Of course the place looked good. The Tower was non-existent now, a symbol of something that hadn’t really worked, and he felt more at home in a compound, somehow, than he ever had living high above a city. Three floors and blue sky and grass-- It wasn’t Malibu but it was close enough and reminded him a little bit like being on Long Island. He nudged the glasses off of his face. His hair was different, Bruce’s. It was more close cropped, the curls tamed. He didn’t look much older though, and that was likely the Hulk’s doing. Tony felt a lot older himself, though. He was graying at the temples, though a little bit of color did the trick there to cover it, and as if to show off that he was indeed as Italian as they came (more or less), he kept the thickest part his hair as high on his head as possible, parted on the side and feathered up.

The 80s were back, after all, and Tony was nothing if not a man that embraced everything his teenage years had been.

The leather motorcycle jacket tossed carelessly over the seat by the door and some of his t-shirts lately proved just how in touch with the times he was. A futurist couldn’t be afraid of mucking around on the back end sometimes.

But for all of the attempt to hold onto his youth, the wrinkles around his eyes couldn’t be quite hidden as he smiled appreciatively at Bruce.

“Hungry? You’re looking scrawny. I’m ordering a pizza. FRIDAY?”

“The usual, Boss?”

“See, she knows me. Are you coming in or are you just going to loom in doorways? Is that your new shtick?”