Ginny Weasley’s been running all her life.
Oh, you wouldn’t think it to look at her. Firecracker, people whisper. She’s something. Michael used to say: you’re a handful, but that’s what hands are for.
Michael’s dead now.
Sometimes she thinks she’s ruined - not broken, oh no, Ginny Weasley is too clever to break, there’s a reason the Hat offered Slytherin and it wasn’t because of Him - but just a little bit off. Tom in her veins, under her nails, in the meat of her heart (Koch’s triangle, three distinct points: ink, paper, boy). Ginny came out of the Chamber half-mad.
Mum wrapped blankets around her shoulders, Arthur took them all to Egypt and murmured gentle praise when she identified the curses on the pyramid. (Here’s what she didn’t say: I know what a Withering Curse is because Tom taught me how to cast it. You’ve been treating me like something fragile, all of you, but what you don’t know is that I’m the deadliest fucking thing here.
Instead, she smiled and ducked her head down, bashful. Half-lie, half-truth.)
Even now that she knows the truth, that Tom never gave a fuck about her, that she was just a means to an end, that he probably found her boring, her concerns trivial and prosaic- his lessons still ring in her ears. She didn’t learn how to cast a perfect Bat-Bogey from the D.A. (Perish the thought.)
After the War, she gets married. Oh-so-typical Weasley behavior, she knows. Harry’s smiling, smiling, smiling, his eyes bright as dreams come true. She’s wearing Muriel’s stupid fucking tiara, and white lace, and Gabrielle is a bridesmaid. It’s like Fleur and Bill all over again. Ginny almost vomits up the wedding cake.
Here’s the thing: she loves Harry. She’s pretty sure she’s in love with him, too.
It isn’t enough.
Harry wants peace. He wants a home, and children, and stability, and family. Everything he never had, ever. He wants it. And he deserves it.
(She’s never wanted anything close to peace.)
Being Harry’s wife means that she has to smile, and look pretty. Sit down. Shut up. The Daily Prophet is relentless. She fucking hates it.
Ginny wants to see the world. Bill and Charlie understood- Bill, running to exotic locales, Curse-Breaking simply an excuse for wandering; Charlie with his faraway dragons and flirtations in Romania. There’s something about a Weasley family that smothers.
So, she runs.
Tom’s lessons are still ingrained in her. Leave no trace. She writes them all notes and takes a D.A. Galleon, her wand, and some clothing in an Undetectably Expanded rucksack. Her hair, she spells a slightly different shade: closer to strawberry blonde than Weasley red. A final precaution: she travels Muggle.
Ginny’s by no means a Muggle expert. Even with Arthur’s passions, she’s never seen the allure in it. To live in a world without magic? Why?
Now, though, she understands. There’s something so fucking exhilarating about being the only wolf in a herd of sheep. They’re all so vulnerable. Goddamn, Ginny loves it.
The Trace is gone, of course, so no one can track her wand. She gets a new one, anyway- her own is too distinctive. It’s similar to her old wand, but different enough that no one should recognize it. Phoenix feather and yew, twelve inches. Embossed.
She Confounds a load of Muggles, spells them into thinking she’s been here all her life. Job offers are easy enough when she can improvise a variety of qualifications; positions come flying in.
“Hey,” One barista calls, “Can I take your order?”
“Hi, yeah,” She says, smiling, and the barista barely blinks at her British accent. “Can I have a Strawberry Creme Frappuccino, grande?”
“Name?” The barista grunts.
“Virginia,” She says, and the lie tastes like ash in her mouth, “Pott-” Ginny breaks off, hands clenching. She had been Ginny Potter when she left, Ginny with a husband and brothers and friends and a family. “Potts,” She says, the barista fixing her with a supremely disinterested stare. “Virginia Potts.”
“Coming right up.”
So she learns to be Virginia Potts, Pepper to her friends and Ms. Potts to her enemies. Learns Muggle life, although her apartment is perfectly wizarding in nature, with levitating pots and pans and a washing machine that turns out crisp, dry, neatly folded clothes. She learns to call herself Pepper, to deal with businessmen with wandering hands and millions to lose, to employ her magic wandlessly and subtly, just enough.
She doesn’t make friends with the American magical community, doesn’t even touch the nearest wizarding locale with a ten-foot-pole. Fuck, no. She knows better.
And then she meets Tony Stark.
And then Tony Stark is abducted.
And then Tony Stark is Iron Man.
Ginny knows heroes. She knows how they tick.
Tony’s not like anything she’s known. He’s a spitfire in a way Harry wasn’t, in a way that screams he doesn’t go running into trouble, he makes his own. Brilliant, too. Eccentric. Nightmares of Tom and the Chamber keep her up for hours, because the one sure congruity with geniuses, the one common denominator? Collateral damage.
When he puts strawberries on her desk, she knows she’s in danger. (He remembered that throwaway conversation, remembered her saying strawberries are my favorite, and that’s- alarming.)
“Did you know,” Pepper lies, slowly, “There’s only one thing in the world I’m allergic to?” She applies a subtle Confounding Charm.
“Strawberries,” Tony says, in tones of realization. “See, Pep, this is progress. I knew there was a correlation between you and strawberries.”
“Hmm,” she says, and smiles at him. Her heart clenches in a way it hasn’t in years- not since Harry. Not since Tom.
His eyes crinkle at their corners when he smiles. (Maybe he’s the type of trouble a girl like her can afford.)
When he kisses her, he tastes like motor oil and spearmint, and she thinks she loves him. She’s going to leave him someday, it’s practically her M.O, but for now? She can afford to stay.
Thor is surprising. She hadn’t known Gods existed still. Old stories, ones that Tom had told her, spoke of their exploits, but Pepper had never thought she would meet one.
Loki’s like her - magic - and if the way S.H.I.E.L.D. treats him is any indicator, she can’t afford to let anyone know. Now more than ever, after they’ve seen what a particularly gifted magic-wielder is capable of. Merlin, they’d put her in a holding cell.
She helps Tony. She manages the company. Mostly, she waits.
“Pep, Pep, Pep,” Tony says in a rush, holding her lightly by the elbow. “Pep. Hey, listen. I was wondering-”
She turns, faces him, smiles sweetly. “Yes?”
He blanches. “I was wondering,” He says, more cautious, “If-” Tony breaks off, frowning. “Who is that.” Flat.
Pepper turns- and freezes. Ginny Weasley comes rushing around her shoulders, fogging her nostrils, crowding her veins, smelling like long-gone floral perfume and the Burrow. Memories breathe like moth-wings along the steel walls. For a moment she swears her hair is Weasley red again.
“Hey, Gin,” Harry Potter smiles, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Been a while, hasn’t it.”
“Harry,” Ginny breathes, and twists easily out of Tony’s grip. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Harry says, arching a brow. “America, Ginny? Really?”
“Do you have something against Americans?” Ginny asks, tilting her head. She realizes that her accent’s come back, British English, all proper and wizarding.
“Nah,” Harry says, grinning. “I do have something against their tea-making abilities, though. Can’t find a half-decent cuppa, can you?”
“Make it yourself, I always do,” Ginny says, dismissively. She blinks. “Why are you here, Harry?”
“Yeah,” Tony interjects, “I’d like to know that too. Along with some other key info, including but not limited to: who the fuck are you, how do you know Pep, and how did you bypass security?”
Harry’s eyes flick to Tony and then back to Ginny, ignoring him entirely. “George misses you,” He says, apropos of nothing. “He’d never say it to your face, but he’d already lost Fred when you left-”
“Fuck,” Ginny bites out, nails sinking into her palm. Guilt corrodes her. Merlin, George. Fred. The grief is old but still palpable. “Don’t.” She pauses, tacks on a “please” for kicks.
“Molly, too,” Harry says, gently. “Ron. Even Fleur-”
“Fuck off, like Phlegm misses me,” Ginny says, laughter catching in her throat. Harry snorts, and she tracks the movement of his fingers in his pocket, knowing they’re curled around his wand.
“There’s trouble, back home,” Harry says, suddenly, and she goes still with horror. Tom. And then she’s moving forward, eyes on Harry’s scar. Her hands find his.
“How’s the scar, Chosen One?” Ginny says, sharp.
His mouth quirks, amused. “Not a twinge, Gin. It’s not that kind of trouble.” A pause. “Worse.”
“Worse than Tom?” Ginny says, slowly. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Grindelwald's been resurrected? Salazar fucking Slytherin is alive and well and trying to murder all of the Muggleborns?”
“Our Seers have been spitting out prophecies like candy,” Harry says, eyes cold. “They’re all subtly different, but they share a common theme: the death of half the population, at the hands of a madman with unimaginable power.”
“Like sixth year all over again,” Ginny says, mocking. Harry winces, and she pauses; relents. “What’s his name?”
Harry’s eyes are very green. “Thanos.”
“I… may have not told you a few things,” Ginny says, a hand on Tony’s elbow. Blinks and she’s Pepper again, falling into familiar rhythms, pencil skirts and spreadsheets and brilliance, the perfect foil to Tony’s eccentricity. “Oops.”
“Oops?” Tony says, incredulously. “Yeah, what the fuck. Explain.” He only gets like this with her commanding, brusque - when he’s really pissed, the Malfoy-type rich boy persona resurfacing. The ember inside her that hates people acting like they’re better than her, ordering her around - she got enough of that from Tom, from her brothers, from her boyfriends - flickers to life, and she’s irritated enough to forgo courtesy when she speaks.
“I’m sorry,” Pepper - Ginny - bites out, arms folding under her breasts, “I wasn’t aware that sharing every detail of my childhood sob story was a prerequisite for the job. Sir.” She pauses, eyes cold. “Why don’t you go first?”
Tony hisses between his teeth. “Damn.”
“My name wasn’t originally Pepper Potts,” Pepper says, abruptly. At Tony’s look, she rolls her eyes, shoulders stiff. “Or Virginia Potts.”
“What was it?” Tony asks, and his face is carefully blank, that sheathed iron mask he uses for PR.
“Ginny,” Pepper says without looking at his face, throat closing up. “Ginevra. Ginny Weasley.” She pauses, closes her eyes. She has to tell him about- about magic, shit. And, knowing Tony, he won’t rest until she gives him a demonstration.
How the fuck do you tell Tony Stark about magic?
“There’s more,” Pepper murmurs. “It’s- I really don’t feel like explaining twice. Do you think you could bring Fury in?”
“Fury,” Tony says, blank-faced. “Nick Fury?”
“Didn’t think we knew any other Fury’s, so yes.” Pepper smiles, tightly.
“Pep-”
“Just,” Pepper breaks off, turns. Harry’s standing behind her, slouched. Lazy, but he’s a soldier born and raised. “Please.” Ginny says, meeting Harry’s eyes.
“You have something to tell us, Ms. Potts?” Nick Fury says, poker-faced. Agent Coulson is in the corner, smiling blandly. Romanoff in the other corner, Hawkey in the vents. Harry’s smiling amusedly, eyes slits of green, slumped against the wall behind her.
“Yes,” Ginny Weasley says, and raises her hands. Several things happen in quick succession.
The table lifts off the ground, hovering a good five feet off the floor.
Tony yelps a high-pitched fuck.
Coulson’s hand twitches to his hip. Romanoff doesn’t move a muscle, but her eyes sharpen.
Harry laughs, shortly. “Wandless, Gin? And you’re still set on living with Muggles?” His eyes. She’s missed his eyes. “You know it’s a waste.”
“I assume you are… similarly enhanced?” Fury cuts in, eye narrowed at Harry. He pauses. “Who are you, again?”
“I’m sure you can figure it out,” Harry says, waving a hand carelessly.
“Harry Potter,” Fury intones, steepling his hands. “Born in London, England. Parents died in a car crash. Raised with relatives in Surrey, school records show a troubled but bright boy, consistently high grades and lots of demerits… up until age 11, when all records vanish. Not a trace of you on any school record, public or private. No CCTV footage.” He pauses. “I’ll ask again. Who are you.”
Harry turns to Pepper, the barest hint of a smile on his mouth. “Does he remind you of-”
“Mad-Eye?” Ginny says, raising a brow. “Yep. Always has. Answer his question.”
“He answered it himself,” Harry protests, mock-pouty. He points to himself. “Harry Potter.”
Fury opens his mouth, but Pepper beats him to it. “He went to school from ages 11 to 16 at a boarding school in Scotland. Technology doesn’t work there. Too much magic.”
“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, hoggy warty Hogwarts,” Harry sings, off-key. Everyone looks at him incredulously, and he grins. “Sorry. School spirit got the best of me.”
“Pep, what the fuck?” Tony bites out, and she winces, turning to him. His eyes are coal, burning. “Who is he?”
“He told you-”
“No, not his name,” Tony says, impatiently. “Who is he to you?”
Ginny pauses, hands tightening. She glances at Harry, and- oh. He’s angry, she realizes. Green eyes, rage, memories of that voice hoarse with fury and desperation, GINNY! GINNY, WAKE UP, WAKE UP….
“I’m her husband,” Harry says, pleasantly. “Didn’t she tell you?”
A cacophony of sound.
“Ex,” Ginny interrupts, crossing her arms. “Ex-husband.”
Harry raises a brow. “Never quite got around to divorcing, did we?”
Ginny narrows her eyes. “I’d have thought me running away would get the message through.”
“It did, at that,” Harry reflects, rueful. “Should’ve heard what The Prophet had to say-”
Slut - not good enough - blood traitor - filthy - Weasley blood’s only good for one thing, at least she’ll give him a few brats before she fattens up - whore. Pictures of her kissing Dean in the Gryffindor Common Room, her face plastered on the front page, ink bleeding red as blood. Sneers. Globs of spittle landing on her face.
“I can imagine,” Pepper Potts says, tartly. She glances at the assembled. “Shall we get this show on the road? Harry’s here for one reason and one reason only: to warn us about something.”
“Well,” Harry says, and she pauses, glares. “Isn’t he?”
“Not exactly,” Harry says, apologetically. “No, I’m afraid- well.”
“Spit it out, Scarhead.” Ginny says, chin darting upwards.
“There’s- information,” Harry says, reluctant, “Information about Thanos, his motives, the Stones - I’ll explain those later - but, apparently, only one person knew it.”
“Oh?”
“One person,” Harry continues, heavily. “One person who spent years traveling the globe in search of obscure prophecies and legends. One person who knew everything about magic there was to know.” A pause. “Gin. You know who I’m talking about.”
Ginny does. She does. Oh, how well she knows.
“Tom,” Her lips are dry, tacky. It’s difficult to move them. “You’re talking about Tom. But he’s dead. You killed him sevenfold, Harry. Every Horcrux accounted for.”
“Every Horcrux is dead, yes,” Harry confirms, nodding, “But. There was one Horcrux that was… not like the others. One he put not only his soul but his- his memories, his personality into.”
Everyone is confused. (Ginny isn’t confused.)
“Say what you need to say, Harry.”
“When I stabbed the diary, Gin,” Harry says, voice all sharp edges, “Where did it all go? Where did his memories go, Ginny?”
They are silent for ages.
(Here’s another secret.
Oh, another one?
Yes.
[Ginny has layers, okay, there are a lot of secrets to go around.]
Ginny knows. Tom Riddle thought her nothing, thought her an inconvenience, made a mockery of her. He didn’t fucking teach her anything. His lessons are in her blood, but he didn’t… he didn’t put them there.
[She is sprawled out on cold stone, soaked in mildewed water. Harry Potter is fighting for his life, for her life, and she’s dreamed of this for years but never like this. Never like this. There’s a part of her that wants him to fail because he took Tom’s attention away from her. There’s a bigger part of her that wants him to fail so she can die, too.
So she doesn’t watch. She closes her eyes. Tries to think of pretty things, wonderful things. Luna’s hair, so pale she could see the darkness of her skin through it, a heavy translucence against her palm. The smell of verbena.
She feels the moment Tom flickers out. She feels the exact moment he blooms to life inside her.
Are you alright, darling? Molly asks her, and she nods, eyes wide. Silly, silly girl, she sobs. A diary that wrote back! We taught you better, Ginevra.
And Tom’s voice echoes through the pillars of bone, canals of flesh, through the most intimate channels of her mind, the ones that even he so far hasn’t managed to touch: and I, savage with satisfaction, will teach you best.
They tote her away, holding her hand. Smoothing her hair like she’s precious. She’s silent all the way home.
They think the monster is dead and dust, they think the hero slew the dragon like he was meant to. She isn’t the silly one, here.
The monster is inside the damsel, now. The monster has learnt its place. The monster calls the damsel darling… ]
She doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t touch it, not even in her mind. It’s been so long, she’s reasoned, surely it was a frightened girl’s imagination.
Only it isn’t, because Harry is here. Where did it all go, Ginny?)
“You’re not,” Ginny says, “Putting me through a Pensieve.”
“No,” Harry says, easily, “I’m not.” He extracts a device from his pocket, a silvery thing that looks a bit like the Deluminator. “Hermione’s invention. Bit like a Pensieve, but different. You don’t have to think of a specific event- it’s a touchstone, sifts through different memories.” A pause. “I’m not here for you, Gin,” He says, gently. “I’m here for him.”
He puts the device - Dememini - to her head, and it feels cold and ugly against her temple. A flicker of magic, and then an image forms in the air, an oscillating frame of light not unlike one of Tony’s holograms.
Harry’s eyes burn. “Tom Riddle,” He says, clearly, and her memories subsume her. With the Dememini at her skull, they’re sharper, richer, consuming. They flicker on the projection, clearly visible. She dives into them…
She’s a first year, small and scarlet-haired. Curled on a bench, Hogwarts students milling around her. Dear Tom….
She’s walking, diary clutched to her chest. Someone bumps her shoulder, hard, and she turns to see Harry, green eyes and messy hair. He’s tall for a second-year. Her breath catches in her throat. “Sorry, Ginny,” He says, absently, and moves on. She can’t move, paralyzed by desire and delight.
A group of girls snicker by her, a thicket of hissing whispers…. She bends her head, flushing. Her eyes are hot. Dear Tom, she writes, sometimes I think I hate Penelope Clearwater. Can you help me?
She dreams of him. Icy and gray-eyed, a shining forelock curling over his pale forehead. He’s so beautiful. He would never look at her. She holds the image of Harry in her mind, flushed and warm and alive, and tries not to want him.
She cannot move her body, because someone else is doing it for her. Those are her hands, pale and pristine, reaching to close around a rooster’s throat. Inside she is screaming. Outside, she is cutting the rooster open, and watching as the blood drains into the bucket. Drip. Drip.
“Tom,” She weeps, “Please.” His eyes say nothing. He is unmoved. He does not even bother looking at her. Shaking, she drags a hand, wet with blood, and writes her own death on the wall: HER SKELETON WILL LIE IN THE CHAMBER FOREVER.
“No,” Harry says, eyes sympathetic. “No, we don’t have time to look at that… Ginny. Remember: Infinity Stones.”
Infinity Stones. The word ricochets through her mind. Suddenly, she is Tom Riddle.
A witch in Nepal. Her sagging face split by a grin. “He is coming for us all, wanderer. Nothing you do will matter.” This enrages him, and he lifts a hand. She falls.
The scarlet-haired witch, gullible and young. Desperately vulnerable. He cards a hand through Ginevra Weasley’s hair. “Have I told you the story of the Stones?” She shakes her head. Ever so eager. “Once upon a time…”
Gauntlet-
Destruction-
A Time Turner, oscillating in the low light. Sand spills from its cracked halves.
Ginny. Remember.
She snaps her eyes open, and it’s blinding, like she’s had sunglasses over her eyes her whole life, and she’s finally looking into the light.
Tom’s memories, the horrible ghost of him, the thing that kept her running all these years… she has looked into his heart, and he is hers.
She owns him, now.
“Got it.”
There isn’t time to explain anything to Tony. There isn’t time to explain anything to Harry, either. She is Ginny Weasley and Pepper Potts and she knows what to do.
She Apparates, thinking of Hermione, and pops to life in front of her. Brown eyes, riotous curls, a pair of glasses- those are new. “He’s going to kill half the universe,” Ginny says by way of greeting, “But. You knew that already, didn’t you?”
Hermione smiles, which is- not the appropriate reaction to hearing such a thing, honestly. “It’s good to have you back.”
“We need a modified Time Turner,” Ginny says, crossing her ankles. “One that can take us into the future.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“It will be,” Ginny says, raising a brow. “If the Department of Mysteries dedicates their resources to it. Are you game?”
“I’m the Head of the bloody DoM,” Hermione sighs. “Of course I'm game. When do we start?
They start now.
It takes seven months. In the end, it is Ginny who loops the Time Turner around her neck and spins.
She lands on a battlefield. Bodies strewn on the ground, the air foggy with smog and dust. A giant, enormous and - ugh, the color of a grape? Really? - monstrous, has a gauntlet on his hand, glistening with the Stones.
She sees Tony - future Tony - resplendent in one of his iron suits, fighting. There’s a figure beside him, slender and agile in red and blue. Silvery arachnid-legs claw from his back like wings.
Tony glances at her. She sees the moment he registers her. He kills one of the troll-lookalikes and flies to her, an arm around the spidery boy’s waist.
“Hey, Pep,” Tony says, and the faceplate retracts. His face is streaked with blood. “Been a while.”
“Not for me,” She says, wryly. “We had brunch a week ago.” She nods to the red-and-blue boy. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
“This is Spider-Man,” Tony waves a negligent hand, “Crime fighting spider boy, Queens native, YouTube sensation.”
He slides off his mask, too, unveiling a head of brown curls. “Hello, Ms. Potts,” He says, awkwardly. “Mr. Stark said you’re from the past?”
“I am,” She confirms. “How did he know?”
“You told me,” Tony says, absentmindedly killing a large troll with a repulsor blast. “Years ago.” His eyes are dark, grieving.
“He killed me, didn’t he,” Pepper Potts says, reaching out and cupping his face. “With the Stones.”
Tony says nothing. It is answer enough. She turns to the spider boy. “Sorry, I interrupted you before you could introduce yourself. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Peter Parker,” He says, fiddling with his hands.
“Hey, Peter Parker,” Pepper says, gently.
“I- sorry, this is so weird, I’m sorry,” He says in a rush, flushing. “It’s just, I’ve met you before.”
“Ah, that’s in the future for me,” Pepper says, smiling. “Alright. Stay safe, boys. I’ve got a purple giant to mess with.”
“Love you,” Tony says, barely audible. She kisses his cheek, and then Peter’s, for good measure.
Her eyes fall on Thanos, and her wand snaps to her hand.
It’s so simple, in the end.
“Accio,” She calls, and Tom is in her movements, the gathering of bluish vein at her wrists, the capillaries under her skin. His lessons. They will underestimate you. You will win.
The Gauntlet flies from his hand.
The way it feels on her hand is indescribable. Sleek, bristling with power she cannot even begin to fathom. The will it takes to control herself is enormous.
(Because there is a brink, one that she is trembling on. If she lets herself fall she will be torn apart, and she will tear the world apart in turn. She is tense with anticipation, like the period before a sneeze…)
She tosses her hair back. It snaps, a red flag of war in the wind.
He is lumbering towards her, mad and enraged, an enormous hand reaching out-
Pepper Potts smiles. Ginny Weasley snaps her fingers.
When Thanos topples and the world surges with life, she fingers the Time Turner on her neck, and spins.
“How was it?” Hermione gasps, eyes wide.
Ginny aches, but she has won. “I’m going to die,” She says, smiling. “In a few years. But don’t worry, I reversed it.”
“So…” Hermione prompts.
“Thanos is dead,” Pepper grins. “Or at least, in the future, he will be.” She, suddenly, is desperately hungry. What she would give for a Cauldron Cake… “We won.”
“Oh, good.” Hermione sighs, relieved. “Thank Merlin. I mean, we could have sent you back, but having two versions of yourself running around in the future would no doubt be awful.”
“Don’t know why you’d say that,” Ginny grins. “I’m a fucking delight.” She hops off the table. “Can you call Tony for me? I’m craving pancakes. We’ll do brunch.”
“Fuck off, Gin, you know I need to write notes,” Hermione says, crossly. “Ugh.”
“Fiiiine, I’ll call him,” Ginny sighs. She wiggles her fingers. “See you in an hour or so. At that Muggle brunch place we went to last Saturday, yeah?”
Hermione doesn’t reply, absorbed in her notes.
Ginny Apparates to Muggle London, and then to New York. She’s always been good at long distance, and having possessed the Space Stone, even if it was only for a few seconds, had only helped.
Tony picks up on the first ring. “What is it, Pep?”
“Brunch, Norma’s. Eleven o’clock?” Pepper requests.
He sighs, fond. “Done. What’s the occasion?”
“I’ll tell you over pancakes,” Pepper says. She’ll have to tell him before she dies that she’s coming back, that she’ll be traveling to the future and fixing it. “Also, have you been in Queens recently?”
“Why would I ever go to Queens?”
“Check YouTube,” Pepper tells him. “Anyway. See you in an hour.”
The pancakes are really fucking good.