"The mark 1 had a flamethrower."
Tony looks up at Coulson, who is standing, hands folded, watching him work . He looks rather as if he might stand there forever.
"It did." Tony replies, returning his attention to the plans for the Mark VIII. There's a matte coating he wants to try, if he can get the compounds right.
"None of the rest do."
"Logistics." The plans orbit, blue light tracing a cage around the workshop. "Fuel transportation, that kind of thing." Tony waves a hand, and a flock of holographic particles follow it. "Flamethrowers aren't really my thing, anyway. Not enough style."
Coulson raises his eyebrows. "I should have realised. Forgive me."
Tony gives him a sideways look. Coulson couldn't know about the homemade flamethrower incident, could he? No photographs of a twelve year old, eyebrow-less Tony existed, but SHIELD was pretty spooky....
(It was the only time his father had run to him- the whump of heated air still lingering in his ears, and the strong stink of burning hair that smelled, weirdly, like triumph. It was the first properly destructive thing Tony had ever made)
He dismisses the thought. It's perfectly natural to be a little wary of fire. There didn't need to be any fancy reasons for it.