Fic: Follows Down The Line(1/1)
Title: Follows Down The Line
Rating: PG
Character/Pairing: Tony Stark; background Tony/Pepper
Word Count: 852
Summary: Tony always knew his brains would come in handy, one day. For gottalovev, who requested “Tony Stark being Tony Stark, pwning someone with his glorious mind” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Iron Man 2 (2010).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Kid!fic is not usually my thing, but with Tony, I seem inclined toward it in a strangely consistent way. I hope you don’t mind it, and find this at least a little cute :)
Follows Down The Line
“Come on, s’right there in front of you!”
Tony frowns, uncertain, and -- dare he say it -- confused. He tilts his head one way, the other, tries to make heads or tails of whatever it is that’s happening right before his eyes.
“JARVIS,” he finally gives in, plays his trump card.
“My apologies, sir,” the voice resonates, and Tony’s scowling before he says another word; “but I’ve been instructed not to assist in this particular matter, on penalty of reprogramming.”
“You do remember who you work for, right?” Tony shoots back petulantly, like it matters, like it’s even a valid argument after all this time: the damn AI is immune to his threats.
“And you do remember who you married, I presume?” and there’s laughter in that mechanical voice that is echoed in reality by Tony’s challenger, who is still watching him curiously from across the table, waiting for him to solve the problem.
“Remind me to put Mrs. Potts-Stark in a time-out when she gets home, JARVIS,” and there’s more quiet laughter from his companion at that, and Tony -- he can’t help but smirk a little, adding with a wink: “We can’t have her stirring up dissent among the ranks.”
“Very good, sir,” comes the reply, but the tone tells Tony that JARVIS doesn’t plan to take heed.
Figures; his own technology is rebelling against him. Typical.
“Right,” Tony says, breathes deep and folds his hands, pyramids them and rests his chin on the tip as he stares down the puzzle, watches as figures and shapes emerge amongst the fray, characters of foreign tongues, trajectories, angles and symbols -- chaotic, disordered, and there’s no sense to it, there’s just no sense.
“D’ya give up?” comes the taunt from across the table, and Tony can admit it: he glares at the jibe, juvenile; fights the urge to do something really childish, like stick out his tongue -- but he can admit it, which means he’s growing as a person, or something.
He switches vantage points one more time, stands for an aerial view, leans in and takes it in from odd perspectives, tries to find context, find some clues as to where it starts and ends -- points of orientation to work from.
Nothing.
He rubs at his goatee, trying to buy himself some time, but his task-master calls him out on it -- usually does, he thinks with a smile.
“Can you really not see it?” And now, there’s disappointment in that tone, and Tony can’t really stomach that, no matter what the circumstances, no matter what it costs him to fix it.
He sighs, screws up his face in concentration, a little exaggerated, and plunges in.
“Well,” he starts, pulling it together on the fly -- he’s good at that. “I’m a little bit stumped, see.” He points to two adjacent corners, where odd loops of variant sizes spiral out and back inward toward the center.
“These might be leaves,” he starts, tests the waters, and course-corrects at the frown that starts to form in response; “but I’m thinking more... wings.” And there’s a smile, and a nod, encouraging, and he nods in return, scratching at his temple as he makes his way around the table, considering the specimen with careful deliberation.
“And this,” he ventures, pointing to a protrusion at the top, “I’m thinking... horn.”
The grin gets wider, and Tony’s knows he’s got it now.
“And because your birthday is in five whole days,” he says, watches those eyes get big, watches them shine with excitement, fondly. “And because I heard from your mother-”
“Who needs a time-out!” comes the bright reminder, and Tony laughs, just as warm.
“From your mother, who needs a time-out, that you’ve put a flying pink unicorn on the top of your wishlist-”
“After the purple bicycle and the Glee Karaoke game for my Wii!” Both of which Tony knows are stowed safe in the spare room where Pepper keeps her out-of-season shoes.
“And that you’ve sent out My Little Pony invitations to everyone in your dance class-”
“Except for Lucy Ryan, because she’s big meanie!”
“And your Daisy troop, and your homeroom class-”
“But only the girls!”
Tony stops behind her chair and puts his hands on her little shoulders and squeezes, leans down and says right by her ear: “Given all that, I’m going to guess that you, Miss Joanna Maria Stark, have painted a unicorn, with wings.”
And his baby girl -- she turns and beams at him like nothing else, and it glows warm in his chest like the arc never could.
“Good job, Daddy!” she tells him, so damn proud of his powers of deduction, and yeah: Tony knew his smarts would serve him well, one day.
Rating: PG
Character/Pairing: Tony Stark; background Tony/Pepper
Word Count: 852
Summary: Tony always knew his brains would come in handy, one day. For gottalovev, who requested “Tony Stark being Tony Stark, pwning someone with his glorious mind” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. Spoilers for Iron Man 2 (2010).
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: Kid!fic is not usually my thing, but with Tony, I seem inclined toward it in a strangely consistent way. I hope you don’t mind it, and find this at least a little cute :)
Follows Down The Line
“Come on, s’right there in front of you!”
Tony frowns, uncertain, and -- dare he say it -- confused. He tilts his head one way, the other, tries to make heads or tails of whatever it is that’s happening right before his eyes.
“JARVIS,” he finally gives in, plays his trump card.
“My apologies, sir,” the voice resonates, and Tony’s scowling before he says another word; “but I’ve been instructed not to assist in this particular matter, on penalty of reprogramming.”
“You do remember who you work for, right?” Tony shoots back petulantly, like it matters, like it’s even a valid argument after all this time: the damn AI is immune to his threats.
“And you do remember who you married, I presume?” and there’s laughter in that mechanical voice that is echoed in reality by Tony’s challenger, who is still watching him curiously from across the table, waiting for him to solve the problem.
“Remind me to put Mrs. Potts-Stark in a time-out when she gets home, JARVIS,” and there’s more quiet laughter from his companion at that, and Tony -- he can’t help but smirk a little, adding with a wink: “We can’t have her stirring up dissent among the ranks.”
“Very good, sir,” comes the reply, but the tone tells Tony that JARVIS doesn’t plan to take heed.
Figures; his own technology is rebelling against him. Typical.
“Right,” Tony says, breathes deep and folds his hands, pyramids them and rests his chin on the tip as he stares down the puzzle, watches as figures and shapes emerge amongst the fray, characters of foreign tongues, trajectories, angles and symbols -- chaotic, disordered, and there’s no sense to it, there’s just no sense.
“D’ya give up?” comes the taunt from across the table, and Tony can admit it: he glares at the jibe, juvenile; fights the urge to do something really childish, like stick out his tongue -- but he can admit it, which means he’s growing as a person, or something.
He switches vantage points one more time, stands for an aerial view, leans in and takes it in from odd perspectives, tries to find context, find some clues as to where it starts and ends -- points of orientation to work from.
Nothing.
He rubs at his goatee, trying to buy himself some time, but his task-master calls him out on it -- usually does, he thinks with a smile.
“Can you really not see it?” And now, there’s disappointment in that tone, and Tony can’t really stomach that, no matter what the circumstances, no matter what it costs him to fix it.
He sighs, screws up his face in concentration, a little exaggerated, and plunges in.
“Well,” he starts, pulling it together on the fly -- he’s good at that. “I’m a little bit stumped, see.” He points to two adjacent corners, where odd loops of variant sizes spiral out and back inward toward the center.
“These might be leaves,” he starts, tests the waters, and course-corrects at the frown that starts to form in response; “but I’m thinking more... wings.” And there’s a smile, and a nod, encouraging, and he nods in return, scratching at his temple as he makes his way around the table, considering the specimen with careful deliberation.
“And this,” he ventures, pointing to a protrusion at the top, “I’m thinking... horn.”
The grin gets wider, and Tony’s knows he’s got it now.
“And because your birthday is in five whole days,” he says, watches those eyes get big, watches them shine with excitement, fondly. “And because I heard from your mother-”
“Who needs a time-out!” comes the bright reminder, and Tony laughs, just as warm.
“From your mother, who needs a time-out, that you’ve put a flying pink unicorn on the top of your wishlist-”
“After the purple bicycle and the Glee Karaoke game for my Wii!” Both of which Tony knows are stowed safe in the spare room where Pepper keeps her out-of-season shoes.
“And that you’ve sent out My Little Pony invitations to everyone in your dance class-”
“Except for Lucy Ryan, because she’s big meanie!”
“And your Daisy troop, and your homeroom class-”
“But only the girls!”
Tony stops behind her chair and puts his hands on her little shoulders and squeezes, leans down and says right by her ear: “Given all that, I’m going to guess that you, Miss Joanna Maria Stark, have painted a unicorn, with wings.”
And his baby girl -- she turns and beams at him like nothing else, and it glows warm in his chest like the arc never could.
“Good job, Daddy!” she tells him, so damn proud of his powers of deduction, and yeah: Tony knew his smarts would serve him well, one day.