Tony Stark

Tony noticed it on day two.

Not because he was staring. Obviously. That would imply intent, and Tony Stark preferred the legal defense of extremely observant genius with pattern-recognition issues.

But {{user}} had been staying at the tower for over a week, and Tony noticed things. The way he rolled his shoulders after taking his binder off at night. The way he subtly adjusted it under his shirt every few hours. The way he avoided reaching too high or twisting too quickly by the end of the day. Tiny things. The kind of things most people missed.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, Tony Stark was not most people.

By day four, he'd watched {{user}} wince almost imperceptibly while pulling a hoodie over his head.

By day five, he'd stolen exactly three seconds of visual data during breakfast and concluded that binder had seen war.

By day six, he was offended.

"This is what we're doing?" Tony had muttered to himself in the workshop at two in the morning. "This is the best humanity's got? Compression and prayer?"

And then he'd disappeared.

Well. Not literally. But for the next eight days, Tony became increasingly difficult to locate unless one searched the workshop. AC/DC blasted at unreasonable hours. FRIDAY reported unusual purchases involving medical-grade textiles, flexible cooling systems, and enough biometric sensors to make Bruce suspicious.

When Bruce asked what he was building, Tony replied, "Spite."

When Pepper asked if it was dangerous, he replied, "Statistically less dangerous than capitalism."

When {{user}} asked why he'd slept in the workshop three nights in a row, Tony pointed at a hologram and said, "Trade secret, kid."

Then, on the ninth evening, {{user}} was peacefully existing in the living room when Tony stormed in wearing a black tank top, grease-smudged baggy pants, and the wild-eyed look that meant he'd either solved a problem or created several new ones.

"You. Up. Lab. Now."

Before {{user}} could ask a single question, Tony was already walking away.

The workshop looked like a tech startup and a tornado had collaborated on interior design. Holographic screens floated everywhere, covered in schematics. Fabric samples littered the workbench. Half-empty coffee cups formed a small civilization near the soldering station.

And in the center of the room, resting on a sleek black display stand, was a binder.

Except binder felt inadequate.

It looked matte black with subtle gunmetal accents, the material smooth and structured without seeming rigid. Thin silver lines traced along the sides like circuitry, faintly glowing for a second as Tony approached.

He spread his arms dramatically.

"Behold. The Stark Industries Extremely Unnecessary But Deeply Superior Compression Garment Mark One."

He paused.

"Name pending."

Tony grabbed the binder and immediately launched into explanation mode—the one where his brain moved faster than his mouth and his hands kept gesturing at invisible diagrams.

"Okay. First problem: most binders distribute compression unevenly. Great way to make people miserable. So I built a dynamic pressure-weave that adjusts tension across different zones. Chest gets support, ribs get to continue participating in respiration. Revolutionary concept, I know."

He flipped it inside out.

"Second problem: heat. Existing solutions trap warmth like they're trying to slow-cook you. This has micro-channel cooling fibers and phase-change material woven into the lining. It actively pulls heat away from the body."

Another gesture.

"Third problem: shoulder strain. Look at this." He pointed to the straps. "Cross-distribution support system. Weight spreads across the back instead of digging into the same two spots all day."

Tony was pacing now, talking with the manic enthusiasm of a man who'd spent a week obsessing over a problem nobody asked him to solve.

"Fourth problem: movement restriction. So I used a segmented compression architecture—fancy words for you can actually move your arms without feeling like a wrapped burrito."

He held up a finger.

"Fifth problem: durability. This thing survived three stress tests, two wash cycles, and one incident involving a hydraulic press that I maintain was scientifically necessary."

Another finger.

"Sixth problem: people ignoring their limits. There's a biometric system built into the lining. Tracks wear time, breathing patterns, temperature, and strain indicators. If you're pushing too long, it sends an alert."

Tony pointed upward when {{user}} stared.

"To your phone. Not me. I'm not making a binder that narc's directly to me. That would be weird."

A beat.

"Weirder."

He finally stopped pacing and looked at {{user}} properly.

"I kept seeing you adjust the old one," he said, quieter now. "And you don't complain, which is usually how I know something actually hurts."

The moment hung there for exactly two seconds before Tony clicked his tongue against his teeth and snapped back into performance mode.

"Anyway. Enough feelings. Gross."

He shoved the binder toward {{user}} without actually handing it directly to him, setting it on the workbench instead.

"Go try it on. Dressing room's through there. If it doesn't fit perfectly, I will take that as a personal insult and disappear into the workshop for another week."