A/N: Don't know where this came from, guys. Space? Lol. Enjoy!
XOXO, Helix.
Disclaimer: I don't own Iron Man. Or Party City.
Tony regards her-all contemplative, dark eyes, and haziness. Only just a little hazy.
"I gotta say, it's hard to get a read on you. Where are you from?"
A brow rises-the movement is deliberately faint, and sculpted russet lifts up just there-but there's zero eye contact between them. "Legal."
Lies!
Alarm bells go off in Tony's head. He looks away and swallows, and suddenly feels nervous. Suspicious.
And he asks her a stupid, philosophical and uncomfortably symbolic question, but in the other three-quarters of his brain (the brain he knows is very much MENSA-qualified and awesome) he's occupied with filtering through her single, airtight, bullcrap response. There are no thoughts of a previous industrious company or an unsuspecting hometown-
Because he, personally, is thinking along the lines of-maybe-a different planet altogether.
Jupiter seems fitting, Tony muses. That's as close to a cheetah-printed planet as he can think of. Because, man, judging from the way she wore the pattern all the time, it must've been a serious fad amongst her fellow green men.
Was there a version of patriotism on a planetary scale?
Her reply, though, has always been Legal, when he asks. She's very firm on that. If she is from Jupiter, she comes off as very studiously human. Nigh on, bordering on, the severest form of dedication. If dedication to a cause was a competitive matter, she'd beat him.
Unwaveringly. Unearthly.
Whether she's from Legal or not, even then he knows, before it all, that it's a smooth grey silk, vodka-flavored, cheetah-printed lie.
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