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Summary
Los Angeles was eighteen million degrees, weeks too early for it. Tony was sweating. It was good, it was his city, he loved it, he was basically part of it, but—on days like this, if he couldn’t be positioned directly in front of, and behind, and to the side of, air conditioning units, or at least fans, then there just wasn’t much point, was there, in existing in a corporeal three-dimensional form. The sun was beating down without mercy on the concrete and Tony folded his arms.
“I don’t know what we’re even doing here,” he whined to Pepper, who smiled at him with the arch patience of a saint. She was wearing linen. It was uncreased. Unwrinkled. She wasn’t sweating through it—or at all. It was uncanny.
“You’ll live, Tony,” she said.