24 7 365

by outtabreath

Tony and Pepper on a Date Night. Written for the "Could've Been in Venice" challenge on LiveJournal. They didn't quite make it all the way to Venice.

Written for the "Could've Been In Venice" challenge at the it's-always-been community on LiveJournal - a place for Tony/Pepper fic and media challenges. Come join and revel in the Pepperony goodness!

Thanks to my beta, miss steph, and spockside and teaoli, both of whom gave helpful input and support.

I don't own them because if I did I'd be rich enough to get the heck out of Snow England (aka New England).

I've never been to The Venetian - I did my research on their website and on Wikipedia. If there's anything glaring, please PM me! And sorry again for the lame breaks. FFN just doesn't like what I try to use.

~*~24/7/365 by outtabreath~*~

"How about this one?" Tony holds up a small piece of fabric that I'm pretty sure he thinks is a dress.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not kidding. Why do you think I'm kidding? You'd look hot in this."

I raise an eyebrow - a gesture I'd learned out of pure self-preservation the second week I worked for him - and grab a navy Hugo Boss dress from my suitcase. I hold it up.

"Potts, no! That's practically a muumuu."

"This is a perfectly appropriate and practical dress," I counter.

"Honey. Sweetheart. Light of my life. This is Vegas. Practical and appropriate are illegal here. I got you dresses - pick one, any one."

"Those," I say, pointing at the scraps of brightly colored material decorating our bed-for-the-night, "are not dresses. I have a suitcase full of dresses." I grab one up and wave it at him - bright blue and bought in a moment of chocolate-martini-and-Sex and the City: The Movie-fueled mania - to punctuate my point.

He takes a deep breath and pinches his nose, which is patently unfair because I'm not the difficult one here. "Potts, I'm hungry and we have reservations, so just take off your pants and put on something that shows off your legs. Please. You're gorgeous and I want to show you off a bit. And, before you say it, I don't want to show you off - I want to make every single person in this city insanely jealous of my incredible good fortune in bagg- winning you."

It's quite the speech.

And it works. My finely honed ability to ignore the fabled Stark Charm has been eroded by four months of what he so winningly refers to as a stableish relationship.

Of course, I'm not going to let him know it because a Tony Stark with information about how truly gone I am for him is a dangerous, dangerous thing.

Instead, I cock a hip and an eyebrow and say, "That's a first. Usually you stop with 'just take off your pants.'"

His eyes darken and for a minute I think we're going to be staying in tonight; then, in the next instant, he blinks and shakes his head. "Don't try that. I'm not falling for that. I have plans for tonight, Potts - an agenda with items - and only the last three of them have anything to do with sex."

I stare at him a moment. He's earnest and vibrating with pent-up energy.

"Okay," I concede, and change into the slightly naughty, very impractical, moderately inappropriate bright blue dress; he watches the process, making little appreciative noises that make me want to pounce on him.

But, we're in Las Vegas, in the Renaissance suite of The Venetian and Tony planned this trip and this night and I'm more than a little intrigued at what his agenda is comprised of.

Especially the last three items.

I take a deep breath, suppress all urges and smooth the dress over my legs."Ready?"

"God, Potts," he grins. "You're gorgeous. And slow. Of course I'm ready. I've been ready for hours." He offers me his arm; I wrap mine around it and smile up at him. I want to show him off a bit, too - definitely preen more than a little.

After all, he's not the only one who got lucky.

Vega$Vega$

The Venetian has twenty restaurants and, unsurprisingly, Tony steers us (me and him; the four silent and menacing bodyguards) right towards the most expensive one.

"Seafood?" I ask. "Not Italian?"

"The AquaKnox is the best," he responds. "And nothing but the best for my gi- wo- Pe- you. Nothing but the best for you, Pepper. Nothing but the best for Pepper."

"Your Pepper," I remind him gently; his answering smile makes the fact that he almost called me a girl fade to insignificance.

The maître d' is seemingly unaffected by the arrival of a superhero and his entourage in his restaurant; the waitress, however, who is young and pretty in a way that would've gotten her into Tony's bed before Afghanistan, flutters and bats her eyelashes at Tony. I grind my teeth together audibly.

Tony smiles - his best public smile - and waves her away with drink orders (scotch and soda with a side of water for him; wine for me).

Mollified, I slide my foot out of my shoe and over his. He jerks slightly in surprise before fastening melting eyes on me. "Naughty, Virginia," he says. He sounds absolutely delighted.

"I do try," I vow as I look down at the menu and keep sliding my foot up and over his, under the cuff of his stupendously expensive pants. "I'm getting the scallops."

"Pepper," Tony says, lowering his voice slowly and leaning across the table conspiratorially. "I'm rich. Get the lobster. I know you like it. Adore it. Crave it."

I lean forward and want to kiss him but, instead, I say, "Tony, I'm allergic to lobster."

He pales slightly then leans back. "See, I knew there was something about you and lobster. Progress right?"

"If you suggest I get strawberry shortcake for dinner," I say by way of response, "you're sleeping on the couch tonight."

"That's not on the agenda," he responds gravely, his eyes flickering over the menu. "I'm going to have the filet." He glances at me through brown eyelashes. "I can't have lobster breath later."

I lift my eyebrows and open my mouth to riposte when the girl returns with our drinks, two more buttons undone, and bright red lipstick.

I curl my toes against Tony's calf and he lowers his eyelids in response. "The lovely lady will have the scallops and I'll have the filet." His gaze does not waver from mine. "I'm going to need my iron for later."

I roll my eyes and ignore the huff from our waitress. Her heels click away from us and I ask, "What's going to happen later, Tony?"

"Wonderful things," he replies.

"But what?" I persist. I don't like surprises, exactly - there are too many variables, especially when Tony is involved. "What's next on the date night agenda?"

"Gondola ride," he grins. "You and me, gliding through the Vegas night."

I take a sip of my wine and nod. "How about gambling?" In all the years I've worked for Tony, I've never actually watched him at the tables. It's something I really want to see. The way his muscles flex as he bends over the table, arranging chips, throwing dice. The excitement when he wins - the flush of victory - the heat of the conquest.

I gulp and take a deeper sip of wine.

He frowns. "You don't like gambling."

"But you do."

"But this isn't about me, it's about you. And us. It's about us. Us time."

The wine is starting to hit my head and loosen my tongue. "I've never seen you gamble," I point out, "And I've heard it's quite the sight. Besides, I want to blow your dice."

He chokes slightly. "Blow on my dice, Potts. On them."

I wriggle my eyebrows and, somehow, I'm not so much as sipping my wine as glugging it. It's very good wine and it's been a very long year and my head deserves a little break.

"But yeah," he says, his eyes moving over me calculatingly. "I'd like that, too. Gondolas and gambling."

"Gambling and gondolas," I offer. "And then those final three agenda items."

"Ah, the highlight of the evening."

"Let's hope." I grin evilly and finish the glass of wine.

Vega$Vega$

Dinner was good and the wine excellent and my legs are working a little funny as Tony steers us towards the casino floor. Unerringly, he finds a craps table and sends Jeff-the-bodyguard off to get chips.

A crowd surrounds us - flashy (the men) and slutty (the women). Tony's working the crowd - joking and smiling; signing autographs on napkins - and I watch him with awe. He's so good at this - so relaxed and natural.

A waitress appears at my elbow and I order a watermelon martini (highly recommended by Cosmo) and Tony a water. By the time Jeff returns we're sipping away.

Tony takes the chips and piles them randomly across the table, then turns to me. "Blow, gorgeous," he instructs, sliding the dice to my lips. My free hand circles his and I very purposely pout, then blow. I can feel the shiver in his hand as my warm breath flows over his skin.

"Vixen," he grins as he rolls, eyes fixed on the dice as they bounce across the felt.

Watching Tony gamble is breathtaking: his ass - God, that ass - flexing and rocking as he bends and straightens; his arms - God, those arms - bunching as he rolls; his eyes - God, those eyes, those beautiful, beautiful eyes - glowing incandescently as he turns them on me.

He wins and kisses the watermelon right out of my mouth.

"I want to try." I put down my empty glass, grab the dice and look at the table. There's a mountain of chips piled in front of us and reality filters through for a moment - that's money - Tony's money - and probably lots and lots of it. I cannot believe this is my life.

"Do it," he whispers into my ear before moving the pile somewhere.

I swallow hard and hold the dice up to him. My eyes are on the table and I feel his breath on my fingers.

"Don't lose," he enjoins, but he's laughing, joking - because he doesn't really care. I pray and roll.

I'm not sure what happens next, but it must be pretty good because Tony is kissing me again and people are clapping.

When he's done - which is way too soon - Tony grabs the dice back from me. "I can't believe you just won more than I did," he observes, laughter and pride warring for prominence in his tone.

"Should've taken me to real Venice," I smile back.

He rests his left palm flat against the small of my back and presses. It feels insanely good. Ridiculously, ludicrously good considering we are both dressed, very much in public and he's got a pair of dice in his right hand.

"Vegas, baby," he murmurs into my ear, and the heat from his hand and the heat from his breath are racing towards each other and oh God why do I have to be in love with someone so delectable. "There is no substitute. Now, blow my dice." He winks, and I dig my nails into my palms so I don't dig my hands into his pants.

He rolls and loses and laughs then looks at me, his eyes molten. He leans close and whispers in my ear. "Okay, Potts, time to do your magic. Win lots of money so you can buy lots of sexy shoes to wear while I ravish you." He presses the dice back into my hands and wiggles his eyebrows at me.

A sudden image of Tony ravishing the hell out of me and the newest Manolo Kati-heeled gold stilettos fills my mind.

My knees go a little weak. I take a deep breath, a deep gulp of my magically refilled watermelon martini and roll again.

Vega$Vega$

I've won close to thirty grand and I'm doing what all of the high rollers do: Swirl and sip brandy and smoke a big, fat cigar.

So, cigars and brandy? Not too bad.

So, cigars and brandy in a private cabana at TAO Beach? Really not too bad.

So, cigars and brandy in a private cabana at TAO Beach with my delectable boyfriend? Actually kind of great.

Well, not the cigar part, but the brandy is spectacular and helps with the actual smoking-of-the-cigar process.

I smile and slide the think, pungent stick between my lips. Tony stares at me transfixed. I tighten my lips and suck.

Then cough. And cough. And cough.

"You don't need to smoke that, you know," he volunteers.

I stop sputtering and stare at him. "But you like it when I put things in my mouth."

His mouth slams shut and he slides next to me, plucks the cigar from my fingers and puts it out so he can lean in with intent. "That's very, very true, Potts. I have something to put in your mouth."

The kiss is exquisite and it makes my head spin more than it already was - maybe wine and martinis and brandy was a little too much - but then he pushes against me and everything ever is a good idea. I push back, trying to get him on his back on the narrow sofa.

"About those final three agenda items," I prompt, my hands moving unerringly to where he gets heavy and hard.

"Mmm…no!" He yelps and pushes back. "This is not a private place. The guys are right outside."

He's not wrong, but there are curtains and I'm wearing a dress and I could just unzip him. The crowd and the music outside would cover any noises. Besides, I can be very, very quiet.

Like a mouse.

"Says the man who was arrested for skinny-dipping in the Trevi Fountain," I point out as I pounce again.

"Charged but never convicted," Tony reminds me as he rolls out from under me and jumps to his feet. Like a cat. "We're not doing this here. This is not romantic."

For a long moment, my mind gets caught on the fact that cats like to eat mice and that it's been five days since we've had sex. Finally, his words filter through the very vivid pictures and images of what it is to be eaten up by Tony Stark.

I blink dumbly at him. Tony, the man whose idea of romance was once making sure that his one-night stand's clothes were dry cleaned before breakfast, is actually and truly standing in front of me, hands on his hips and lecturing me about being romantic.

"It'll be hot," I point out. "And that trumps romantic any day."

"No," he disagrees. "No, it doesn't. I have a plan, damn it, and we're following it. Gondolas first, making love second."

I goggle at him. I know that we make love - even when we're having sex, we're making love - I just didn't know he'd quite realized that.

"I can't believe you just said 'making love.'"

He rolls his eyes. "Potts, you know how I feel about you. I tell you all the time. Now, let's go."

I dig my hands into the couch cushion. "Let's stay here."

"No. I'm not having them," he tosses his head towards the curtain, "hear us. Gondola then our room." He holds his hands out beseechingly and I clasp them. He pulls me to my unsteady feet.

Seconds later, he's opening the very thin curtain and taking a deep, relieved breath of the night air. Jeff and his co-workers straighten and start clearing a path for our forward march.

Tony practically vaults through the crowd. Both of my hands are on one of his. We're halfway through when I can no longer ignore the fact that the music and the lights are hypnotic. I stop.

"What?" He peers back, confused and concerned. My heart stutters then picks up.

"Dance with me," I request, doing a sexy wiggle move.

"But the gondolas," he says weakly.

"Will be there," I promise. "And we'll ride in one, but first." I rub against him and nip his left earlobe. "You're the one who always wants to be spontaneous."

"But the agenda, Pepper."

"Fuck the agenda," I say, bumping myself against his hip.

He groans a little. "I cannot believe you just said that."

"It sucks, doesn't it?" I ask. "When someone messes up your carefully laid plans?"

He growls a little, his arm catching my waist and pulling me firmly against him. "Ignoring the fact that you just said laid to me in public, I want to state that this is fun, Pepper. I like this side of you. I love it."

"I love you."

"Backatcha," he says, moving him and moving me, letting the rhythm dictate.

Vega$Vega$

We last three songs before Tony is dragging me again, a wild look in his eyes and mumbling what I'm pretty sure is "gondola" over and over. My head is spinning so I go, stumbling and trying to remain upright.

The Venetian is packed and Tony is famous and I am very thankful for the bodyguards who insure that we will get where we want to go as quickly and efficiently as possible. I really want to get Tony's romantic plan out of the way so we can get to the sex.

There are lights and people and the constant ringing of the casino and endless carpet.

Then we are back outside, facing the Doge's Palace and Tony is handing me into a gondola and I realize that this is a very bad idea.

"Finally," he sighs as he slides in behind me and pulls me snugly between his legs. "We almost didn't make it here."

"That would've been okay," I say soothingly. My stomach flips.

"No," he says, his lips against my throat, "I know you want to go somewhere really nice - to real Venice or Paris - but my obligations get in the way of that. I just need you to know that I appreciate you, Pepper. That I am willing to try. I may not succeed, but I will try."

I crane my head back and look at him. My stomach flops and my heart rate speeds up. "I love you," I tell him.
"I love you, too," he says, and it's still new enough to make my toes curl and a smile break across my face.

He kisses me gently for a moment before releasing my mouth. I resettle and his lips move back to my neck. Above us, the gondolier starts to sing softly in Italian. This is really very nice even though my stomach has stopped flipping and flopping and has started roiling. I take a very deep breath and hold it. If I don't breathe out or open my mouth I'll be okay.

"So," Tony says, lips brushing under my ear. "Wanna hear one of the agenda items?"

I nod which makes my head go very swimmy. I breathe shallowly, once, and screw my eyes shut.

"That thing you did last Saturday? You get to do it again."

I make a humming noise because the waves of nausea are winning out over the waves of desire as I remember exactly what I did to him last Saturday. That had been a very good night.

Tony takes my noise as encouragement because he makes his own encouraging noise and squeezes his arms tight against me. Right across my stomach.

And then it all hits - the wine, the martinis, the brandy and cigars, the scallops, the swaying and rocking of the boat and the lights and the noises - and I lurch forward.

Tony laughs - he thinks I'm playing - and he pulls me back sharply.

I throw myself forward fiercely and vomit spectacularly all over his shiny black Hugo Boss oxfords and my pearl Louboutin open toed sling backs.

Vega$Vega$

I wake up to an obscene amount of sunlight and Tony. He is grinning, mischievously, unwholesomely and a lot. "Morning gorgeous."

I grunt at him and burrow under the covers.

"How are you feeling today?" he queries, pulling back the sheets.

"Like you felt every morning for the last decade," I say sharply and close my eyes against the light. It bleeds through anyway. I can't get the image of the poor, destroyed shoes out of my mind. I groan.

"You can buy more shoes," he says because he knows.

"Mine were last season's," I whine plaintively. "You can't get them anymore."

"You have a very rich and devoted boyfriend," he reminds me. "And you won a good amount of money at the tables last night. Buy new ones. Better ones."

I sigh heavily and look at him with a single eye. "I'm never drinking again."

"Probably a good plan."

"I'll be better behaved when we go to real Venice."

He snuggles against me - yes, Tony Stark is a snuggler - and chuckles. "Not on my account, Potts. You need to relax. I'll take care of you."

I turn that thought over in my head. After a decade of my taking care of him, Tony really is willing, and able, to take care of me in return.

"Deal," I say, nibbling on his earlobe for a long, happy moment, my thoughts drifting and eddying aimlessly. "At least we didn't get married in some tacky wedding chapel."

I cannot believe I just said that.

"God, no," he laughs, then sobers. "Not that it would've been the worst thing."

I cannot believe he just said that.

I pull back and stare at him, the head-spinning nausea ramping up. He stares back, eyes wide and shaken, his entire body - except for the one part that usually is - rigid against mine.

No, it wouldn't be a bad thing, being married to the new and improved Tony Stark - the one who has agendas for wooing and holds my hair back and helps me brush my teeth after I lose everything I'd spent four hours putting in my body.

"No, it wouldn't have been the worst thing. But I don't want to get married by an Elvis impersonator."

"Please," Tony scoffs. "I'm Iron Man. And Tony Stark. I'd find the real Elvis."

"He's dead," I remind him gently.

"In hiding," he posits back. "On a secret island in his lair."

We stare at each other for a moment, silent - Tony's offering me an out and I take it. I'm not ready to really talk marriage yet. It took us a decade to get here - we need time to make sure this is where we really want to stay.

The nausea and headache start to subside as I make my decision.

"You are not getting an island."

Tony grunts and the tension in his body eases. "But I need one."

It's a familiar refrain. Tony is obsessed with the idea of a secret island base somewhere off the coast of California. He was most disgruntled when he learned that Catalina was most definitely not for sale.

"No, you don't. You have the man cave…"

"Workshop!" he exclaims. "Laboratory. Where very important - and profitable - technological advances are made."

"In the basement of your very lovely, extremely well-defended house. You don't need a secret island base or a lair."

"You never let me have any fun," he grumps - his argument somewhat undermined by the fact that his fingers are tracing distracting patterns over my skin. Quadratic equations today, by the feel of them. He's definitely making little plus and equal signs on the side of my left breast.

"Nope," I agree. "No fun for you." I wiggle and his breathing picks up; suddenly, I feel downright energized.

I very clearly remember reading somewhere - Vogue? Cosmo? Scientific American? - that sex is an excellent hangover cure.

"But you're kind of fun," he says softly, his fingers in my hair. "And I get to have you."

"You want me?" I ask, faking innocence, because I can feel a pronounced swelling against my hip. "Even after the pyrotechnics in the gondola last night?"

"I always want you and I always love you," he grins, "Even when you're drunk and puking on me in fake Venice."

"I love you, too," I say, "All the time. Twenty-four, seven, three-sixty-five."

"Twenty-four, seven, three-sixty-five," he repeats, his expression focused and serious. We hold our breath, teetering back on the edge of our earlier conversation. I bite my lip and Tony pulls us back. "Now, I'm thinking of some other numbers."

"Really," I ask, smiling and stroking. "What numbers are those?"

"My final three agenda items."

"Mmmmm," I encourage.

"One of which is a number itself."

"I'm well acquainted with that number," I say.

"Yeah you are," he growls, tugging me closer.

"And then there's the thing I did last Saturday."

"Oh the thing," he murmurs into my hair. "That was a very good thing."

"And the third item?"

"Breakfast in bed."

I pull back. "Real food?"

"Food was going to be involved, yes," he says, waggling his eyebrows.

The thought of food - even strawberries and whipped cream which I'm sure figure prominently in Tony's breakfast menu - is not appealing. But….

"Let's start with the other two," I prompt, pushing him onto his back. He sprawls against the gold sheets somehow already looking thoroughly debauched. "And we'll work up to breakfast."