[The suit did a great deal to hide that Tony was human. She'd seen him peel himself out of it, burned and battered, to go from able to fight alongside a god to a mortal, somewhat frustrating man so many times his humanity blurred out beyond the alloys along with his personality. Now she narrowed in on the way the words were truncated through the communication: flattened and echoing but the note of fatigue was caught, contained and Pepper was uncurling.]
You could. [Agreement, smooth as any other time she agreed to schemes of Tony's without pausing to calculate their possibilities. He could. She could. She could tell the tastes, the feel, the color of metals and their differentiation the way she understood the difference between her little finger and her palm: learning what they actually were was the next, inevitable step. But she wasn't signing up to be a new project.]
But let's try that when you can make the stairs into your own workshop? You should go to bed. The jet-lag from intergalactic travel must be hell. [She looked at the position of the suit on the couch, the almost artless way it had collapsed.]
Go sleep off the flight. You can talk metals tomorrow.