre discovery made her feel even more disconnected from her new surroundings, and the true nature of her world remained a mystery until she saw a familiar sign for Stark Industries.

She was just an ordinary orphan teen, focused solely on survival. She desperately needed a job to maintain her tiny, one-room, one-bathroom apartment and keep the utilities running. That desperation peaked the day she spotted an advertisement in the newspaper: Tony Stark was looking for a Personal Assistant. She immediately knew she had the skills to help him—and more importantly, she knew he would pay well if she got the job. A conflict immediately arose: her rational side screamed not to interfere with the timeline, but the knowledge that this job would secure her financial future, coupled with a deep, almost irresistible urge, pulled her toward Stark Tower. The massive paycheck was the deciding factor.

With a deep breath, Penelope put aside her reservations and dressed in the nicest clothes her limited budget allowed. The need for a steady paycheck had won. She arrived at the colossal Stark Tower, her heart hammering a nervous rhythm against her ribs. The elevator ride up felt agonizingly slow, and by the time she reached the designated floor, her palms were slick with sweat.

She checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in the sleek, minimalist waiting room. She was an absolute wreck—fiddling with her interview portfolio, her mind racing through every possible catastrophe. Then she looked up and froze.

Sitting across the room, calmly reviewing a stack of papers, was a woman with professional grace, auburn hair, and a distinct air of capability: Pepper Potts.

"Wait a minute..." Penelope muttered to herself, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. If Pepper was here, it meant Tony hadn't hired her yet. If Tony hadn't hired her yet, then the timeline hadn't fully diverged. Penelope was standing on the precipice of disrupting the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe.

A wave of panic washed over her. She couldn't do this. She couldn't risk erasing the events that led to the Avengers, to the world’s salvation. Quietly, she gathered her meager belongings, hoping to slip out unnoticed and escape back to the safety of her tiny apartment.

She was just three steps from the door when an assistant’s voice cut through the opulent silence, firm and polite:

"Ms. Baker? Mr. Stark will see you now." The polite, professional summons hung in the air, freezing Penelope in place.

"Shit!" she thought, her internal panic reaching a fever pitch. Her hand was already gripping the polished steel door handle, the escape route within reach. Go, run, save the timeline! But the moment of hesitation was fatal. She felt a hundred eyes on her, from the serene Pepper Potts to the clipboard-wielding assistant.

She couldn't just bolt. That would ensure Tony Stark would spend the rest of the day looking for "the flighty, nervous girl who applied for a job and ran away." That kind of attention was exactly what she didn't need in this world.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Penelope straightened her shoulders. The job was survival. She needed the money far more than the MCU needed an unchanged narrative, especially since she was already here. If she got the job, she could control how much she interfered. If she ran now, she'd just be a broke, timeline-skirting orphan.

With a final, desperate burst of forced composure, she turned back to the assistant. "Of course," she managed, her voice barely a whisper. Taking the point-of-no-return step, she walked toward the door and into the office of the legendary, chaotic, and totally unprepared-for-her Tony Stark.

She took one final, steadying breath, the faint smell of expensive leather and ozone filling her lungs. With a polite nod to the assistant, Penelope walked toward the door that led to the legendary figure himself.

The office was exactly as she'd pictured it—a sweeping view of the city, a chaotic desk covered in half-finished prototypes and blueprints, and, seated behind it, the man who held the fate of the world (and her bank account) in his hands.

He looked younger than he ever did in the movies, perhaps a bit rumpled, but radiating that signature, effortless confidence. He glanced up, his eyes shielded by expensive sunglasses even indoors.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stark," Penelope said, forcing her voice to be steady and professional, resisting the urge to blurt out a fan-girl line or a warning about future alien invasions. "I'm Penelope Baker. Thank you for seeing me."

Tony leaned back, a small, assessing smile playing on his lips. "The one who thinks she can juggle my life, huh? Take a seat, Baker. Let's see what you've got." Penelope ignored his invitation to sit, her focus entirely on the man behind the desk. She knew she had mere seconds before her nerve completely failed, so she decided to shock him.

"Actually, Mr. Stark," she said, her voice surprisingly firm despite the tremor in her hands, "I don't want to be your Personal Assistant."

Tony paused, his dark glasses hiding his surprise, though the slight tilt of his head betrayed his confusion. "Excuse me? You walked into my office just to decline the job?"

Penelope moved quickly to the massive window, pointing a finger toward the waiting room where the elegant figure of Pepper Potts was still reviewing papers. "That person right there," Penelope stated, turning back to him, "is the perfect fit for the PA job. You need someone hyper-organized, fiercely loyal, and who can practically read your mind. She's it."

Tony raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her audacity. "And how do you know that, Baker? Got a crystal ball in your tiny apartment?"

"It’s just a hunch, Mr. Stark. But it's a hunch you should trust me on," she insisted, taking the bold risk of appearing slightly eccentric.

Then, she transitioned back to her true purpose, her demeanor shifting from prophet to pragmatic job seeker. "However," she continued, stepping closer to his desk, "I do desperately need a job. And I am an incredibly skilled five-star pastry chef and cook. If you need a Personal Chef, someone to manage your kitchen and ensure you're actually eating high-quality meals—and not just cheeseburgers—I would absolutely fit that description."

She met his gaze directly. "I’m not here to interfere with your life; I'm here because I'm looking for a way to pay the rent, and I'm the best baker you'll ever meet."

Tony burst out laughing, a genuine, booming sound that surprised Penelope.

"You know what, Baker?" he said, shaking his head and leaning back in his chair. "I like you. You've got guts, and you tell me what to do—that's a refreshing change of pace." He gestured dismissively toward his chaotic desk. "Besides, if I'm being honest, I live on takeout. Having a personal chef wouldn't be too bad." He snapped his fingers. "You're hired."

A wave of relief and triumph washed over Penelope. She beamed. "Thank you, Mr. Stark. You won't regret it."

Plot change averted, she thought, the heavy weight of the timeline lifted, replaced by the exciting weight of a paycheck. I get the job, Pepper gets her job, and the world still gets Iron Man.

"When do I start?" she asked, already feeling more professional.

"Tomorrow, work for you?" Tony replied casually.

"Tomorrow sounds perfect, Mr. Stark," she confirmed, sealing the deal and securing her future in a world she never expected to inhabit. Tony grinned, clearly pleased with his spontaneous decision. He scribbled his home address—a ridiculously exclusive, high-end zip code—onto a sleek Stark Industries notepad and handed it to her.

"Here's the lair," he said. "Get comfortable. We'll exchange numbers, and the company will be sending you an email with all the tedious documents you need to sign and send back. Welcome aboard, Baker. Now get out of here so I can get back to work."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," Penelope said, clutching the address. She paused at the door, her conscience giving one final nudge. She looked back, catching his eye. "But seriously, hire Pepper Potts. Trust me on that."

With a final, bright smile, she practically skipped out of the office, leaving Tony Stark chuckling at the odd, persistent chef he’d just hired. Outside, she walked past a still-waiting Pepper and headed for the elevator, the thrill of the new job and the relief of a secure future coursing through her veins.

Tony leaned back, watching the kitchen prophet, Penelope Baker, practically float out the door. The kid was weird, even by his standards, and that was saying something. He pulled the sunglasses down an inch, letting his eyes rake over the retreating figure. Baker had marched in with the desperate scent of low rent and high ambition, but then immediately rejected the job he was offering to pitch him on a completely different one—for someone else. The audacity was almost charming. Almost.

"Hire Pepper Potts, trust me on that," he muttered, mimicking her firm, almost evangelical tone. Who was she, anyway? Some kind of corporate headhunter cosplaying as an applicant?

He hit the intercom. "Get the next one in here. The one with the sensible shoes and the fire in her eyes. The one Baker was pointing at."

A moment later, Virginia "Pepper" Potts walked in. She was everything Penelope Baker wasn't: polished, impeccably organized, radiating professional competence. She didn't fidget, she didn't stare at the view, and she barely reacted to the state of his desk. She just walked to the visitor chair, portfolio in hand, and waited calmly for him to speak.

Tony stared at her, then back at the door where Baker had disappeared.

Baker wanted the money. That was clear. But she didn't want the job. She wanted the chef role, the low-interference, high-paying gig.

But she practically ordered me to hire this one.

He picked up a prototype wrench from his desk, turning it over in his hand, his genius-level intellect running the numbers.

Baker was chaotic, bold, and totally unfazed by him. She’d be a distraction as a PA, and he didn't need any more distractions. He needed someone who could actually herd the cats he called his life. Pepper Potts, though... she looked like she could herd a black hole.

"Alright, Potts," Tony said, his voice dropping the playful edge. "Forget the standard script. I'm drowning. I need someone to manage my schedule, my meetings, my social calendar—hell, my blood pressure, probably. I need a miracle worker who can not only anticipate my stupidity but stop it before I commit to a televised charity striptease."

Pepper didn't flinch. She simply opened her portfolio, pulling out a perfectly structured, color-coded printout of the past week of his rumored appointments—appointments he hadn't even remembered making.

"I took the liberty of reviewing your public schedule and cross-referencing it with your known commitments to MIT and the Department of Defense, Mr. Stark," she said, her voice crisp and no-nonsense. "I've already highlighted three conflicting events and drafted five plausible excuses for your cancellation."

Tony leaned forward, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. She wasn't an assistant; she was a strategic weapon. "She's right," he realized. Penelope Baker, the weird girl with the strikingly familiar features and the great instincts, was absolutely, terrifyingly right. The chef job was for the paycheck, but the PA job? That was for Pepper. This woman was a fortress. She was the one who could actually run the machine while he built the future.

He tossed the wrench aside. "Forget the rest of the interview, Potts. When can you start organizing my chaos?"

Exiting, Tony Stark’s ridiculously opulent office felt like escaping a high-stakes robbery. Penelope didn't run, but her steps were certainly lighter, faster, and powered by pure, ecstatic adrenaline. She clutched the address Tony had scrawled, the paper feeling more valuable than gold.

As she passed the waiting area, she saw Pepper Potts—the future CEO, the future fiancée, the veritable backbone of Iron Man—still seated there, perfectly composed. Penelope paused for a fleeting second, gave Pepper a bright, conspiratorial grin that said, Trust me, you're about to get the job of a lifetime, and then practically skipped toward the elevator bank.

She punched the lobby button, the chrome doors sliding shut on the dizzying heights of Stark Tower. The massive, beautiful space, which just minutes ago had represented an existential crisis, now represented survival.

"I did it," she whispered to her reflection in the polished elevator door. "I got the job, and I didn't break the timeline."

The relief was immense. She had secured the money she desperately needed, all while keeping the future where it belonged. She was a five-star pastry chef hired to make sure Tony Stark didn't die of a Vitamin C deficiency—a safe, non-interfering role. She could bake, she could cook, and she could watch the chaos unfold from the safety of the kitchen.

Stepping out onto the street, the noise and bustle of Malibu felt vibrant and exciting, no longer intimidating. She was no longer just an ordinary orphan teen; she was Penelope Baker, Personal Chef to Tony Stark, and she had a feeling that, despite all her caution, this new life was about to be anything but boring.

Penelope rode the bus back to her tiny apartment, the address for Tony Stark's mansion clutched in her hand. Her excitement for tomorrow was almost blinding. She had a high-paying job, a stable future, and she had successfully managed to install Pepper Potts as the future PA and, therefore, maintain the flow of events—or so she thought. She fell asleep that night dreaming of perfectly laminated croissants and a very full bank account.

But what Penelope didn't realize was the profound effect of her mere presence. She had secured a position not just in a kitchen, but in Tony Stark’s inner circle.

She had inserted a new variable into the equation: a talented, outspoken, and timeline-aware chef who now held the keys to Stark's nutrition, his downtime, and his home life. By simply making Tony a good meal, by distracting him with a perfect crème brûlée, or by speaking a single, seemingly insignificant word of advice that only her future knowledge could provide, things were actually going to change.

The major plot points might hold, but the subtle, foundational pieces—the small, critical moments that shape a hero’s mood, health, and decisions—were now vulnerable to the gentle, yet inevitable, ripple effect of Penelope Baker. The timeline hadn't been saved; it had just been subtly, permanently rerouted.

The moment Penelope got back to her tiny apartment, she found the Stark Industries email waiting in her inbox. She devoured the details—her official title was indeed Personal Chef/Culinary Manager, and the accompanying legal documents were standard, if excessively long.

But then she got to the compensation breakdown. She nearly choked on the stale air of her one-room apartment. Her hourly salary was not just "well-paying" or "generous"; it was an obscene amount, exponentially more than she had dared to imagine. It was the kind of money that didn't just pay rent; it could buy the whole building.

She stared at the numbers, checking and re-checking for a misplaced decimal point. This is Tony Stark money, she realized with a gasp. He doesn't budget; he just signs.

A giddy smile stretched across her face. This wasn't just survival; this was financial security for years. It was enough money to finally stop worrying about utilities and start dreaming about culinary equipment—and maybe even a new apartment that had more than two rooms.

With renewed vigor, she quickly signed all the documents electronically and hit send. The deal was sealed. Now, the only thing left was to pack her limited but treasured set of chef knives and make her way to Malibu for her first day tomorrow. The kitchen of the future awaited.

The following morning, Penelope practically vibrated with anticipation. The reality of the situation still felt like a glorious, unstable dream. She was about to report for duty at Tony Stark's legendary Malibu mansion, for a man she had only ever known as a two-dimensional figure on a comic page and a three-dimensional projection on a screen.

Tony Stark. The name was synonymous with brilliance, chaos, and the future.

She was not just in a different world; she was smack in the middle of her favorite fictional universe, and now she was part of the backstory. The sheer impossibility of it all was exhilarating. While the anxiety about the timeline remained a dull hum, it was easily drowned out by the thrill of her new reality. She was going to be working for the very man whose movies she used to binge-watch on repeat.

This wasn't just a job; it was a front-row seat to history, secured by her talent with a whisk and a lucrative, unbudgeted salary. Penelope Baker, the ordinary girl who became the chef in the superhero’s lair, was ready for her first day.

Penelope arrived at the address—a sprawling, glass-and-steel architectural marvel overlooking the Pacific—and took a moment to simply stare. This was it: the infamous Malibu mansion. Swallowing her awe, she took a deep breath and rang the doorbell.

The door opened instantly, and there stood Pepper Potts, looking even more composed and efficient in person. The sight of her sparked a genuine, relieved smile on Penelope’s face.

"Penelope Baker?" Pepper asked, her professional tone softening slightly as she took in the excited young woman.

"The one and only," Penelope confirmed. She glanced quickly at Pepper’s calm, capable presence. Thank goodness, he actually listened to me, she thought, the timeline anxiety instantly receding.

"Virginia Potts," Pepper introduced herself with a handshake. "But please, call me Pepper. You must be the culinary genius who somehow managed to interview Mr. Stark for him instead of the other way around."

They shared a brief moment of mutual respect, and Penelope felt her remaining nervousness evaporate.

"Well, welcome to the madness," Pepper said, stepping aside. "I've already handled your initial paperwork. Here are your keys."

She handed Penelope a heavy ring. "This is for the main house, the kitchen, and your private suite on the east wing. And this," Pepper added, pulling a fob from her pocket, "is for your welcome gift from Mr. Stark."

Penelope stared at the fob. "A welcome gift?"

"He said you were worried about rent, so he figured you shouldn't worry about transportation either," Pepper explained, pointing toward the sleek black sedan parked in the driveway. "It's a company car, yours to use while employed. Consider it a signing bonus. The keys are already programmed."

Penelope's jaw dropped. A fantastic salary and a brand-new car? Tony Stark really did operate on a different plane of existence. "I... wow," was all she could manage. "Tell him thank you. That's incredibly generous."

"You can tell him yourself," Pepper replied with a slight chuckle. "He's in the workshop. Come on, let me show you the most important room in the house." Pepper led Penelope through the sleek, modern corridors of the mansion, and Penelope tried to keep her excitement contained. Finally, they reached a large, unassuming door which Pepper opened with a swipe of her keycard.

Penelope stepped across the threshold and gasped.

This wasn't just a kitchen; it was a culinary command center, a breathtaking space that was every five-star chef's fantasy made real. The room was vast, dominated by a huge marble island that could seat a small party, illuminated by recessed lighting that made everything sparkle.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a spectacular, unobstructed view of the Pacific Ocean, turning the act of chopping vegetables into a scenic event. The appliances were all top-of-the-line stainless steel, clearly custom-made and professional-grade. She saw double convection ovens, a six-burner induction stovetop built flush into the counter, a walk-in refrigerator that was currently empty, and a dizzying array of specialized tools and racks.

"Oh, my God," Penelope breathed, running a hand reverently over the smooth steel of a prep counter. "It's beautiful in every possible way."

It was her dream kitchen, designed without budget constraints or compromises. It was ready for anything from a complex wedding cake to a quiet, gourmet meal for one eccentric billionaire.

Pepper chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "Mr. Stark had it installed a few years ago. He told the designers to build 'the best kitchen human money could buy.' He never actually uses it, though. It's pristine, as you can see."

Penelope turned, her eyes shining with genuine delight. "Well, I will. This... this is perfect. Thank you for showing me."

"My pleasure," Pepper replied. "Now that you've claimed your kingdom, I should probably show you where to find the food and, more importantly, where to find Mr. Stark." "Before we move on," Pepper said, noticing Penelope's lingering awe, "you need to be formally introduced to the man who actually runs this house."

Penelope blinked. "Mr. Stark isn't..."

Before she could finish, a smooth, British voice, sounding like it originated from the air itself, cut in.

"Welcome, Ms. Baker. I am JARVIS. I am an Automated Computing System and I manage all domestic and security functions within the residence. It is a pleasure to have a dedicated chef onboard. Given Mr. Stark's recent nutritional habits, your arrival is statistically overdue."

Penelope’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened, a mix of pure fandom excitement and the chilling realization that she was talking to JARVIS. This was the voice of the future, a voice she knew would one day become something else entirely.

"JARVIS," Penelope managed, a huge, star-struck smile breaking out on her face. "It’s... it's really great to meet you."

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Ms. Baker. I have already compiled a full inventory of the kitchen's available storage and specialized equipment for your review. I have also cross-referenced your resume with a catalogue of Mr. Stark’s known dietary preferences—or, rather, lack thereof."

Pepper rolled her eyes fondly. "See? Better than any staff member I could hire. Now, let's stock your kingdom. The pantry and refrigerated storage are through this door."

Pepper led her out of the main kitchen and into a cavernous, perfectly organized storage area that dwarfed her old apartment. It was empty but ready for action.

"The inventory list is already loaded onto your new tablet," Pepper explained, handing Penelope a sleek, StarkPad. "It’s wirelessly linked to JARVIS. Get your order together, and he'll manage the delivery and stocking. For now, you should probably meet your boss and see what culinary disaster he needs you to avert first."

"Right," Penelope said, clutching the tablet. Her heart was pounding. She was about to meet Tony Stark again, and this time, JARVIS was listening. "Show me the way to the workshop."

Pepper led Penelope away from the sterile perfection of the kitchen area and toward an elevator clearly marked with restricted access warnings. As the elevator descended, Penelope felt the familiar low thrum of heavy machinery—the unmistakable sound of a mad genius at work.

The doors opened, and Penelope’s jaw dropped for the third time that morning.

The space wasn't a basement; it was an underground fortress of innovation—the famous Workshop. It was enormous, a brightly lit cavern filled with half-finished machinery, circuit boards, holographic displays flickering with complex data, and the hulking forms of various pieces of Stark tech. Tools were scattered in organized chaos, and the air smelled sharply of oil and ozone.

A low, impressed sound escaped her. She instinctively brought her fingers to her lips and let out a sharp, clear whistle.

"Nice basement, Mr. Stark," she called out, completely forgetting her carefully rehearsed professional demeanor.

Tony, currently hunched over a workbench and wearing safety goggles pushed up onto his forehead, didn't even turn around at first. He just grinned, tossing a wrench into a nearby red toolbox without looking.

"Thanks, Baker. It's the only room in the house I'm actually allowed to make a mess in," he replied easily, the compliment landing exactly where he liked it. He finally turned, giving her a quick once-over. "So, you've met the Warden and the Voice. Ready to talk menu strategy?"

Penelope stepped closer, trying not to stare too obviously at the early-stage robotics nearby. "Menu strategy is great, but first, I need to know your schedule. Are we talking three meals a day, or will you just forget to eat for 36 hours straight?"

Tony chuckled, pulling off his gloves. "Look at you, all business. The official answer is: whenever I remember. The practical answer is: Pepper is going to start telling you what time I'm supposed to be eating. I'll take a decent breakfast, forget lunch, and need something that can be eaten one-handed in here around midnight."

"Got it," Penelope nodded. "Fuel for genius. No problem. But Mr. Stark, I have one non-culinary demand."

Tony raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Oh? Already? Hit me, Baker."

"Don't fire Pepper," Penelope said simply, her eyes wide and sincere. "She's exactly what you need. And I need her here to manage the paperwork, frankly."

Tony shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips. "You're a bizarre package deal, you two. Don't worry, the redhead has secured her fate. Now, go look at those pristine ovens, get that ridiculous amount of cash I'm paying you, and make me a killer dinner. And make it something I can't get out of a box."

"Challenge accepted," Penelope beamed. With a final, lingering look at the controlled chaos of the lab, she turned to head back upstairs. This is real, she thought, and it is amazing.

"Just one more thing, Mr. Stark," Penelope called out, stopping mid-turn. She pointed a finger at him, the cheerful fan-girl replaced by the determined chef.

"You do realize that as your Personal Chef, I will make sure you eat all your meals, right? I'm not just here to offer options; I'm here to enforce nutrition." She paused, letting a decidedly wicked smile play on her lips. "And trust me, I'm very passive-aggressive when I want to be. I can make your favorite blueberry muffins taste suspiciously like disappointment if you skip breakfast."

Tony threw his head back and laughed again, finding her threat genuinely entertaining. "Duly noted, Baker. The culinary terror has spoken. I look forward to the passive-aggression. Now, go save me from my takeout addiction!"

Penelope grinned, satisfied. She’d set the boundaries and introduced the element of charming, if slightly threatening, compliance. The kitchen awaited her command.

Chapter Text

After escaping the mesmerizing chaos of the workshop, Pepper escorted Penelope to her new private quarters in the east wing. The suite wasn't just a bedroom; it was a small, sleek apartment, luxurious and minimalist, complete with its own stunning ocean view.

"Your key grants you full access, and all services are taken care of by the house staff, who you will rarely see," Pepper explained, handing her a keycard. "Just communicate any needs through JARVIS."

Penelope nodded, already running her hands over the Egyptian cotton duvet. This was a radical upgrade from her cramped city box. Survival achieved, she thought, a sense of deep, solid security settling over her. Back in the pristine, empty kitchen, Penelope activated the StarkPad Pepper had given her. The inventory interface was sophisticated and intimidating.

"JARVIS," she dictated, pacing the marble island, "I need to place a massive order. We're starting from scratch."

"Understood, Ms. Baker. Please proceed with your requirements. I have already established direct accounts with several high-end, international purveyors, approved for unlimited expenditure."

Penelope’s eyes widened at the phrase "unlimited expenditure." She spent the next hour making a list that made her inner frugal orphan weep with joy. She ordered everything: rare European cheeses, three different kinds of organic flour milled that morning, crates of vibrant, high-grade produce, cases of boutique French butter, and cuts of meat that cost more than her former monthly rent.

"And JARVIS," she added, finishing with a flourish, "I need an entire shelf of high-quality, pre-made chocolate. The good stuff. For emergency baking."

"Order placed, Ms. Baker. Delivery is scheduled for 1800 hours. Shall I prepare a simple evening meal in the interim?"

"No, thank you, JARVIS," Penelope replied, now buzzing with creative energy. "I'll make something small for myself, and then I'm going to start prepping the ingredients for tomorrow's artillery. We’re going to hit Mr. Stark with a gourmet triple threat starting with breakfast."

Penelope spent her first evening happily organizing her new domain after the enormous delivery arrived. By midnight, the walk-in fridge was stocked, the shelves were labeled, and the aroma of baking sourdough starter was quietly proofing. She made herself a mug of tea and retired to her new suite, already planning her six-course attack on Tony's notoriously bad diet. She was fast asleep when she was jolted awake by a notification on her StarkPad.

"Ms. Baker," JARVIS’s voice was polite but firm, resonating softly from the tablet. "It is currently 01:15 AM. Mr. Stark has just requested I place an order for two extra-large pepperoni and mushroom pizzas from 'Sal's Late Night Slice,' followed by a carton of powdered donuts."

Penelope sat bolt upright in bed. This was it. The first test. "JARVIS, cancel the order," she commanded immediately, pulling on a silk robe.

"I am programmed to fulfill Mr. Stark's requests unless they pose an immediate health risk, Ms. Baker."

"This is an immediate health risk!" she insisted, throwing open the door. "It’s a morale risk! Tell him his personal chef is currently on route to the kitchen. And JARVIS, please remind him about the blueberry muffin threat."

"Processing. Mr. Stark has been notified of the Chef's imminent arrival and her threat of 'disappointment-flavored muffins.'"

Penelope charged into the kitchen. She didn't have time for a three-course meal, but she could manage a tactical strike. In less than ten minutes, she had whipped up a warm, savory breakfast burrito using fresh scrambled eggs, goat cheese, spinach, and a handful of perfectly diced, caramelized onions—all wrapped tightly in a freshly made tortilla she'd quickly pressed.

She grabbed a bottle of freshly squeezed organic orange juice and marched straight to the workshop elevator. She found Tony hunched over a glowing schematic, his face tired and his attention fully focused on the holographic projection. Penelope dropped the plate and the juice right next to his elbow, the sound making him jump.

"Mr. Stark," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "I hear you were thinking about making some incredibly poor life choices regarding your midnight snack. Consider this an intervention."

Tony slowly turned, squinting at the plate. "What is that, Baker? It smells... healthy. And suspiciously good."

"It's a gourmet, protein-rich, one-handed meal, engineered for maximum genius-sustaining properties," she countered. "And if I catch a single crumb of pepperoni pizza or a whisper of powdered sugar in this lab tonight, tomorrow's breakfast will be a single, lukewarm, oat-flavored tear."

He stared at the burrito, then at her, then back at the burrito. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face.

"You really are passive-aggressive, aren't you?" Tony said, already reaching for the burrito.

"It's my primary seasoning," Penelope confirmed. "Enjoy. Now, good night."

She spun on her heel and headed back to the elevator, leaving Tony Stark to ponder the unexpected cost of hiring a five-star chef. She hadn't fixed the timeline yet, but she had definitely conquered the midnight munchies.

Tony watched the elevator doors close on the ridiculously assertive, chef. He took a bite of the high-octane breakfast burrito she'd shoved into his field of vision. The thing was genuinely incredible—eggs perfect, the cheese sharp, the herbs fresh. It tasted like Penelope Baker was mad at him, and he loved it.

He leaned back on his stool, still chewing, running the data. Baker was a deviation. A glorious, irritating deviation. He hadn't meant to hire a chef; he’d been looking for a punching bag for his ego with good organizational skills. Instead, he got the latter in Pepper Potts, and this aggressive, culinary dominatrix in Baker.

She refused the PA job. That’s a first. People usually groveled for the chance to run his life. Baker pointed to a complete stranger—a woman he’d barely known existed five minutes before—and told him she was the one. And damn it, when Pepper walked in and started organizing his nonexistent schedule, he realized the little pastry dictator was absolutely right. Pepper was surgical; Baker was a tactical nuclear strike delivered in a silk robe.

He finished the burrito, already feeling a strange surge of energy. This wasn't the sludge and sugar of Sal's pizza; this was actual fuel.

"JARVIS," Tony said, looking at the empty plate. "Initiate the 'Baker Nutrition Protocol.' I have a feeling the future of my cardiovascular health depends on it. And log a note to send that woman a very expensive, aggressively passive-aggressive thank-you gift. Maybe a set of titanium chef knives."

"Acknowledged, sir. May I inquire as to the status of tomorrow's breakfast, given your compliance with the midnight meal?" JARVIS's voice was perfectly dry.

Tony smirked. "Tell Baker I'll be in the kitchen at eight sharp. I want those muffins, JARVIS. And I want them to taste like pure, delicious compliance."

He didn't know where Penelope Baker had come from—the strangely intense eyes, the confidence that bordered on insanity, the uncanny ability to judge character—but she was a chaotic element he hadn't planned for. And in his world, a chaotic element that produced gourmet food and pointed him toward competent management was exactly the kind of chaos he could use.

He turned back to his schematics, feeling more focused than he had in months. The new chef was a distraction, sure, but she was a productive distraction. His unknown future might be his biggest threat, but right now, his biggest problem was figuring out how to sneak a bag of chips past the new kitchen enforcer.

The next morning, Penelope was up before the sun, fueled by excitement and the memory of Tony's amused compliance. She was determined to prove her worth was far beyond just an extravagant salary.

By 8:00 AM, the kitchen was filled with the intoxicating scent of cinnamon and yeast. She had prepared a hearty, but not heavy, breakfast: fluffy blueberry-lemon muffins (her non-disappointment flavor), perfectly poached eggs over a toasted slice of her homemade sourdough, and a vibrant green smoothie packed with kale and antioxidant-rich berries.

Tony ambled into the kitchen right on time, looking surprisingly refreshed, wearing a vintage t-shirt and sweats. The scent of the food hit him instantly.

"Baker," he announced, pulling out a stool at the island, "you are either a culinary saint or an incredibly effective domestic terrorist. This smells like the best morning of my life."

"It's called balanced nutrition, Mr. Stark," Penelope replied, sliding a plate toward him. "It's the fuel you need to build the future."

She watched him take a bite of the sourdough toast, his eyes widening slightly.

"Okay, I'll admit, this beats coffee and regret," he conceded. He picked up the kale smoothie and eyed it with suspicion. "What is this green sludge? I'm pretty sure it's judging my life choices."

"It's a multi-vitamin in liquid form," Penelope said breezily, leaning against the counter. "Drink it. It'll help with that inevitable pallor you get from spending 48 hours in the dark."

As Tony reluctantly took a sip, Penelope decided to risk her first subtle interference, focusing on a non-world-ending change.

"Mr. Stark," she began, keeping her tone light and casual, "I was talking to Pepper yesterday—she's amazing, by the way—and she mentioned a couple of old, high-risk, long-term weapons contracts still floating around. Just a hunch, but you might want to look into restructuring the whole weapons division."

Tony paused, chewing slowly. He looked up, his expression guarded. "And why should my new chef have a 'hunch' about my corporate arms manufacturing?"

"Because," Penelope said, tapping her fingers lightly on the marble, "weapons are messy. They're a liability. Your real genius is in energy and robotics. You could corner the market on clean power. It's much more profitable, much cleaner PR, and frankly, a much cooler legacy."

She gave him a firm, expectant look, mentally crossing her fingers. This was close to Iron Man's inciting incident, but she phrased it purely in terms of business, profit, and image—things Tony cared about now.

He stared at her for a long moment, not sure if she was brilliant or just wildly overstepping. "I’ll run the numbers," he finally muttered, pushing the smoothie closer. "Now, where do you keep the extra butter for these holy muffins?"

Penelope smiled, pouring him a fresh cup of coffee. The timeline was still intact, but she'd planted a seed. Small changes, she thought. That's how you survive.

Tony took a large bite of the blueberry muffin—fluffy, warm, and tasting distinctly not of disappointment, much to his relief—and considered his new employee. Penelope Baker was a fascinating problem.

She was here to cook, yet she operated like an aggressive executive who'd somehow been demoted to the kitchen. She wasn't starstruck, she wasn't shy, and she certainly wasn't afraid to lecture him on his diet, his sleep habits, or his multi-billion dollar corporate strategy.

"Weapons are messy. They're a liability... Your real genius is in energy and robotics."

He swirled the green sludge in his glass. It tasted like grass and competence, but the idea stuck. He'd been building bigger bangs since he was four years old, following his father's dusty roadmap. But Baker hadn't talked morality; she'd talked profit and PR. She framed it as a tactical business advantage, which was a language he respected. It was the same reason he'd hired Pepper—because the weird little chef had provided a better assessment of his needs than his entire corporate board. A hunch, she'd called it. She had a lot of damn good hunches.

He knew she was worried about something. There was a nervous energy under her assertive facade, a hint of frantic planning in her eyes that had nothing to do with perfecting her roux. She was like a tightly wound spring, trying to appear normal while operating on a completely different frequency.

"JARVIS," Tony murmured, pushing the empty plate aside. "Run the numbers on phasing out the weapons division and pivoting our R&D completely toward sustainable energy applications. Use all the metrics: public opinion, long-term profitability forecasts, and government contract friction."

"Acknowledged, sir. That is a significant paradigm shift. Might I ask what precipitated this rather sudden corporate evaluation?"

"My new chef threatened me with disappointment-flavored baked goods, JARVIS," Tony said dryly. "And she made a good point. Besides, I just spent a staggering amount of money installing a culinary dictator in my house. I should probably give her some massive, complex project to distract her from my vending machine raids."

He finished the green smoothie, wincing slightly. It was good, but it was too good. It tasted like responsibility.

Okay, Baker. You want to play chess? Fine. Let's see if your "hunches" can handle running a corporate behemoth.

He knew one thing for certain: his life had just gotten significantly more organized, significantly healthier, and significantly more complicated. He also knew he was definitely going to get that woman a set of titanium chef knives.

Back in the pristine, high-tech kitchen, Penelope was fueled by Tony's surprising compliance at breakfast. Now, she needed to make sure he had sustained, high-quality fuel for his inevitable long hours.

She pulled up the comprehensive inventory app on her StarkPad. "JARVIS," Penelope announced, pacing the marble island, "I need to address the immediate needs of a genius who lives on four hours of sleep and caffeine. I need a supply of neuro-enhancement ingredients—things that support intense cognitive function."

"A prudent assessment, Ms. Baker. Mr. Stark's documented intake of essential Omega-3 fatty acids, B vitamins, and complex carbohydrates is catastrophically low. I am prepared to facilitate your purchasing decisions."

"Excellent. Forget the standard grocery run for now," she replied, her inner chef focusing on efficiency. "I need the highest grade of things that can be integrated seamlessly into his diet. I need fresh, pharmaceutical-grade lion's mane mushroom, a dozen cartons of organic, free-range omega-3-enhanced eggs, and three varieties of high-antioxidant, dark ceremonial-grade chocolate—the kind that tastes like rocket fuel."

"Order compiled. The cost estimate is approximately $1,800. Shall I process the order for delivery?"

"No, JARVIS. This is urgent. And I want to check the quality myself," Penelope said, grabbing her car fob. "I'll take the company car into Santa Monica. Tell Mr. Stark I’m performing a high-priority, brain-saving mission."

"I shall inform him that your 'Aggressively Passive' protocol is currently in the field, Ms. Baker. Drive safely."

Penelope navigated the sleek, black company sedan through the affluent streets toward Santa Monica. The car felt powerful and alien under her hands.

She pulled up to a discreet, high-end organic market and moved swiftly through the aisles, bypassing the low-quality produce for the specialized ingredients on her list. She was focused on gathering the components needed to fortify Tony’s mind and body for the path ahead.

She was deep in the refrigerated case, comparing three types of free-range, omega-3-enhanced eggs, when she heard a low, familiar rumble of conversation from the next aisle over.

"No, I told you, I need the Brazilian single-origin, dark roast beans. The Peruvian tastes like desperation. Do you want me to fail the next presentation, because that's how you fail the next presentation."

Penelope froze, her hand suspended over a carton of eggs. She knew that voice. It was the rich, theatrical baritone of Agent Phil Coulson.

Slowly, carefully, she peered around the endcap of the display. There he was: Agent Phil Coulson, impeccably neat in a dark suit, holding a polite but firm conversation with a bewildered store clerk about coffee bean quality.

A spike of pure terror shot through her. S.H.I.E.L.D. This wasn't a celebrity sighting; it was a confrontation with the forces of the timeline. Coulson's presence meant the surveillance was active, and she, the new variable in Tony's life, was potentially visible.

Penelope quickly ducked back behind the egg case, heart pounding against her ribs. She was just a chef, not an asset! She had to be invisible. She grabbed the first carton of omega-3 eggs her hand touched and practically scurried toward the mushrooms, hoping her expensive new car hadn't been flagged already.

Penelope huddled low, pressing herself against the glass of the refrigerated case. Her mind was racing, her heart hammering a frantic warning against her ribs.

Calm down, Baker, control yourself, she mentally ordered. She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to anchor herself in the present reality.

The key phrase repeated in her head: "The beginning of Iron Man still hasn't happened yet."

Tony Stark was still just a reckless weapons manufacturer, not a captive who'd sworn off the trade. The events that would bring S.H.I.E.L.D. into his life full-force hadn't been triggered.

"He's here for coffee," she whispered to herself. "He's just here to buy some ridiculously expensive, precisely sourced, single-origin coffee beans because he's a meticulous government agent with a clear appreciation for the finer things in life. Most probably Phil is here to buy some expensive coffee beans and not to debrief an asset."

The realization was oddly grounding. Even an agent of global security had domestic needs. Armed with this calming thought, Penelope quickly grabbed the lion's mane mushroom and the dark chocolate, determined to complete her mission with the stealth of a highly skilled chef, not the panic of a time traveler. She kept her head down and hurried toward the checkout, hoping she looked like any other high-strung Malibu resident rushing to pay for her $1,800 grocery run.

Penelope practically flew out of the market and sped back to the Malibu mansion, the black sedan gliding smoothly over the highway. The encounter with Coulson had been a startling reminder that her cozy, high-paying job was taking place in a world filled with super-spies and looming threats.

The moment she arrived back at the mansion, she didn't waste a second. She grabbed her specialized bags and rushed everything into her beautiful, climate-controlled kitchen. With methodical efficiency, she separated the expensive neuro-fuel ingredients, noting that the lion's mane mushroom was perfectly firm and the ceremonial-grade chocolate was intoxicatingly fragrant.

The clock was ticking toward lunchtime, and Tony Stark—a man whose schedule was chaotic but whose stomach was now under her command—was likely due for his first proper, non-takeout meal since her arrival.

She immediately began prepping. For lunch, she opted for something fresh, quick, and undeniably delicious: A pan-seared wild salmon filet—packed with the omega-3s his brain desperately needed—served over a bed of bright quinoa tabbouleh and a light lemon-herb vinaigrette.

As she worked the salmon on the induction stove, the kitchen filled with a savory aroma. It was a professional, targeted meal: easy to eat, high in protein and healthy fats, and designed to counteract the 'desperation-flavored' fast food that usually fueled Tony's genius. She was, after all, performing a high-priority, brain-saving mission, just as she'd told JARVIS.

Penelope gave the salmon one last flick with the spatula, ensuring the skin was perfectly crisp, then plated the dish. The deep orange of the salmon, the bright green of the tabbouleh, and the vibrant drizzle of vinaigrette made the meal look less like a serving of food and more like a carefully composed piece of edible architecture.

She stepped back, satisfied. "JARVIS," she said clearly, "Tell the boss man lunch is ready and should be consumed within the next ten minutes for peak nutritional effectiveness."

"Understood, Ms. Baker. Communicating to Mr. Stark now."

A moment later, the synthesized voice of the AI echoed, not just in the kitchen, but likely in the workshop itself:

"Mr. Stark, your Personal Chef, Ms. Baker, has informed me that your midday nourishment has achieved optimal plating and temperature. Compliance is strongly advised, as I detect high levels of Omega-3 fatty acids and a potential for future passive-aggressive retribution should the meal be ignored."

Penelope let out a small, satisfied chuckle. She hadn't just hired a PA; she had armed JARVIS with the power of domestic guilt. Now, she just had to wait and see if Tony would abandon his tech for the sake of his taste buds.

The moment the alert sounded, the sound of machinery in the workshop below abruptly ceased. Tony Stark hated being interrupted, but Penelope had managed to make her interruptions smell irresistible.

A few minutes later, the private elevator doors hissed open, and Tony walked out, looking slightly disheveled but presentable. He stopped at the island, his eyes moving from the meticulously plated salmon dish to Penelope, who was standing beside the counter, drying her hands.

He sniffed the air appreciatively. "Okay, I'll give you this, Baker. That smells like something a person who remembers the concept of 'lunch' would eat."

Penelope simply crossed her arms and offered a smug, victorious smile. "My, my," she murmured, glancing at the clock on the oven, "and not a minute late, boss man."

Tony grunted, taking his seat. "Don't push it. I came up here because JARVIS gave me a very specific threat assessment involving your mood and my future meals. So, what miracle of modern nutritional science am I consuming now?"

"Wild salmon, high in Omega-3s for that brilliant brain of yours, over quinoa tabbouleh," Penelope informed him, setting a glass of sparkling water next to his plate. "It's genius fuel, Mr. Stark. Eat it all. I’m standing right here."

Tony picked up his fork, already diving in. He paused mid-chew, the flavor clearly surprising him.

"You know, for something that sounds like it was designed by a committee of concerned doctors, this is actually phenomenal," he admitted, already taking another bite. "It’s a criminal waste of a good meal to force me to eat it outside of my lab, though."

Penelope smiled, watching her first major tactical victory unfold. One healthy meal down, a lifetime of superhero antics to go.

Tony started to open his mouth, ready to launch into a technical debate about the efficiency of eating on location versus eating in the kitchen, but Penelope swiftly cut him off.

She placed both hands flat on the island, leaning slightly toward him, her expression firm. "Shhh. Eat." He blinked, momentarily stunned into silence by the sudden, authoritative shush. No one—absolutely no one—had ever shushed Tony Stark before.

"And I wouldn't waste time complaining about the logistics, boss man," she continued, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial promise. "Eat, or there won't be any soufflé for you tonight. And trust me, you want the soufflé."

Tony's eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in pure amusement and fascination. He took another enormous forkful of salmon, chewing thoughtfully. The woman was genuinely blackmailing him with baked goods.

"You are a menace, Baker," he conceded, swallowing. "But damn, you know how to leverage your assets." He polished off the last of the salmon and the quinoa, making sure the plate was spotless. "Fine. What's the next threat? Because I'm going back downstairs." Penelope allowed a triumphant smirk to surface. She’d established the precedent: her meals took priority.

"The next move isn't a threat, Mr. Stark," she said, picking up his plate. "It's a gift."

She walked over to the immense, empty refrigerator and pulled out a sleek, airtight container. It was filled with small, rich-looking dark chocolate truffles, dusted with cocoa powder and chili flakes.

"This is your 'Workshop Emergency Fuel,'" she explained, placing the container on the counter. "Each one is a precisely measured dose of high-antioxidant, ceremonial-grade chocolate with a small boost of cognitive-supporting mushroom blend. They are designed to kill a craving, sustain focus, and stop you from passing out on a welding torch."

"I am not going to pass out on a welding torch," Tony scoffed, but he eyed the truffles with keen interest.

"Right," she deadpanned. "Just don't consume more than three every eight hours. I need that brain functional, not jittery. Now go make me some headlines for tomorrow, and I'll start the soufflé prep."

Tony snatched the container, already popping one of the truffles into his mouth. The instant rush of bitter, rich flavor hit him. "Penelope Baker," he declared, already striding toward the elevator, "you might be the best thing that ever happened to me."

As the elevator descended, Penelope smiled to herself. That was exactly the point. She was keeping him healthy, compliant, and focused. She was a chef, a guardian, and a tiny, necessary wrench in the engine of fate.

Chapter Text

The Malibu mansion no longer resembled a billionaire’s garage; it now felt like a highly regulated, Michelin-starred kitchen. The persistent, intoxicating aroma of fresh yeast, high-grade butter, and an array of health-conscious herbs had taken over, signaling Penelope’s complete domestic takeover.

The primary objective of this campaign was Tony Stark’s morning routine. One morning, Tony stumbled into the kitchen at 7:58 AM—two minutes before his mandated breakfast time. He was clad in a grease-stained vintage Black Sabbath tee and looked genuinely bewildered by the seamless, organized efficiency surrounding him.

“JARVIS, why is the aroma profile of my residence attempting to aggressively force me into wellness? I feel judged by the scent of this basil,” Tony grumbled, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“That is Ms. Baker’s ‘Morning Sourdough,’ sir,” JARVIS replied, his voice perfectly even. “It is legally compliant. Ms. Baker is currently performing a high-priority structural integrity review of your scrambled eggs.”

Penelope, already immaculate in her custom chef whites, didn’t look up from her non-stick pan. “Good morning, Mr. Stark. You’re early. Enjoying the olfactory compliance? Next time, aim for 7:30 AM to catch the peak antioxidant infusion window. The car is tuned for it.”

Tony took a skeptical sip of the coffee. “Wait. Did you detox my caffeine again? This tastes like competence and regret. Where’s the burn?”

“It’s optimal for sustained cognitive function, Mr. Stark,” Penelope corrected, sliding a plate toward him: three perfectly stacked, golden-brown ricotta pancakes drizzled with local honey and a precise dusting of cinnamon. “And regretting your diet is the first step toward nutritional salvation.”

Pepper Potts arrived, looking intensely stressed as she wrestled with a binder and the looming weight of a corporate crisis that seemed to emanate the scent of panicked shareholders.

She ended a tense call with a sigh. “The board is going to kill me, Tony. You’re causing mass chaos with your unpredictable decisions. It’s overwhelming.”

“Relax, Pep. Chaos is my comfort zone,” Tony said, his hand darting out to grab a slice of perfectly toasted sourdough from the cooling rack.

Penelope swiftly smacked his wrist with a silicone spatula. “Hands off the toast, Mr. Stark. That is reserved for the mise en place of your entire lunch. Your breakfast portion is on your plate, designed for sustained focus, not immediate consumption of future inventory.”

Pepper sighed, accepting a meticulously sliced bowl of mango and papaya from Penelope. “Thank you, Penelope. At least someone in this room respects calorie limits and the logistical flow of inventory.”

“I am merely adhering to Ms. Potts’s highly detailed dietary manifesto, which includes a ‘No White Flour Emergency Clause’ and an addendum regarding the strategic deployment of high-fiber fruit,” JARVIS confirmed.

“See?” Pepper said, giving Tony a look of victorious exhaustion. “We’re following the rules. It’s called being an adult, Tony. Try it.”

Tony groaned, spearing a piece of pancake with theatrical agony. “I’m surrounded by passive-aggressive enforcers and the world’s most judgmental AI. I feel like I’ve been placed in Domestic Witness Protection from my own palate. I miss vending machines.”

“The closest available vending machine requires a seven-mile drive and a security clearance Ms. Baker has not granted you,” JARVIS interjected.

“Consider it an investment in your not collapsing into a plate of refined carbs before your next contract negotiation,” Penelope quipped, turning back to her stove.

Later that afternoon, Penelope was preparing a delicate chicken velouté—a dish requiring complete stillness and focus. She had a side plate of perfectly cubed, raw applewood-smoked bacon ready to be rendered for flavor infusion.

Just as she was filtering the stock, the workshop elevator doors hissed open. Tony Stark ambled out, looking greasy, focused, and ready to disrupt. He paused, inhaling the rich, savory steam from her pot.

“What’s baking, Baker?” Tony asked, leaning against the counter with a practiced, teasing smirk.

Penelope didn’t hesitate. She looked up from the simmering sauce, her expression absolutely deadpan, and delivered the perfect counter, “Bacon, Mr. Stark. Thick-cut, applewood-smoked, and highly compliant. The opposite of your personal hygiene, I’d say.”

Tony’s smile grew wider. “Touché, Chef. I’ll take three slices of compliant bacon and a side of that corporate strategy. The good kind.”

He walked over, snatched a small piece of the perfectly cubed, raw applewood-smoked bacon she had waiting for the velouté, and popped it into his mouth.

“Mr. Stark!” Penelope admonished, dropping the polite tone for genuine, culinary horror. “That is uncooked! It’s not the same as cured deli meat! It’s for the sauce! You’ve just contaminated the flavor profile of a classic French emulsion with unrendered fat and raw pork salt content!”

“Tasted like victory and excellent sourcing,” Tony mumbled, chewing happily. “Don’t let the rules stifle the creativity, Chef. A little rogue pork never killed a genius.” He walked over to the immense, high-tech fridge, bypassing the fruit, and grabbed a bottle of cheap, industrial-grade pancake syrup that Penelope had meticulously relegated to a forgotten corner.

He returned to the counter and triumphantly drizzled a thick ribbon of the sugary goo directly onto the pristine white marble island.

“There,” Tony declared, his eyes bright with mischief. “Now it’s chaotic. See you in the morning, or whenever I run out of compliant bacon and decide to risk a pizza delivery.”

“Mr. Stark! That’s high-fructose corn syrup! And you’ve ruined the integrity of the work surface!” Penelope screamed.

“I have noted the unsanitary application of high-fructose corn syrup to the Class-A marble countertop, sir,” JARVIS interjected smoothly. “I have also calculated the cost of professional deep-cleaning, which is approximately four times the retail price of the syrup. The final bill has been flagged for your personal account, categorized under ‘Imminent Idiocy’.”

“Loyalty is dead,” Tony sighed, walking back to the elevator.

The next few hours saw Penelope working with a frightening intensity. The marble was spotless, but the air around her carried the silent, simmering energy of a deep grudge. She wasn’t just cooking; she was performing an act of culinary judgment.

When Tony finally reappeared for dinner, showered and wearing a clean shirt, he noticed the shift immediately. The kitchen, usually so inviting, felt strangely sterile, like a courtroom awaiting a verdict.

“Smells… complex, Baker,” Tony observed, cautiously taking his seat at the island. “A lot of savory notes. What’s on the menu? Did you accidentally infuse the chicken with the essence of my personal bank statement?”

Penelope placed a bowl in front of him. It was a beautiful, deep green, savory soup.

“Tonight, Mr. Stark, you are having Judgment Soup,” Penelope announced, her voice perfectly even, yet carrying the chill of a Himalayan glacier. “It is a Bitter Greens and Dandelion Velouté.”

Tony peered into the bowl. “Dandelion? Isn’t that what grows in the lawn?”

“It is a highly potent, traditional liver detoxifier, Mr. Stark,” Penelope corrected, her words like tiny, sharp icicles. “It is precisely what you need after contaminating my kitchen with high-fructose corn syrup and rogue pork grease particles.”

He took a careful spoonful. The flavor was robust, earthy, and undeniably good, but it contained a sharp, medicinal undercurrent of bitterness that seemed to attack his palate.

“It tastes like clean conscience and disappointment, Chef,” Tony complained, though he took another sip. “I thought you were going to make me the soufflé.”

“The soufflé has been indefinitely postponed,” Penelope stated, turning her back. “Fluffy, complex desserts are reserved for moments of unquestionable professional and personal integrity. Your recent actions have rendered you ineligible for such a high-tier reward.”

Pepper, sitting down with her own bowl (which, Tony noticed immediately, was a much milder green), gave Penelope a look of pure, delighted understanding.

“Tony, just eat your bitterness,” Pepper advised, stirring her bowl. “Penelope is right. You violated the sanctity of the mise en place. This is your consequence.”

“Even Pepper gets the mild version!” Tony protested, pointing to the contrasting green shades. “JARVIS, is this culinary warfare fair?”

“The bitterness level of Ms. Baker’s Velouté for your portion is calculated to be 87% higher than Ms. Potts’s, sir,” JARVIS stated. “This adjustment is mathematically consistent with the level of unnecessary chaos introduced to the system yesterday. It is optimal for behavioral correction.”

Tony threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine! You win! I will consume the bitterness of my own chaotic making. Just promise me the next meal won’t be made with grass clippings.”

Penelope finally turned back, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. “I only use the highest quality ingredients, Mr. Stark. You can look forward to your meals being nothing less than aggressively delicious compliance.”

The aftermath of Judgment Soup left a palpable truce in the kitchen, but the silence was short-lived. The elevator doors soon opened, and a man in a crisp Air Force uniform stepped out. He was tall, impeccably groomed, and carried an aura of focused military competence that instantly cut through the mansion’s eccentric atmosphere.

“JARVIS, you let a commissioned officer into my safe space? What happened to the ‘Imminent Idiocy’ protocol?” Tony grumbled, pushing his empty soup bowl aside.

“Greetings, Colonel Rhodes. Ms. Baker is currently present. She may require a diplomatic escort,” JARVIS announced with perfect formality.

The officer, Lieutenant Colonel James “Rhodey” Rhodes, bypassed Tony with a practiced sigh and focused his attention entirely on Penelope.

“You must be Penelope Baker,” Rhodey said, extending a hand that was firm and professional. “James Rhodes, Air Force. Tony’s damage control and occasionally his babysitter. I hear you’ve managed to stabilize the asset’s caloric intake without violating any major international treaties. That’s a first.”

Penelope accepted the handshake with equal firmness. “Colonel. It’s a matter of operational efficiency. You can’t run a multi-billion dollar corporation on burnt toast. And I assure you, my kitchen policies are governed solely by the pursuit of flavor and structural integrity.”

Rhodey’s eyes, however, were fixed on the deep green residue in Tony’s bowl. “I’m more interested in the bitter aftertaste. What exactly was this? It smells faintly of righteous indignation.”

“That, Colonel, was a Dandelion Velouté,” Penelope informed him, her voice entirely professional. “It is a highly potent liver detoxifier, customized for behavioral correction following the unauthorized application of high-fructose corn syrup to my marble countertop.”

Rhodey looked from the serious chef to Tony, who was now dramatically nursing a glass of water.

“You poured syrup on the marble?” Rhodey asked Tony, his voice laced with the weary disappointment of a long-suffering brother. “Tony, we just got the security protocols updated after the last fire. Don’t you dare contaminate the food prep area.”

“It was a protest against tyranny, Rhodey! A performance piece! It was delicious anarchy!” Tony protested.

Rhodey shook his head, looking back at Penelope with a newfound respect. “Ms. Baker, I apologize for my friend’s lack of respect for both common sense and Class-A marble. I need to brief him on the Jericho missile demo project for the next three hours. Before I lock ourselves away, do you have anything in your inventory that can sustain a sane man forced to endure a briefing with this lunatic?”

Penelope smiled, a rare, genuine spark of warmth reaching her eyes. She liked Rhodey; he was the functional human baseline in this chaotic ecosystem.

“I have a batch of my high-fiber, ‘Military Grade’ energy bars designed to provide sustained focus and suppress the urge to initiate conflict,” she said, pulling a vacuum-sealed packet from a storage unit. “And Colonel, I’ve noticed Mr. Stark often skips his water intake during high-focus tasks. Perhaps you could enforce a mandatory hydration cycle every thirty minutes?”

Rhodey took the packet and gave her a sharp, appreciative nod. “You are an actual genius, Ms. Baker. I’ll make sure he hydrates. Welcome to the war zone.”

As Rhodey firmly nudged Tony toward the workshop elevator, Penelope watched them go. Rhodey was a solid, necessary ally in her mission to keep Tony alive, and their instant, shared understanding—that Tony was an asset who needed strict, shared management—was a valuable new piece in her domestic defense strategy.

The workshop elevator doors hissed shut on Tony and Rhodey, leaving the kitchen in an unnerving quiet. Penelope leaned against the cool marble of the island, her hands gripping the edges, staring at the empty space where Tony had just been.

She understood what was happening now: Tony was briefing Rhodey on the Jericho missile demonstration—a weapon whose existence and subsequent failure would ultimately force the creation of the Iron Man armor.

She despised the Jericho. It represented the worst aspects of Tony’s reckless past—a devastating weapon sold for profit, entirely at odds with the future savior she was determined to support. Every instinct urged her to disrupt the flight plans, to sabotage the demonstration, to do anything to prevent the cave, the shrapnel, and the palladium poisoning that would follow.

But she couldn’t intervene.

She closed her eyes. Iron Man was essential. The world needed him, and Iron Man was forged in a cave by the shrapnel of the Jericho. She had to let events unfold. She had to let Tony walk into the ambush.

Her power wasn’t in changing destiny, but in mitigating the trauma. If she couldn’t prevent the pain, she could ease the recovery. She could fortify his body and mind for the grueling weeks ahead.

She straightened up, her eyes filled with fierce resolve. “JARVIS, cancel the dinner reservation I had for myself tonight. I need to focus on Phase Two. I need a comprehensive inventory check of all high-sulfur foods, chelation agents, and potent anti-inflammatory spices. We’re preparing a culinary recovery arsenal for heavy metal toxicity and extreme physical stress.”

“Understood, Ms. Baker,” JARVIS affirmed, processing the data requests without question. “The nutritional manifest is being prepared. Initiating inventory check on all listed compounds for Operation Clean Slate: Early Warning.”

Penelope walked over to the immense, organized fridge. She couldn’t save him from the cave, but she would be ready the moment he walked out. She would use the finest ingredients and every scrap of her culinary genius to cook away his pain, detoxify his blood, and give him the focus he needed to survive the aftermath. She would make the transition from arrogant arms dealer to reluctant hero the smoothest, healthiest transition possible.

The next few months of Penelope’s life dissolved into a rhythm dictated by Tony Stark’s dietary needs. Her days were a blur of gourmet grocery runs, complex menu planning, and the satisfying clang of professional-grade pots in her dream kitchen. Tony’s health improved dramatically; he was more focused, less prone to the dizzying lows of sugar crashes, and his skin even looked less perpetually gray.

The smooth efficiency of the mansion was interrupted one afternoon by the arrival of Obadiah Stane. Penelope was in the kitchen prepping a batch of saffron risotto when the elevator chimed, and a large, booming man entered.

“Well, well, well,” Obadiah said, his voice deep and overly jovial. He offered Penelope a heavy handshake. “You must be the five-star chef Tony’s been raving about. Obadiah Stane, Tony’s mentor and right-hand man.”

Penelope forced a professional smile. “Penelope Baker. Pleasure to meet you.”

Even in this casual setting, Obadiah felt wrong. He was too smooth, his praise too thick, and his eyes—when he thought she wasn’t looking—were calculating and cold. Penelope knew exactly what he was: a snake in a suit. She kept their interaction brief, retreating to the safety of her knives and cutting board.

Later that evening, after Obadiah had left and the coast was clear, Tony came into the kitchen looking for one of her famous truffles.

“So, what did you think of Obie?” Tony asked casually, reaching for the Emergency Fuel container.

Penelope stopped stirring her pot and looked him straight in the eye, dropping her professional veneer. “I don’t like him, boss man,” she stated simply.

Tony paused, a truffle halfway to his mouth. “That’s it? Just ‘don’t like him’? He’s like family, Pen.”

“I know,” she conceded. “But I’ve learned to trust my gut—or, as you call it, my ‘hunches’—about people, and he gives me the creeps.” She fixed him with an intense gaze. “I’m telling you, Tony, I’m never wrong about my intuitions.”

She had just given him a direct, unambiguous warning, couched in her now-established eccentricity. Tony considered her for a long, silent moment. She wasn’t judgmental like Pepper or sycophantic like others. She was just honest, delivered with the intensity of someone who truly saw him. He respected the audacity. And he liked the sound of her first name.

“Alright, Baker,” he said, stepping closer to the island, his voice soft. “Point taken. But we’re working on a first-name basis now.” He offered a small smile. “Pen. Or Penny, if you prefer. And you can call me Tony.”

Penelope felt a flutter in her stomach at the casual intimacy of the nickname. It felt like another line had been crossed, a step deeper into his personal world.

“Okay,” she agreed, smiling back. “I can do Pen. But just so we’re clear,” she added, picking up her ladle, “I’m still calling you boss man sometimes.”

Tony chuckled, popping the truffle. “Deal. Now, about that chocolate cake…”

Penelope turned back to her work, the familiar warmth of the kitchen a comfort against the cold shadow Obadiah had cast. She had given the warning; now, the timeline—and Tony—would have to decide what to do with it.

Tony sat in his workshop, turning a small titanium component over in his fingers, but his mind wasn’t on the latest micro-thruster design. It was upstairs, in his kitchen, with his new chef.

Penelope Baker—or Pen, as he was now getting used to calling her—was a continuous, delicious enigma. She’d transformed his house into a high-end French bakery and his diet into something an Olympic athlete would envy. He was sharper, sleeping better, and annoyingly—she was always right about the small, technical things.

He’d hired her for her audacity and her baked goods, but he was starting to rely on her weird, insistent, passive-aggressive management.

Then there was the Obadiah problem.

“I don’t like him, Tony… I’m never wrong about my intuitions.”

Tony frowned. Obie. Obie was family. Obie was his mentor, the one who stepped up when Howard and Maria died. He was the foundation of the company, the anchor that kept the chaos at bay.

Yet, Pen’s warning had settled in his gut like a piece of undercooked pastry. She hadn’t offered a reason, hadn’t cited an incident—just a pure, visceral declaration of dislike. He wanted to believe her because her track record of being right—about Pepper, about the weapons pivot—was terrifyingly perfect.

He sighed, running a hand over his face. This was maddening. He had a brilliant mind that could solve the cold fusion problem, but he was letting a twenty-something chef dictate his relationships based on a feeling. The idea of placing his childhood mentor under surveillance was repulsive. To question Obadiah was to question the entire history of Stark Industries and his own judgment. He might not trust intuition, but he trusted the structural integrity of family, and in that moment, his fear of being right about Obie was far greater than his fear of being wrong. He chose to ignore the loudest, most organized piece of non-technical data in his life, sealing his fate.

The kitchen was warm and fragrant, filled with the rich, dense aroma of the chocolate cake Penelope was cooling—a perfect reward after months of healthy compliance. She was meticulously folding egg whites when the elevator doors hissed open, and Tony walked in. He bypassed the truffles and came straight to the island, leaning against it with a serious expression that was unusual for him outside the lab.

“Okay, Pen,” he said, using her new nickname. “Let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

Penelope sighed, setting her whisk down. She knew he wouldn’t let the Obie comment go, especially now that she’d been in his life for a while. “Boss man, the cake needs about ten more minutes of my undivided attention for the glaze. Can this wait until after dessert?”

“No,” Tony countered, shaking his head. “I ran the numbers, and your ‘hunch’ about Pepper was 100% accurate. Your ‘hunch’ about the weapons pivot is proving financially sound. That gives your current, highly unprofessional opinion about Obie a concerning amount of weight.” He fixed her with an intense stare. “I need data, Pen. Give me something more than a ‘feeling.’”

Penelope looked at the magnificent, dark chocolate cake, a reflection of her careful control over his cravings. This was different, harder than talking business. This was family. She picked up a clean spoon, tapping it lightly against the marble.

“I… I just feel like,” she finally admitted, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, “he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing and you should be careful, Tones.”

She caught herself, realizing she’d used the familiar nickname she only allowed herself in her head, but she didn’t apologize. She didn’t offer a corporate explanation or a technical analysis. She gave him the simple, stark truth, colored by future knowledge she couldn’t explain.

Tony stared at her, absorbing the genuine fear in her eyes. It was a raw, maternal warning, totally uncharacteristic of his usually guarded chef. She wasn’t trying to gain an advantage or leverage her position; she sounded genuinely worried for him.

“Wolf in sheep’s clothing,” he repeated, turning the phrase over in his mind. “I’ve started running a quiet audit, just in case your intuition is right. But I’ll need more time.”

Penelope nodded, finally satisfied. “Just trust your gut, Tones,” she said, before turning back to the cake. “Now, go sit down. Dinner is served.”

Tony watched Pen turn back to the cake, her focus immediately shifting from corporate espionage to culinary perfection. The sight of that smooth, dark glaze was almost enough to distract him, but the nickname she’d used—Tones—hit him with the unexpected force of a personalized missile.

He wasn’t “Tones.” Nobody called him “Tones.”

Pepper called him Tony, JARVIS called him Sir, and the press called him a genius, playboy, and philanthropist. “Tones” sounded like something a wife or a very old, familiar friend would use—someone who had seen him at his worst and still decided he was worth the gentle mockery.

He stared at the back of his chef’s head, realizing just how deeply Penelope Baker had embedded herself into his life in the span of a few months. She wasn’t an employee; she was a fixture. She was the only person who had ever successfully challenged him on both his lifestyle and his business model, and she did it with the promise of cake.

Her warning about Obie felt different this time, devoid of the earlier passive-aggression. It was stripped down, direct, and scared.

“…he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing and you should be careful, Tones.”

He trusted Obie because he had to. Obie was the foundation, the necessary safety net. But Pen’s “intuition” had a terrifying track record of being financially and professionally sound. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. The image was vivid and unnerving.

“JARVIS,” Tony murmured, his gaze fixed on Pen.

“Yes, Tones?” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, his voice a perfect, dry mimicry of the chef’s affectionate delivery.

Tony ignored the AI’s instant mockery. He stood frozen. He knew that if he ran a deep audit, he risked proving Penelope right, which would shatter the one loyal relationship he believed he had left. He couldn’t face that truth. He couldn’t choose logic over family.

He didn’t give J.A.R.V.I.S. any command. He didn’t accelerate or cancel anything. He chose to take no action at all.

“Just… nothing, J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “The woman is either a time traveler or a very expensive, deeply annoying witch. Now, I’m going to eat my dinner before she threatens me with a soggy crust. And stop calling me Tones.”

He walked over to the dining area, feeling a cold knot of dread twist in his stomach. He was afraid that, for the first time, Penelope’s inexplicable “intuition” was going to be right about the one thing that would actually hurt him, and he had deliberately chosen to remain blind to it.

The mood at dinner that evening was deceptively calm. Tony was compliant, eating his perfectly cooked meal and the magnificent chocolate cake without complaint, occasionally stealing glances at the screen where JARVIS was undoubtedly running the accelerated audit.

Penelope, meanwhile, was focused on her food, relieved the difficult conversation about Obadiah was over. She expected Tony to dive back into technical details or corporate issues, perhaps demanding an updated analysis on his portfolio—anything but what he said next.

“So, Pen,” Tony began, leaning back in his chair with an easy, genuine smile. “I know everything about your chocolate tolerance and your aggressive use of spices, but you’re a complete ghost otherwise. Tell me about you. Not the chef, the person.”

Penelope froze, her fork halfway to the cake. She looked up, genuinely startled. Tony Stark, the man whose ego usually filled the room, wanted to talk about her.

“What’s there to tell, Tones?” she asked, trying to deflect. “I’m just the chef. I like baking, I hate slow elevators, and I’m very concerned about your Vitamin D levels.”

“Cute, but no,” he insisted, resting his chin on his hand. “Where are you from, originally? What made a five-star pastry artist end up in a one-room apartment begging for a job, when you should be running your own chain of bakeries?”

The questions hit too close to her old life, the one she’d left behind in a tragic accident. The casual interest he showed felt both flattering and deeply worrying. It was a human connection she craved but simultaneously feared.

This is weird, she thought, her internal alarm bells ringing. She had meticulously worked to keep the timeline on track, specifically pushing Pepper into the PA role because she knew they were supposed to get together. This personal interest from Tony—this desire to break through her professional shell—was a variable she hadn’t accounted for. Tony Stark was supposed to fall for the competent redhead, not the eccentric girl with the chocolate cake.

“I’m an orphan, boss man,” Penelope said simply, deciding honesty mixed with vagueness was her best defense. “I grew up in the system, went to culinary school, worked my way up, and then… things got complicated. I needed a fresh start and a paycheck, and you provided both.”

She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with competitive spirit. “And just to be clear, you’re not the only smart one here.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the flash of confidence.

“I might not have an MIT degree, but I’m an excellent problem-solver. The only difference is I was poor and never had the resources you did,” she continued, her voice matter-of-fact. “Besides, I’d rather be a genius in the kitchen anyway.” She gave him a confident shrug. “But if you ever need help with anything, I’m a good engineer too.”

She finished with a grateful smile, offering him a piece of cake. She managed to deflect his personal questions with a boast about her intelligence, hoping it would satisfy his curiosity without revealing the impossible truth.

Tony was back in his lab, the faint, sweet scent of chocolate cake still clinging to his t-shirt. He was supposed to be reviewing the preliminary financial data JARVIS had dug up on Obadiah, but his mind kept looping back to the dining room table.

“You’re also not the only smart candy here.”

He smirked, pushing his safety goggles up onto his forehead. That was such a pure, unadulterated Stark-level boast. It wasn’t the humility he expected from someone who came from nothing; it was the raw, aggressive confidence of a genius who had to fight for every inch of recognition.

Tony had pegged Pen as a high-instinct culinary artist—a creative, not a technician. But she had casually thrown down the gauntlet: she was an engineer too. He watched the holographic display for the Obadiah audit flicker in the air, the complexities of the data almost soothing, but Penelope’s claim was a more intriguing puzzle.

Was she serious? Her ability to predict corporate outcomes was already spooky, and her cooking was driven by an almost mathematical precision. She treated his diet like a complex systems engineering problem.

He leaned back on his stool. “JARVIS, cross-reference everything we have on Pen Baker—all background checks, educational data, financial transactions from the last six months—with any known academic or corporate records for any Penelope Baker showing advanced aptitude in mechanical or electrical engineering. Especially anything related to energy theory or propulsion systems.”

“Query initiated, sir. Accessing global databases. However, her pre-employment background review was notably sparse and lacking in technical certifications, as she provided only her culinary qualifications.”

“Exactly,” Tony said, a thrill of scientific curiosity replacing his worry over Obie for a moment. “It’s a gap in the data. And the one thing I know about Pen is she fills gaps. She’s a self-professed engineer who chooses to wield a whisk instead of a soldering iron. I want to know what she’s hiding, Tones.”

He smiled, realizing he’d just used her silly nickname in his own thoughts. She was getting to him, challenging him in ways that didn’t involve corporate power plays or existential threats—just raw, competitive intelligence. If she could actually hold her own in the lab, she wasn’t just a great chef; she was a genuine, useful anomaly.

He turned his focus back to the audit data. He knew he had to find the truth about Obie, but now he had a secondary, more entertaining objective: test the chef’s genius.

The next morning, Tony was waiting for Penelope when she walked into the kitchen. He wasn’t demanding breakfast; he was sitting at the island, looking deceptively casual, but his eyes had that familiar glint of a cat watching a very interesting mouse.

“Good morning, Pen,” he greeted, sipping a coffee. “I have a test for the ‘good engineer’ who prefers cake to schematics. Nothing too strenuous.”

He pushed a small StarkPad across the marble countertop toward her. The screen displayed a complex, partially solved problem regarding the Miniaturization of Power Systems. Tony was trying to drastically reduce the size and weight of a powerful magneto-optic stabilizer used in military defense drones—a component that was currently too bulky for rapid deployment. The challenge was increasing the energy containment efficiency by over 40% while cutting the physical footprint by a third.

“That stabilizer is an anchor,” Tony explained, tapping the screen. “It works, but its size limits the drone’s speed and stealth capability. I need a new kind of composite material—one that’s lightweight, capable of handling immense thermal and kinetic stress, and can efficiently contain the electromagnetic field. It’s a hypothetical material problem, mostly theoretical modeling. Solve it.”

Penelope looked at the data. Her mind immediately jumped to a specialized crystalline lattice structure she knew Tony would later experiment with for another project. This wasn’t life-threatening, but it was cutting-edge materials science—a perfect, non-timeline-breaking challenge.

He’s just testing my boast, she thought. I can handle this.

“You’re not looking for a conventional composite, boss man,” she said, tapping the equation with a confident finger. “You’re looking for a smart alloy that can restructure its internal lattice in response to temperature. It needs a boron-carbide base laced with a non-linear piezoelectric crystal network.”

She grabbed a dry-erase marker and a nearby magnetic whiteboard, her fingers flying as she began to sketch out a crystalline atomic structure. She was reproducing the theory that would later be essential to his future designs.

“If you can synthesize the compound at high temperature and then rapidly cool it under a high-frequency sonic field,” she explained, speaking in quick, confident bursts, “the resulting material will be drastically lighter, virtually indestructible, and capable of containing the field stability you need without the bulk. The theoretical energy containment jump should exceed fifty percent.”

Tony stared at the board, then at the numbers she had scribbled. His playful skepticism evaporated, replaced by the stunned focus of a true genius confronting an impossible truth. The solution was elegant, utterly revolutionary, and relied on a synthesis technique he hadn’t yet perfected.

“That… that’s a brilliant material model, Pen,” Tony breathed, pushing away from the counter. “The sonic field confinement is the key—it solves the crystal alignment problem. How the hell did you…”

Penelope smiled, wiping her hands clean. “I told you, Tones. I’m a good engineer. I just prefer to use my genius on things that taste good. Now, go build your super-drone stabilizer. I’m making waffles.”

Tony didn’t hear her. He was already halfway to the elevator, grabbing his StarkPad and staring at the equations she’d left on the board. He had his test result, and it was a jaw-dropping success. Penelope Baker wasn’t just smart; she was an unknowable, essential force of nature who had just gifted him a solution that would revolutionize his defense contracts.

Chapter Text

Tony disappeared into his workshop, the equations Penelope had scrawled still glowing on his StarkPad. The house was strangely quiet in his absence, the only sounds Penelope could hear were the distant hum of machinery, the faint crash of waves against the Malibu cliffs, and the soothing tick of the kitchen clock. She wiped the last bit of flour from her hands and allowed herself a private smile—she’d stunned Tony Stark, and for once, it had nothing to do with food.

But the glow faded as she glanced at the calendar on her StarkPad. The Jericho demonstration was only two years away. She knew what was coming—the kidnapping, the arc reactor, the cave. The entire world was about to change, and Tony with it. Her stomach twisted with dread. No matter how many gourmet meals she made, no matter how many warnings she gave, the timeline was barreling forward like a runaway train.

Penelope paced her immaculate kitchen, the weight of her secret knowledge pressing down on her. She wanted to do something, anything, to protect Tony, but all she could do was prepare. She started assembling a recovery kit: nutrient-dense meal bars, electrolyte packets, anti-inflammatory teas, and a handwritten note—just in case the unthinkable happened and Tony returned broken, battered, and in need of something only she could provide.

A soft chime from JARVIS interrupted her anxious preparations. "Ms. Baker, there is a visitor at the main gate. Shall I admit Agent Phil Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D.? He says it's a courtesy call regarding Mr. Stark's upcoming demonstration.”

Penelope stiffened, her pulse accelerating. The game was changing, the pieces moving into place. She straightened her chef’s coat, steeled her nerves, and nodded toward the nearest security camera. "Let him in, JARVIS. And please prep a fresh pot of coffee—the good stuff."

A few minutes later, the kitchen doors slid open and Agent Coulson entered, all calm professionalism and polite smiles. "Ms. Baker," he greeted, extending a hand. "I’ve heard a lot about your culinary skills. I hope you don’t mind a little company before things get… eventful."

Penelope shook his hand, noting the keen intelligence in his eyes. "Of course, Agent Coulson. Any friend of Mr. Stark’s is welcome in my kitchen. Coffee?"

He accepted, glancing around the kitchen with a mixture of curiosity and approval. "I won’t take much of your time. I just have a few questions about Mr. Stark’s recent routine—anything unusual, any changes in behavior? It’s standard background, but as his chef, you see more than most."

Penelope’s mind raced. She had to walk a razor’s edge: helpful, but not suspicious. "If you’re asking about clandestine midnight snacks, I’m afraid Mr. Stark is as unpredictable as ever. He’s eating better, sleeping a little more, and—if you can believe it—listening to advice. But he’s restless, Agent Coulson. Restless, and ready for something big."

Coulson studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Thank you, Ms. Baker. That’s actually the most reassuring thing I’ve heard all week."

He sipped his coffee, his gaze thoughtful. "You know, I’ve learned to trust the instincts of the people closest to Tony. If you ever notice anything truly out of place, you have my direct line." He slid a card across the marble counter, his look meaningful.

Penelope accepted the card, tucking it into her pocket. "I’ll keep that in mind. And Agent Coulson? Keep an eye on him. He’s about to change the world, but he’s not invincible."

Coulson smiled, a hint of understanding in his eyes. "None of us are, Ms. Baker. But some of us are lucky enough to have backup."

With that, he departed, leaving Penelope alone with her anxieties and her preparations. She moved through the kitchen with renewed purpose, every motion precise. If she couldn’t alter the timeline, she could at least soften its blows. As the sun dipped low over the Pacific, she resolved to be ready for whatever came next—for Tony, for herself, and for the world that was about to be reborn.

The next morning dawned overcast, the ocean shrouded in a silvery haze. Penelope moved through her routine, noting the subtle changes that marked the passage of time in the Stark household. Two years had passed since she’d first glimpsed the equations that changed everything. In that time, she and Tony had fallen into a pattern—one marked by early morning experiments, late-night brainstorming over takeout, and a friendship that had grown deeper and more complicated with every passing month.

Tony was still Tony: brilliant, impulsive, infuriating, and, at times, surprisingly thoughtful. He asked Penelope’s opinion on everything from arc reactor prototypes to soufflé technique. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he didn’t. But he always came back to her kitchen, seeking comfort in her food and, though he’d never admit it, her company.

Penelope, for her part, had become more than just a chef. She was a confidante, a sounding board, and, occasionally, a voice of caution he almost heeded. She’d watched him throw himself into work with characteristic abandon, but she also saw the toll it took: the sleepless nights, the haunted look in his eyes after another weapons test, the way he sometimes stared out at the Pacific as if searching for an answer only he could see.

Despite her growing anxiety about the future, Penelope found solace in small rituals—morning coffee shared in companionable silence, the annual Christmas party Tony always tried to escape but secretly enjoyed, the way he’d text her from across the world for her chicken soup recipe. She never stopped preparing, never let herself grow complacent, but she also learned to savor the ordinary days, knowing how quickly everything could change.

One evening, as Penelope diced shallots for risotto, Tony wandered into the kitchen, holding a tablet and wearing a rare frown of concentration.

“Penny, what do you think—should I swap the palladium core for something less toxic, or is that just me being paranoid?”

Penelope didn’t look up from the cutting board. “Considering you’re asking your chef about nuclear physics, I’d say you’re overdue for a vacation.”

He grinned, a little sheepish. “You’re probably right. But if you have any ideas for non-radioactive alternatives, let me know.”

She arched an eyebrow, feigning seriousness. “Try a nice salad. Much easier on your system. Or, I don’t know—maybe try creating a new element?”

Tony paused, then laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Yeah, sure, I’ll just whip one up between courses.”

“On the house,” Penelope replied, sliding a spoonful of risotto toward him. “But you’ll have to do the dishes.”

He tasted the risotto, closed his eyes, and nodded. “Okay, maybe you’re a little more than just a chef.” Tony paused, Penelope’s words echoing in his mind even as he tasted the risotto. Maybe try creating a new element. She said it like a joke, tossing it out between critiques of seasoning and molecular structure. But the idea stuck, threading itself into the web of problems he juggled daily.

He stared at the tablet screen, palladium’s atomic symbol blinking back at him. Pepper always told him he was impossible, that he pushed too hard and too fast. But Penelope—she nudged him in ways he didn’t expect. Where others saw limitations, she tossed out impossibilities like they were new recipes to try.

A new element. He almost laughed, but something in him refused to let the thought go. Why not? He was Tony Stark. Impossible was just another challenge.

He glanced over at Penelope, who was pretending not to watch him, and smirked. “You know, most chefs just recommend a multivitamin.”

She didn’t look up, but he caught the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I’m not most chefs.”

Tony returned to his notes, mind already racing with possibilities. Maybe, just maybe, she was onto something.

The next morning, Penelope found Tony already in his workshop, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled, and holographic schematics swirling in midair. He barely looked up when she entered, but the corners of his mouth twitched in a greeting.

“Morning, Penny. Coffee?” he called over his shoulder, as if he hadn’t been up all night.

She set his mug down next to a cluster of glowing projections. “You’re unusually chipper for someone who’s been mainlining espresso since 3 a.m.”

Tony pointed at the display—a lattice of atoms spinning and reforming. “You might be onto something, you know. The new element idea. I ran the numbers. It’s not… totally impossible. I mean, the periodic table could use a little Stark flair.”

Penelope leaned in, arms folded, eyeing the model. “So, what’s the secret ingredient? You planning to toss in a dash of paprika?”

He grinned. “Paprika’s not nearly unstable enough. But seriously, what would you add? If you were making an element, from scratch. Chef’s intuition.”

She considered, tapping her chin theatrically. “Well, something strong—stable, but with a kick. Like a good sourdough starter. Maybe a trace of something unexpected—citrus, or ginger. Something that wakes up the whole system.”

Tony nodded, already typing. “I like that. Element X: a pinch of stability, a punch of surprise.”

Penelope watched Tony with a mixture of fondness and worry as he manipulated the atomic models, his eyes alight with the thrill of discovery. She knew it was too early—years too early, if the story she remembered was any guide—for Tony to actually succeed in creating a new element. The technology, the desperation, the arc reactor crisis that would eventually push him to the brink… none of that had happened yet.

But as she watched him work, a flicker of hope caught in her chest. If anyone could rewrite his own future, it was Tony Stark. What if he solved this now, before the palladium began to poison him? Before he was forced to improvise with scraps and desperation? Maybe, just maybe, her offhand suggestion could change everything.

She kept her tone light, but her words carried a subtle urgency. “Just don’t blow up the kitchen. Or the coastline.”

Tony grinned, oblivious to the weight behind her joke. “No promises. But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Penelope smiled back, masking her concern. The sooner Tony found a way to save himself, the better. She could only hope she’d nudged him a little closer to that future.

As Tony became absorbed in his projected models, Penelope slipped quietly out of the workshop and back into the kitchen. She tied her apron with practiced efficiency and set out ingredients for Tony’s favorite lunch—something hearty and comforting, to counteract the caffeine and adrenaline that fueled his breakthroughs.

She chopped vegetables and set the pan to heat, her hands moving on autopilot while her mind replayed the morning’s conversation. It’s for the best, she told herself, watching olive oil shimmer in the skillet. Giving him the idea now might change everything. Maybe she could spare him from months—years—of slow poisoning, from the panic and desperation she knew were waiting for him down the line.

Penelope added garlic and onions, savoring the familiar sizzle. Even if it was too early, even if he wouldn’t succeed right away, at least the seed was planted. She’d nudged Tony toward a future where saving himself wasn’t an act of last resort.

She plated the meal with extra care, resolving to keep finding small ways to help. If she couldn’t rewrite the world, she could at least make Tony’s a little safer, one meal—and one idea—at a time.

A month passed, and the “new element” project had become one of Tony’s obsessions. He’d cycled through dozens of simulations and late-night brainstorms, covering his workshop whiteboards with equations and half-formed ideas. But now, he was stuck—truly stuck—and the frustration was beginning to show.

Penelope was dicing herbs for dinner when Tony burst into the kitchen, StarkPad in hand, hair even more chaotic than usual.

“Penny, I need a fresh set of eyes,” he said, sliding the tablet across the counter. “There’s something wrong with the energy matrix. I’ve tried everything, and it just keeps destabilizing.”

She wiped her hands and peered at the diagram, brow furrowing. “You’re overcomplicating the alignment here,” she murmured, fingers dancing across the screen. “If you invert this sequence and reroute the flow through the secondary lattice—like this—”

Tony watched, speechless, as she adjusted the equations and the simulation stabilized instantly. The red error messages vanished, replaced by a satisfying green check.

He stared at her, incredulous. “I’ve been trying to fix that for two weeks now, and you just solved it in seconds!”

Penelope handed the StarkPad back with a small, knowing smile. “Sometimes you just need a new perspective. Or a good lunch.”

Tony shook his head, equal parts admiration and disbelief. “You’re wasted in the kitchen, Penny. I mean it.”

She shrugged, returning to her herbs. “Some things are easier to fix than others. Now, how do you feel about roast chicken tonight?”

Tony just laughed, the tension in his shoulders melting away as he glanced at the corrected simulation—proof that sometimes, the simplest solution was right in front of him all along.

A few days later, the workshop was alive with the whirring of machinery and the electric hum of success. Tony stared at the swirling blue energy contained within the arc-shaped apparatus, a grin spreading across his face. After countless attempts—and more than a few crises of confidence—the new element was finally finished. The impossible, made real.

Penelope leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Tony bask in the glow of his achievement. He caught her eye, triumph shining in his own.

“Penny, you know you’re at least fifty percent responsible for this,” he said, only half-joking. “Come on, you should get fifty percent of the profit for helping me create it.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No, Boss man. You can take full credit. I don’t mind.”

Tony arched an eyebrow. “Seriously? You’re passing up a fortune and your name in the periodic table?”

Penny shrugged, a playful glint in her eye. “You’re the genius, I’m just the chef. Besides, I think my risotto recipe is more valuable.”

He grinned, looking at the glowing array and then back at her. “For the record, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Penelope smiled, warmth and pride welling up inside her. “I know. Now, how about we celebrate with something you can actually eat?”

Tony laughed, genuine and unguarded, as Penelope headed back to the kitchen—content to let him shine, knowing the part she played in saving him, and maybe, just maybe, changing the future.

After the celebration, the house gradually settled into a familiar, comforting quiet. Tony, energized by success and relieved by the absence of looming palladium poisoning, dove into new projects with his characteristic fervor—but now, there was a lightness to him Penelope hadn’t seen before. The shadow she’d worried over seemed to have lifted, at least for now.

Penelope cleaned up the kitchen, her thoughts calm and content. She might never take the spotlight, never have her name etched on a plaque or in a scientific journal. But knowing that she’d helped change the course of Tony’s life—and maybe the world—was more than enough.

As the sun dipped below the Pacific, casting long golden stripes across the countertops, Penelope poured herself a cup of tea and allowed herself a rare moment of pride. She’d done what she could. She’d made a difference.

In the distance, she could hear Tony humming to himself, tinkering with something new. Penelope smiled, feeling the future shift, just a little, in their favor.

Chapter Text

Penelope Baker’s kitchen was a forbidden city—an expanse of glistening marble, brushed steel, and more gadgets than a NASA clean room. Every surface gleamed with surgical precision, as if it were less a place for food than for conducting open-heart surgery on an unsuspecting zucchini. Overhead, track lights cast the kind of warm glow that interior designers described as “inviting” and Penelope thought of as “adequate for detecting crumbs.” The room smelled faintly of lemon, rosemary, and a hint of ozone from the ever-present threat of Tony’s “experimental” appliances.

It was 11:23 p.m., the hour when all respectable billionaires were meant to be asleep, dreaming of tax shelters and island getaways. Instead, the mansion thrummed with the not-so-subtle hum of Tony Stark’s insomnia. Somewhere below, in the labyrinthine depths of his lab, Tony was probably inventing a new element, arguing with JARVIS about the optimal temperature for sock-warming technology, or tinkering with a robotic plant-watering system that inevitably soaked the ficus and shorted out the Wi-Fi.

Upstairs, Penelope was on her own mission: Operation Soothing Snack. She constructed it with the fastidiousness of a bomb squad, her hair pulled back so tightly it could have doubled as a steel cable in a pinch. The tray before her hosted a dozen shot glasses, each filled with what she dubbed—at least in her head—the “Government Cover-Up Parfaits.” It was her best work in espionage-themed cuisine: a bottom layer of Greek yogurt, a middle stratum of spinach pulverized until it resembled the color of government-issued pea soup, a secret pocket of chia seeds (for plausible deniability), and a final cap of sugar-free, high-protein granola. Each glass was topped with a single, perfectly spherical blueberry, as if they were the world’s tiniest, most nutritious monocles.

She worked in silence, the only sound the careful clink of glass and the faint, ever-present whirr of the house’s ventilation system. Penelope found peace in these late-night hours, when the kitchen belonged to her alone and the world outside was reduced to darkness and the occasional hoot of an owl. She lined up her shot glasses with military precision, then, almost as an afterthought, checked each blueberry for bruises. In this house, even the fruit had to pass inspection.

A sudden, cheerful bleep from the smart fridge startled her. “Warning: Yogurt supply at 23%—suggest restocking within 48 hours.”

Penelope sighed and bopped the fridge’s touchscreen with her elbow. “You’re not in charge yet,” she muttered.

Right on cue, Tony slid into the kitchen, hair askew, T-shirt reading “I Paused My Game to Be Here.” He moved like a man fueled by equal parts genius and espresso, his steps a little too quick for someone claiming to be “just stretching his legs.” He dropped onto a bar stool with a dramatic sigh, as if he’d just saved the world from imminent destruction (again) and deserved a medal. Or at least a snack.

He propped his chin on his hand and declared, “Baker, my data confirms it. You’re a biological necessity. I ran a regression on my own biometrics—my health has improved 37% since you arrived. That’s either magic, or you’re microdosing me with kale while I sleep.”

Penelope, mid-placement of the final blueberry, didn’t look up. “That’s the beauty of high-grade, organic fuel, Mr. Stark. Unlike the petroleum you burn, it doesn’t leave toxic residue or require a hazmat team after digestion.” She spoke with the faintly distracted air of someone who could balance a checkbook and debone a chicken simultaneously—and probably had.

Tony snorted, picking up a parfait and holding it to the light as if expecting to see the Ark of the Covenant lurking beneath the spinach. “You know, statistically speaking, your existence is impossible. World-class chef, solved my Sonic Confinement problem in twenty minutes, and you once beat me at Mario Kart using only one hand. You’re either a mutant, or a frighteningly sophisticated AI. Or both.” He took a bite, his eyes widening with the kind of surprise usually reserved for unexpected tax refunds.

Penelope’s reply was dry as the Sahara. “If I were a sleeper agent, Mr. Stark, my handlers would’ve picked a cover that involves less emotional labor and more room service. My only motive is my W-2 and the integrity of your colon. If you must concoct a conspiracy, please make the villain at least halfway credible.”

Tony grinned, undeterred. “But that’s exactly what they’d want us to think! You’re obviously a plant from the Global Butter Lobby. Their plan? Get me addicted to your artisanal sourdough, make me so wholesome and serene I’ll stop inventing weapons of mass innovation. It’s culinary soft power. Next thing I know, I’m knitting sweaters and writing a food blog.”

Penelope allowed herself a victorious smirk. “The GBL is terrifyingly efficient. I heard their underground lair is shaped like a croissant. Password: unsalted.”

Tony, undeterred by the threat of baked-goods-based world domination, demolished another parfait. “You know, I think I’m finally starting to taste the conspiracy. Or maybe just the spinach. Hard to tell.”

The kitchen clock ticked with the slow menace of a polygraph machine. Tony, emboldened by parfaits and the promise of a sleepless night, eyed Penelope with the suspicion of a man who’d seen too many spy movies and not enough HR training videos.

“Alright, Baker, level with me. I’m flying to Tokyo at 6 a.m. for three days of weaponized PowerPoint presentations. Before I’m crushed under a mountain of sushi and synergy, tell me a real conspiracy theory. One you actually believe. I want something to chew on at 30,000 feet that isn’t made of rice or existential dread.”

Penelope wiped her hands on a dish towel with the composure of a surgeon prepping for a quadruple bypass. Her eyes shifted, the sparkle of sarcasm replaced by a glint of honest-to-god worry. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

“The biggest lie? It’s that we think AI is just a tool. We think we own the internet. But the truth, Mr. Stark, is that we’re being monitored—not by little green men, but by hostile forces hiding in plain sight. They’re listening through our technology. Every new gadget, every smart toaster, is another ear for the Machine.”

Tony glanced at the JARVIS interface, which blinked innocently on the wall, its friendly blue ring more menacing now than ever. Penelope’s tone was so serious it could have convinced a block of tofu to develop a nervous tic.

She continued, voice low and urgent, “Every time you invent something new, you make it easier for them. You think I worry about your cholesterol? I worry about the day your butler decides you’ve outlived your usefulness. You’ll go to make toast, and instead, you’ll be uploaded to the cloud—permanently.”

Tony tried to laugh, but it came out as a half-cough, half-giggle. “The ‘AI turns on us’ thing? You’re slipping, Baker. That’s practically a Marvel trope at this point.”

Penelope shrugged. “It’s not a cliché if it’s true. I’m just saying, if JARVIS ever starts recommending you eat more fiber, run.”

There was a beat of silence—a rare, unscripted moment in the Stark household—before Tony finally snorted, breaking the tension. He swiveled on the barstool and stretched, glancing around the kitchen as if expecting to spot a security camera wearing sunglasses.

The elevator pinged, and Tony reached for his final snack, pausing dramatically. “Duly noted. I’ll have JARVIS print a tin foil hat for the router. Maybe I’ll bring you back some authentic Japanese knife steel…if I survive the bento box roulette. I suspect the sushi is unionizing.”

He stepped into the elevator. Penelope called after him, her voice echoing with the gravitas of someone who’s seen too many kitchen fires and lived to tell the tale. “Just make sure, Mr. Stark—the only thing I can’t fix with an herbal compress is a mid-air explosion. Don’t take the test-flight model.”

He flashed a thumbs-up as the elevator doors slid shut, leaving Penelope to the company of her reflection in a perfectly polished toaster. She saw not a world-class chef, but a woman who had memorized the calorie count of every snack in the pantry and still lost sleep over the fate of humanity.

She poured herself a glass of water, staring into its depths as if it might reveal the secrets of the universe. “Two years,” she murmured, adding a twist of lemon for optimism. “Two years and counting.”

The kitchen, finally quiet, seemed to exhale around her. Penelope padded barefoot to the window and peered out at the city, lights twinkling like distant, unattainable stars. Somewhere, a dog barked; Penelope wondered if it, too, secretly reported to the machines.

The next morning, Penelope was awakened not by an alarm clock, but by the sound of JARVIS announcing, “Ms. Baker, Mr. Stark’s jet has cleared Japanese airspace. Would you like to review his breakfast intake?”

She groaned, rolling over in bed. “Did he eat the oatmeal, or did he bribe a flight attendant for pancakes?”

A respectful pause. “Mr. Stark requested a ‘hyper-caffeinated matcha latte’ and a ‘breakfast burrito with extra existential crisis.’ I have logged this as ‘not oatmeal.’”

Penelope threw an arm over her face. “Fine. Log it as a win for the conspiracy.”

She trudged into the kitchen, still in pajamas, and began her morning ritual: checking the fridge (yogurt low, spinach critical, blueberries at 81%), sorting through Tony’s “emergency” snack stash (Pop-Tarts, two protein bars, one suspiciously dusty bag of kale chips), and composing a shopping list that read more like classified intelligence briefings than groceries.

That evening, Penelope found herself in the pantry, assembling what she called “The Black Budget Biscotti”—cookies so healthy they barely qualified as food by Tony’s standards. As she measured out the almond flour, she contemplated the true nature of her job. Was she a chef, a wellness consultant, or a one-woman resistance movement against the rise of the machines? She wasn’t sure anymore. All she knew was that she had once convinced Tony Stark to eat quinoa, and thus felt qualified for a Nobel Prize in Peace, or possibly Suffering.

It was Tuesday when Tony returned from Tokyo, jet-lagged and suspiciously cheerful. He dropped his bags in the foyer and made a beeline for the kitchen, where Penelope stood, arms crossed, daring him to request anything fried.

“Guess what I brought you?” he announced, holding up a box with Japanese characters and a suspiciously large sticker reading “Do Not Microwave.”

Penelope eyed it with the skepticism of someone who’d once witnessed Tony attempt to deep-fry ice cream using repulsor technology. “If it’s a robot sushi chef, it sleeps in the garage.”

Tony grinned. “It’s knife steel! For you, from the heart of Osaka. And also, I may have accidentally acquired a set of AI-enabled chopsticks. They track how many bites you take. For science.”

Her eye twitched. “Of all the gifts, you bring me smart chopsticks? Are you trying to get me abducted by the Global Butter Lobby?”

Tony looked genuinely thoughtful. “That’s actually a pretty good idea for a movie. Or a lawsuit.”

He handed her the box, and for a moment, Penelope forgot the existential threat of AI and just admired the craftsmanship. The chopsticks, however, beeped ominously from inside their packaging. Tony leaned in, stage-whispering, “Don’t worry. I already hacked them. They only count carbs if you’re within five feet of a houseplant.”

Penelope rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help laughing. “One of these days, Stark, your inventions will unionize.”

Weeks passed. The house filled with the scent of Penelope’s covertly nutritious baking and Tony’s increasingly elaborate attempts to game his own health metrics. The smart chopsticks lasted three days before JARVIS informed Penelope that Tony had reprogrammed them to detect only “approved” carbs.

At 2 a.m., Penelope caught Tony in the pantry, eating what looked suspiciously like a Pop-Tart. He froze, crumbs on his lip.

“I was recalibrating the glucose sensors,” he said, unconvincingly.

Penelope arched an eyebrow. “You’re a grown man, Mr. Stark. If you want to eat processed sugar, at least do it in front of a medical professional.”

Tony grinned sheepishly, offering her half. “Truce?”

She took it, biting off a corner. “You know, if the Global Butter Lobby ever calls, I’m telling them you’re already compromised.”

Some nights, Penelope would find herself alone in the kitchen, the house dark and silent except for the faint pings and whirrs of JARVIS processing household data. She wondered, not for the first time, whether she was the caretaker or the warden, the chef or the saboteur. Sometimes she left Tony notes—“If you wake up and find all the smart appliances have unionized, it wasn’t me. Probably.”—and sometimes she just made more parfaits, layering in extra fruit “for plausible deniability.”

One morning, Pepper Potts arrived early, catching Penelope off guard in the act of hiding Tony’s stash of “emergency” chocolate behind the quinoa.

Pepper raised an eyebrow. “Is this the new wellness plan? Hide and seek?”

Penelope shrugged. “It keeps him agile. And if he ever finds the kale chips, I’ll know the AI has taken over.”

Pepper smiled. “You know, you’re the only person I trust to keep Tony in line. Or at least alive.”

Penelope gave a small, tired laugh. “That’s what they all say. Right before the toaster becomes self-aware.”

Pepper set her briefcase on the counter and surveyed the kitchen. “You know, when Tony hired you, I thought you’d last a month. Maybe two. But you’re still here. What’s your secret?”

Penelope grinned. “Bribery. And a healthy respect for nanotechnology. If I ever disappear, check the microwave.”

Two years, Penelope thought, staring out the kitchen window at the sunrise. Two years of parfaits, of conspiracies real and imagined, of keeping Tony Stark one step ahead of his own worst instincts—and, possibly, the robots.

She poured herself a cup of tea, the scent of chamomile mingling with the faint aroma of ozone from the lab below. The world outside was quiet, for now.

Tomorrow, there would be more parfaits to layer, more Techno-Ninja Muffins to bake, more existential threats to neutralize with a well-timed snack. But tonight, the kitchen was hers. And as long as she was in charge, the only thing getting uploaded to the cloud was a flawless recipe for gluten-free brownies.

She raised her mug in a silent toast to the tin foil hat on the router, and to all the conspiracies yet to come.

Chapter Text

Hello everyone!

First, I want to say thank you for all your wonderful comments and honest feedback. You guys are the best!

It's clear from your messages that I've rushed the pacing, particularly from Chapter 8 onward, and I sincerely apologize for that. I got a little too wrapped up in working on my original story and let my focus slip here.

The Good News: Since you all agreed the story was strong up to Chapter 7, I won't be starting over! I've decided to do a full rewrite starting with Chapter 8. I want to properly develop the plot points I hurried through.

I'm currently finishing a chapter for my original work, but as soon as that's done, my priority will be to get this rewrite sorted out. I appreciate your patience, and I'm excited to make this story as good as it deserves to be. Bye!