Forget the suit, it shears away from him and elegantly reassembles itself at the edge of the platform. Dressed down in monochromes- dark jeans, dark shirt, a charcoal grey zip up -he looks as unguarded as his expression, still lit as it is by uncertain shock– and something so close to devastation. Distant neutrality reasserts itself, a Hail Mary just to steady him against how fragile he feels.

"High Chancellor Stark." She knows who he is, of course, but not who he is, unknowingly identical to her husband solely in appearance, but not history. He can't easily hide how red his eyes might be, or the faint quaver of his voice as every inch of her suit relays to him what he's afraid to accept: "It's been a long time, Pepper."