Cinnamon Hearts
Her name is Pepper, and it suits her, but she still tastes like cinnamon.
He had first noticed it in her apartment, but of course his mind was elsewhere at the time. In the beginning it never really entered his consciousness, too distracted by the million of other things that represented her in one way or the other. However in retrospect it was truly an odd thing to have just lying about on one's bedside table. Although when all he saw was Pepper and Pepper's bed, it no longer became of any importance.
In some ways she's more suited to cinnamon then pepper, but she also probably wouldn't appreciate being compared to a spice, so he doesn't think too much of it. Anyway, 'Cinnamon' is a name usually reserved for strippers, and as much as he'd like to dwell on that particular train of thought, he just can't think of her in those terms. Not like one of the women of his past.
For the longest time she refused to sleep at his house, in that bed where he used to bring his most recent conquest. He laughed at her, listing off the impracticalities of moving back and forth from her place and his. But in truth he didn't mind, he enjoyed relaxing in her home, the place that truly unquestionably defined who she was. Nestled in that quiet shell they both shared, where she would refrain from business talk and he could feel his aching body heal in her presence.
When she finally found it easier to stay over at the mansion and sleep in his bed after realizing that he wouldn't leave the following morning, she began to bring her world into his. She arrived at work on a Monday morning, stopping into his bedroom with a small suitcase of essentials and a tiny dark-green porcelain bowl that she didn't even bother to explain. She merely opened a drawer and set up a small space for her clothes, the bowl already carefully placed on the bedside table beside where she would sleep. She always slept on the right, so did he, but he was willing to change for her if it meant she would stay.
The bowl was filled to the brim with ridiculously delicate cinnamon hearts, a small mountain of sugar and spice. He didn't even think that people actually sold this candy anymore. It was one of those timeless things, he later supposed, that no one genuinely liked enough to eat on a continuous basis, but still kept around for traditions sake.
The small hearts were a vibrant red, a deep hot-rod red. They fell in circular webs; spherical rings entwining themselves into a winding pearl-like necklace, provoking small curved shadows upon the ones below. He commented on them once, as a teasing comment, but the secretive smile she gave him in response showed no hint of playfulness or any inclination to answer. She would tell him one day, he was sure, but he wondered if he wanted her to give up her last remaining secret.
He never cared much for cinnamon hearts growing up as a child, vaguely remembering long suffering hours when Valentines Day was forced upon them and suddenly they were everywhere. 'They' being candy hearts and the dozens of prepubescent girls of the Anthony Stark fan club in the private school he had attended. He never had a taste for it either, too bitter or spicy or something. He could think of a hundred brands of better-tasting candy that he'd rather eat, but whatever, Pepper likes it, after all it takes all kinds.
He'll find himself staring at the bowl in an empty silence while she's changing and he's just lying there, trying to comprehend it. She never touches it in the daytime.
It'll be deep in the night, when he convinced himself that she was sleeping, when all of a sudden he'll feel her roll over and reach for the bowl, thieving a single piece, the imperceptible ticking noises of collapsing hearts deafening in the quiet of the night. He hears her sucking on a cinnamon heart, its hard shell clicking against her teeth. Within minutes she's asleep. He always gets a hard-on, an uncontrollable heat raging through him, but despite the fact that she's awake for those brief minutes, he wouldn't dare disturb her. It would be like disrupting a moment of great reverence, and he knew he had to at least give her that one bit of time to herself. He finds it funny, sometimes, that such a reserved and professional woman has this delectable routine, this nightly occurrence that sets her apart from the perspectives that publically define her.
Two days after she moved into his bedroom he came to understand that he doesn't ever want her to go back to her apartment for a change of clothes again. He dreams that his lonely mansion is also her home, and with a shudder he realizes he's one of those jackasses who wants to be married and have babies that look exactly like their parents.
He found the ring four days after she moved into his bedroom, an old relic of his mother's that he had tossed aside and had at once disregarded. But he had disregarded many beautiful things back then. Even Jarvis showed some surprise at the sight of Tony Stark, who once claimed that he wasn't nostalgic, avidly and desperately digging through old family boxes in the attic until he found his prize.
He had placed the ring at the very bottom of the green bowl, offhandedly concerned about the effects of candy coming in contact with white gold. He sat back on the bed and let out a sigh, clasping his hands together and staring at it in mild trepidation. He heard her heeled footsteps in the hallway and sprung to his feet, pretending to look for a lost sock.
It wasn't how he intended to propose. Of course before he never had any intention of proposing to anyone, but the minute Pepper began to share his bed it seemed like the natural forward thing to do. However, despite the fact that making her his wife seemed to be the only right thing to do, he had unusually high qualms about the actual act of popping the question. He briefly thought about taking her to a basketball game and proposing on the big giant screen, but he later came to realize the only reasons he wanted to do this was A) so he could enjoy the variety of possible mortified expressions on her face, and B) revel in the mere fact that he was able to drag her off to a basketball game in the first place. He also wasn't the type of guy to bend down on one knee in a public square, after all he still had a reputation to maintain.
He often wondered why he placed the ring where he did, if there was any underlying symbolizing behind his logic. Obviously it was too soon to propose, but he couldn't let it burn a hole in his pocket either. His reasoning was this: there was at least 50 hearts in that bowl, she ate at least one a night, he might covertly refill it if he got too nervous, and all that was left was a great solution for a semi-romantic proposal where he didn't have to embarrass himself and enough time to make her want to say yes before she reached the bottom.
However it seemed right that the ring was placed at the very bottom, as though to let her know he would always be waiting. Or sometimes he wonders if its like a subconscious inside joke for him, you know, like 'pickings at the bottom of the barrel", or something. It's no great secret that she could do so much better then him.
He was nervous though, fuck he was sweating bullets some nights, worrying that she'll reach the end while he still hasn't fully wooed her or whatever and she'll get freaked out and move back to her home an hours drive away. He couldn't deal with an empty bed after that.
As a result he began to get less and less sleep every night, usually resulting in moments of waking up underneath his car with an adjustable wrench still in one hand and a shitload of engine grease drenching his clothes. When the sun sinks down into the mouth of a dying day, his body would reawaken as the witching hour descended. She would comment the next day about the bags under his eyes, and his tired gait, and he won't tell her why because he knew she wouldn't put with it any longer and the hearts would disappear altogether.
He needed to see for himself, when she picks up that ring for the first time so he can see her initial reaction, whether it is astonishment or, well, that fun freaked-out expression that's really quite common with her these days after he announced the whole Ironman shtick. This is so he can come up with two appropriate responses, A) hopefully where she'll love it and he'll love it and it turns into a fucking fairytale, or B) where if she's disgusted he'll instantly laugh it off and say it's a joke and somehow pass it off as some junior high promise ring.
Yep, he's got it all worked out. Now he just has to stay awake long enough for her to eat a cinnamon heart and go back to sleep.
Sometimes if he wakes up early enough he can catch the sunrise, the vibrant war-paint of red seeping into the bedroom like a filtered curtain, drenching the soft contours of her face in an amber luminescence. This particular morning was no different, other then the fact that he slept through most of the night. Meaning he missed his chance to catch her in the act. He briefly groans in his pillow before rubbing his eyes and lifts his body upwards, cautiously angling himself to avoid disturbing his partner.
Yet again he found his gaze drifting over to the bowl, trying to decipher whether or not the hearts had been disturbed overnight. He scrunched his eyebrows together as he wondered what the appeal was. He carefully leant over her and peered over it. Their hard, globular shells glinted laughingly against the blue glow of his arc reactor, collapsing together as he plucked one from its roots. He tossed it into his mouth, grazing his tongue against the smooth surface before gliding it to his anticipating tooth. He bit into it, and felt the sharp taste invade his senses. He cringed, the spicy tang burning on his tongue.
As he swallowed he propped himself of an elbow to gaze upon her sleeping face with a still intensity that he had never shown anyone. He smoothes an angry crease in her forehead away, his thumb lingering longer then necessary. Her eyelashes, usually hidden behind a streak of black mascara, are carrot orange.
He ran an absent finger up and down the curve of her arm, the molecules of his hand gently lifting the invisible hairs of her smooth skin. He strokes her skin until he reaches her hand, where he becomes distracted by the familiar sensation of cold metal. His head sharply turns south as his heart began to race.
In her open palm lay a single cinnamon heart, the roundness of its glinting belly reposed in stark contrast to her slender hand, her fingers slightly curved in protective stance. His eyes traveled from the candy down alongside the length of her finger, his ring curved upon her golden skin.
There grew a feeling inside of him, one of such delectable happiness, as though a sob or a shudder was being restrained with every ounce of willpower in his body.
He slid his hand over hers, mentally calculating the space of distance from where her fingers end and his continue, playing with the ring with an absent thumb.
The sun peeks through and sets her strawberry hair ablaze. The amber hue of the sky darkens as the belly of the sun bursts, a sheer curtain of simmering red stealing upon her face, illuminating her. Her hair spreads out in a flaming wreath upon the pillow, and he feels her breath upon his face as she exhales. He stares, broken, for a long second, his chest tightening as a small smile escapes her tired form, her eyes blinking in sleepy confusion. He never noticed before that her eye color was that of a Blue Carolina wren.
He tenses, and for the first time he feels that if he steps out of his body he will break, as only a man in love can.
She shyly uses her free hand to lift the sheet to cover her mouth, a muffled "hi" escaping her as she realizes she needs to brush her teeth.
She was stunning, and he felt like an idiot, and he didn't deserve her, but for a man who had already been to hell he knows without her that's exactly where he would end up.
He pulls the sheet from over her mouth slowly and almost seductively, or it would be if it weren't for the intensity in his eyes and the strangled expression on his face, revealing the red plumpness of her lips. Red and round, suddenly he appreciated Cinnamon Hearts a lot more.
"So you wanna get hitched or what?" He flashed that crooked grin of his, the well-preserved Stark charm trying to mask the catch in his voice. Just because he's a softie now doesn't mean he's any more comfortable with it.
Her mouth curves upwards softly, her eyes twinkling with silent laughter.
"Thought you'd never ask."
She doesn't even finish before he leans in, kissing her hard in the red heat of the morning, the tang of cinnamon dissolving on both their tongues.
The heart slips from her palm and lies on the sheets, forgotten.
Kinda hoaky, I know, but give a girl a break. You may have noticed I have a problem with past/present tenses and how I'm always mixing them up. I'm working on it, lol. It's a weakness of mine. I'm considering getting a beta, but I'm just way too impatient to upload it. I'll probably re-upload an edited version later on. This story is based on the song 'Cinnamon Hearts' By Christian Hansen.
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