(no subject)
Fandom: Iron Man (movieverse)
Pairing: Tony/Pepper
Rating: PG
Summary: Pepper makes sandwiches.
"Well, this is the problem," Tony said, collapsing onto the sofa. "You don’t like parties." He tugged at his tie.
"I like parties," she said defensively. "I just don't necessarily always want to talk to everyone at them."
"But you’re good at talking. You're an impressive talker. Personally, I enjoy just listening to you. You have, kind of, melodic cadences. I can't get this -- god damn thing -- ow."
"Here, just -- let me." She crouched next to him and started to undo the tie. Their faces were too close; she could smell his aftershave and the scotch on his breath. She stared determinedly at the fine weave of his shirt, the triangle of shadow cast by his collar. "Don't squirm."
"I'm not. Don't futz."
"I'm not." The silk was slipping the knot easily; as she pulled it free her fingers grazed, briefly, against the warm skin of his throat. She swallowed hard and stood. "There."
"You're a lifesaver, Potts." He exhaled gratefully. "Can you get me something? Some food or something? Do you make grilled cheese?"
"I really don't cook," Pepper protested. She had his tie crushed up in her fist, she realized; she tucked it hastily into her skirt, glad she'd worn something with pockets.
"Now, wait. Have you seen my cookware?" Tony countered. "I have cookware made of copper. Just like -- guess who else? -- that's right: Martha Stewart. Everything you cook in that stuff turns to cuisine, Potts, mi amor. Hey, and additionally, your name is practically a culinary degree. I don't know why we haven't discussed this before."
"Can't Jarvis handle it?" but she moved to the fridge anyway, just to have something to do with her hands. In school, before she'd realized she needed to focus on something more practical, like accounting, she'd nearly written her thesis on Betty Friedan. And yet here she was. She brushed the hair out of her face, reached for cheese and bread, a cutting board and a knife.
"Jarvis never gets the cheese right," Tony said, gesturing dismissively.
" 'Good burnt' and 'bad burnt' are insufficient descriptors," came Jarvis’s voice from the door panel, sounding pained.
"See?" Tony said, reasonably, and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Do you know how to play Go Fish?"
This was what passed for normal. It was normal. It was. They worked together, he was her boss, and he loved putting people off-balance; it was part of his charm. It was hardly specific to her.
"Everyone knows how to play Go Fish," she said lightly. "Do you want this sandwich or what? I already sliced all this cheese, so."
"Of course, yes, I want the sandwich. I want the sandwich and the card game, because this is America, where I get to have both." He picked up the Slinky on the coffee table and toyed with it, piling it from hand to hand. "But seriously, I have to ask you something important. Wait. First. When was the last time you went on a date?"
She had a special laugh for when Tony said things like this. She liked to think it is sort of a humoring laugh, but also a slightly superior one.
"Oh, ho, ho," Tony said, in an uncanny if cruel imitation. "I'm on to you."
"I don't have time to date," she said, stung. "As you know perfectly well."
"That is -- come on, that is so spurious. You have time. I give you time. There’s that guy, whosface. Short Stack. You know, with the little glasses."
"That's your attorney," Pepper said, exasperated. "I have many late-night meetings with him so you can stay out of prison." She hoisted a heavy-bottomed skillet down from the ceiling rack and clanged it onto the stove, smeared in a knob of butter, clicked on the burner.
"Oh. Good, cause you're totally out of his league." He placed the Slinky back on the table, delicately, like an artifact. "But that, actually, was not my real question. My question was this: do you ever leave those shoes on? I mean, just the shoes?"
It was as a switch had been flipped: the air was suddenly charged and strange. She looked up involuntarily and saw how intensely he was watching her, his eyes half-lidded and very dark.
The butter spat and sizzled. Sandwiches! Thank God for sandwiches. She looked away, dropped them into the pan and said, striving hard to sound flippant, "Actually, yes, as a matter of fact I never take them off. I sleep in these shoes."
"That may have been, even for me, possibly slightly over the line," Tony said, and he actually did sound a little astonished.
"You have a line?"
"Not really, no," Tony admitted. "It's just, because they’re very, uh, alluring, the shoes, and you have these completely spectacular legs; it would be a really outstanding idea. I bet you don't even know you have these three freckles just behind your knee. On the left. They look like this." He splayed out three fingers in a triangle, a mutant peace sign.
"Oh," Pepper said, stupidly. She touched her hair, her earrings.
"You probably never have cause to look closely. I do, so now you know. You're welcome. Here's another thing I bet you don’t know," Tony said nonchalantly, "more people are killed, yearly, by coconuts than by sharks. They fall on them. The coconuts, I mean, on the people."
"These are Louboutins," she said, recovering a little. "In case you ever want to buy me a pair."
"Didn't I buy you this one?"
"They're rented. I called in a favor with Kennedy." She flipped the sandwiches and moved behind the kitchen island to slip the damn things off. The tiles were warmed, one of the thousand tiny luxuries that still, sometimes, took her by surprise. She kept her shoes on in the house, nearly always -- always when she knew he was around. Anything else would have seemed, somehow, overly familiar. It would have felt intimate and dangerous; like the women she found in the morning, pleased and self-conscious in his t-shirts. They were always barefoot, and noticing it always made her feel peculiar.
On the other hand, she'd never realized that keeping her shoes on could actually, under the right circumstances, be more inappropriate.
"Are you taking them off?" Tony said from the couch. "You are, aren’t you?"
She risked a glance at him: supine in his undershirt, his arms folded behind his head, shirt wadded up on the carpet.
"You're all flustered, Miss Potts," he said, lifting an eyebrow.
"My feet hurt," Pepper said acidly. This was routine. "Try making four hours of small talk with kitchen knives tied to your feet. See how long you last."
"They didn't hurt before. And your ears are pink," Tony pointed out.
"That's just my complexion," said Pepper, retrieving a plate from the cabinet and scooping the sandwiches onto it. "It's peaches-and-cream."
"It's peaches-and-flustered, Peaches," said Tony. He smiled lazily at her.
"Sandwiches," Pepper said, padding over to deposit them in front of him.
"Oh, my God," said Tony, struggling up onto his elbows. "Yes. A thousand times, yes." He stuffed one into his mouth and his face went almost religious.
"I hope they're up to your exacting standards. I'm going to bed." She rubbed one foot surreptitiously against the luxurious carpet.
"You're not going to eat yours?" said Tony, through a mouthful. He swallowed. “But look how golden you got them. That's good burnt, Jarvis, take note. Is this because of the thing I said? About, you know, your legs?"
"It's because I'm tired," said Pepper. "The sexual harassment -- which, by the way, verges on actionable, keep that in mind with your next assistant -- I don't even notice it anymore. Water off a duck's back."
"I don't plan to have another assistant," Tony said. He touched her bare knee, just for an instant: his fingertips were greasy with cheese and crumbs, and she shivered. "Pepper. If you ask me to stop, you know--"
She thought about it. If he stopped, she wouldn't have to think about it so much. She wouldn't have to dance this line with him. She wouldn't have to wonder what she was doing.
But all she said was, "Duck's back, Mr. Stark. Goodnight."
He sighed. "You're leaving the dishes? Totally irresponsible. I'm not gonna clean it up, I'm not gonna let the maids clean it up, you're going to find it here in the morning and boy, will you feel bad. What about our card game?"
She bent down, picked up her shoes. "You can play Solitaire. Try not to fall asleep there; you'll feel better if you make it to the bedroom."
"If I had a nickel for every time someone told me that," said Tony. "Goodnight, Miss Potts."
"Goodnight, Mr. Stark," said Pepper.
In her room she undressed slowly, dropping her earrings on the vanity, draping her shirt over a chair. As she stepped out of her skirt the bright flash of material caught her eye: his tie, still crumpled in her pocket. She picked it up, ran it absently through her fingers, the silk soft as water in her hands.
Pairing: Tony/Pepper
Rating: PG
Summary: Pepper makes sandwiches.
"Well, this is the problem," Tony said, collapsing onto the sofa. "You don’t like parties." He tugged at his tie.
"I like parties," she said defensively. "I just don't necessarily always want to talk to everyone at them."
"But you’re good at talking. You're an impressive talker. Personally, I enjoy just listening to you. You have, kind of, melodic cadences. I can't get this -- god damn thing -- ow."
"Here, just -- let me." She crouched next to him and started to undo the tie. Their faces were too close; she could smell his aftershave and the scotch on his breath. She stared determinedly at the fine weave of his shirt, the triangle of shadow cast by his collar. "Don't squirm."
"I'm not. Don't futz."
"I'm not." The silk was slipping the knot easily; as she pulled it free her fingers grazed, briefly, against the warm skin of his throat. She swallowed hard and stood. "There."
"You're a lifesaver, Potts." He exhaled gratefully. "Can you get me something? Some food or something? Do you make grilled cheese?"
"I really don't cook," Pepper protested. She had his tie crushed up in her fist, she realized; she tucked it hastily into her skirt, glad she'd worn something with pockets.
"Now, wait. Have you seen my cookware?" Tony countered. "I have cookware made of copper. Just like -- guess who else? -- that's right: Martha Stewart. Everything you cook in that stuff turns to cuisine, Potts, mi amor. Hey, and additionally, your name is practically a culinary degree. I don't know why we haven't discussed this before."
"Can't Jarvis handle it?" but she moved to the fridge anyway, just to have something to do with her hands. In school, before she'd realized she needed to focus on something more practical, like accounting, she'd nearly written her thesis on Betty Friedan. And yet here she was. She brushed the hair out of her face, reached for cheese and bread, a cutting board and a knife.
"Jarvis never gets the cheese right," Tony said, gesturing dismissively.
" 'Good burnt' and 'bad burnt' are insufficient descriptors," came Jarvis’s voice from the door panel, sounding pained.
"See?" Tony said, reasonably, and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Do you know how to play Go Fish?"
This was what passed for normal. It was normal. It was. They worked together, he was her boss, and he loved putting people off-balance; it was part of his charm. It was hardly specific to her.
"Everyone knows how to play Go Fish," she said lightly. "Do you want this sandwich or what? I already sliced all this cheese, so."
"Of course, yes, I want the sandwich. I want the sandwich and the card game, because this is America, where I get to have both." He picked up the Slinky on the coffee table and toyed with it, piling it from hand to hand. "But seriously, I have to ask you something important. Wait. First. When was the last time you went on a date?"
She had a special laugh for when Tony said things like this. She liked to think it is sort of a humoring laugh, but also a slightly superior one.
"Oh, ho, ho," Tony said, in an uncanny if cruel imitation. "I'm on to you."
"I don't have time to date," she said, stung. "As you know perfectly well."
"That is -- come on, that is so spurious. You have time. I give you time. There’s that guy, whosface. Short Stack. You know, with the little glasses."
"That's your attorney," Pepper said, exasperated. "I have many late-night meetings with him so you can stay out of prison." She hoisted a heavy-bottomed skillet down from the ceiling rack and clanged it onto the stove, smeared in a knob of butter, clicked on the burner.
"Oh. Good, cause you're totally out of his league." He placed the Slinky back on the table, delicately, like an artifact. "But that, actually, was not my real question. My question was this: do you ever leave those shoes on? I mean, just the shoes?"
It was as a switch had been flipped: the air was suddenly charged and strange. She looked up involuntarily and saw how intensely he was watching her, his eyes half-lidded and very dark.
The butter spat and sizzled. Sandwiches! Thank God for sandwiches. She looked away, dropped them into the pan and said, striving hard to sound flippant, "Actually, yes, as a matter of fact I never take them off. I sleep in these shoes."
"That may have been, even for me, possibly slightly over the line," Tony said, and he actually did sound a little astonished.
"You have a line?"
"Not really, no," Tony admitted. "It's just, because they’re very, uh, alluring, the shoes, and you have these completely spectacular legs; it would be a really outstanding idea. I bet you don't even know you have these three freckles just behind your knee. On the left. They look like this." He splayed out three fingers in a triangle, a mutant peace sign.
"Oh," Pepper said, stupidly. She touched her hair, her earrings.
"You probably never have cause to look closely. I do, so now you know. You're welcome. Here's another thing I bet you don’t know," Tony said nonchalantly, "more people are killed, yearly, by coconuts than by sharks. They fall on them. The coconuts, I mean, on the people."
"These are Louboutins," she said, recovering a little. "In case you ever want to buy me a pair."
"Didn't I buy you this one?"
"They're rented. I called in a favor with Kennedy." She flipped the sandwiches and moved behind the kitchen island to slip the damn things off. The tiles were warmed, one of the thousand tiny luxuries that still, sometimes, took her by surprise. She kept her shoes on in the house, nearly always -- always when she knew he was around. Anything else would have seemed, somehow, overly familiar. It would have felt intimate and dangerous; like the women she found in the morning, pleased and self-conscious in his t-shirts. They were always barefoot, and noticing it always made her feel peculiar.
On the other hand, she'd never realized that keeping her shoes on could actually, under the right circumstances, be more inappropriate.
"Are you taking them off?" Tony said from the couch. "You are, aren’t you?"
She risked a glance at him: supine in his undershirt, his arms folded behind his head, shirt wadded up on the carpet.
"You're all flustered, Miss Potts," he said, lifting an eyebrow.
"My feet hurt," Pepper said acidly. This was routine. "Try making four hours of small talk with kitchen knives tied to your feet. See how long you last."
"They didn't hurt before. And your ears are pink," Tony pointed out.
"That's just my complexion," said Pepper, retrieving a plate from the cabinet and scooping the sandwiches onto it. "It's peaches-and-cream."
"It's peaches-and-flustered, Peaches," said Tony. He smiled lazily at her.
"Sandwiches," Pepper said, padding over to deposit them in front of him.
"Oh, my God," said Tony, struggling up onto his elbows. "Yes. A thousand times, yes." He stuffed one into his mouth and his face went almost religious.
"I hope they're up to your exacting standards. I'm going to bed." She rubbed one foot surreptitiously against the luxurious carpet.
"You're not going to eat yours?" said Tony, through a mouthful. He swallowed. “But look how golden you got them. That's good burnt, Jarvis, take note. Is this because of the thing I said? About, you know, your legs?"
"It's because I'm tired," said Pepper. "The sexual harassment -- which, by the way, verges on actionable, keep that in mind with your next assistant -- I don't even notice it anymore. Water off a duck's back."
"I don't plan to have another assistant," Tony said. He touched her bare knee, just for an instant: his fingertips were greasy with cheese and crumbs, and she shivered. "Pepper. If you ask me to stop, you know--"
She thought about it. If he stopped, she wouldn't have to think about it so much. She wouldn't have to dance this line with him. She wouldn't have to wonder what she was doing.
But all she said was, "Duck's back, Mr. Stark. Goodnight."
He sighed. "You're leaving the dishes? Totally irresponsible. I'm not gonna clean it up, I'm not gonna let the maids clean it up, you're going to find it here in the morning and boy, will you feel bad. What about our card game?"
She bent down, picked up her shoes. "You can play Solitaire. Try not to fall asleep there; you'll feel better if you make it to the bedroom."
"If I had a nickel for every time someone told me that," said Tony. "Goodnight, Miss Potts."
"Goodnight, Mr. Stark," said Pepper.
In her room she undressed slowly, dropping her earrings on the vanity, draping her shirt over a chair. As she stepped out of her skirt the bright flash of material caught her eye: his tie, still crumpled in her pocket. She picked it up, ran it absently through her fingers, the silk soft as water in her hands.