Phew! The fic is finally done, complete and ready to be launched into the world. Please excuse any "out of character moments," as this is the first story I've written for this fandom. It is also my first story in present tense and focuses mainly on character development rather than a plot. On seperate note, I think Pepperony is one of the cutest names for a pairing I have ever seen; that upon itself is reason enough to write a story.
Disclaimer: I do not (and never will) own any of these characters; I own my story and the clothes on my back.
Please do not hesitate to leave constructive criticism;
Thanks.
You are in darkness.
It is neither the suffocating darkness of fear, nor the unknown darkness of death. No.
You had already been through those kinds of 'dark.' The kind that wakes you in the middle of the night, your throat searing, your muscles twitching in violent frenzies beneath your skin. You take a deep breath, but it is only after, after you've closed your eyes and returned to your hellish nightmares that you realize: you've been screaming in your sleep.
The darkness now is different.
This was what was left after round one had finished, leaving you broken and convulsing on the pavement. It was the pathetic empty shell that remained once the pain was gone, once the suffering had ceased. It remained even after you promised you wouldn't cry, but couldn't stop the wetness rolling down your cheeks in waves when no one's looking.
It leaves you in an emotional wreck, still finding lingering scars after such memories had been forgotten. Slipping through your brain like a poisonous gas intent only on destroying you from the inside out.
The name of the feeling?
Loneliness.
The room is pitch black, just the way she likes it. The way she wants it. No. Not the way she wants it, the way it has to be.
Vaguely, she wonders why the level-headed, clear-minded girl she used to see herself as had suddenly disappeared. However, she realizes with a sad smile, that that woman had probably disappeared several weeks ago. Her constant mood swings, coupled with the stress that only a person such as herself would have the strength to endure, have taken their toll on her.
Some words all mean the same thing, the same feeling. She is a person ruled by logic. Therefore, the word loneliness, seclusion, isolation— any of them, really, should be more than enough to accurately describe the feeling clawing at her heart, scratching at her insides with poison-tipped claws. She supposes she should be happy she still has a heart. Yet, as she whispers the words out loud, that doesn't even make them fit the situation. Words are mankind's attempt at an explanation of something unexplainable.
They sound disgusting on her tongue.
She wraps her slim arms around her stomach, turning possibilities around in her head, before turning her attention instead to the unreasonably huge, alien room that she "now calls her own." Her eyes wander aimlessly as she finds nothing to focus her attention on.
In all truths, the room around her is technically, by all definitions of the word, dark. Tonight, no small beams of moonlight filtered through the thick curtains to illuminate either her skin or the room in a pale glow.
As she turns her face to bury into her soft pillow, she realizes something. She's scared. Second-guessing her second guesses. Right now, she hates him, yet can't bear to see him love anyone else. She is afraid of his "return," if there is to be one, but craves it more than any kind of drug addiction. It was worse than those three months when he was missing, when she had thought he was dead. She mentally berates herself for digging herself into such a deep hole. It should have been simple really. All she'd had to do was: maintain personal space, don't overstep the line, and don't, under any circumstances, fall in love with your boss.
At the time of her acceptance into the company, she had known what responsibilities working for him would've brought upon herself, what kinds of temptations she would have to resist. Despite this, she saw it as the golden opportunity she had been waiting for to pull herself up the social chain of the world. All things considered, when her career and dignity balanced on the tip of a needle, she couldn't afford to get involved with someone like him.
But as with all things regarding a man such as himself, nothing about him was predictable. She had expected a lazy, living-off-his-father's-accomplishments playboy, courtesy of newspaper ads and online profiles. Instead, she found a quick-thinking, mechanical genius with a devilish smile that nearly melted her the first time she saw it. She was, however, well-informed about his reputation with women… It was the biggest flaw she saw; a matter on which she could only clamp her jaw shut and hide her disappointment on.
But every time she was near him, every word, every touch, every smile, she felt another miniscule piece break off of her wall of resistance and dissolve into dust. She hadn't meant to fall in love with him, it just happened. She couldn't even pinpoint when it had, or even when she had first realized it. Maybe it happened the first time he had called her by her nickname, smiling like a child that had discovered a hidden secret, so proud of himself.
For all she knows, it could just as well been the day he came home, stepping off his plane like he was returning home from a business trip and not a three-month imprisonment in his own personal hell. She remembers that day clearly, for it is deeply etched in her mind. He had demanded an "American cheeseburger" and a press conference, blatantly ignoring her as she insisted he see a doctor. And he had asked why she was crying.
She lied to him that day.
She likes to think it was that night on the balcony at the Fireman's Ball. He never attended his own parties, why should she have expected him to show? But he did, and she found herself swept into a very awkward situation. But no, they weren't ready for anything further than their current relationship at that moment, and they both knew it. She was uncertain; he was confused. He had left her standing alone like a fool searching for the answer to her own joke.
All she knows is that it was before the night Stane attempted to kill them. The night he had told—no—ordered her to press the button that she was convinced would kill not only that traitor, Obadiah, but him in the process. She knew it was her duty to think of the world first, to obey the orders of her superior. But when her slender fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second over the little red button that would blast him a million miles to nowhere, she realized: what if he was her world?
Even as all these thoughts run through her head in a parade of memories and emotions, she swears she hears the creak of a well-oiled door. She hears the sound of weary footsteps on soft carpet and the whisper of skin on silk sheets as he slides into bed behind her.
Even the basic mechanics of living are lost as her breath catches in her throat and, for a split second, she forgets how to breathe. She faces away from his presence, toward the window that brings no light, for she is scared.
Excitement and anticipation threaten to overwhelm her as she feels his strong arms wrap around her from behind. Even before a relieved sigh can escape her, she feels him pull her against his chest, letting the warm glow from his chest fill her body to its fullest.
His nimble fingers lightly move up and down her sides, leaving her skin feverish. His touch is feather-light as one hand runs through her bright red hair and the other traces patterns on the thin silk top she's wearing. She does not move her hands up to rest over his as she normally would. She is afraid of what might happen.
Even as he rests his chin on her shoulder, his well-trimmed goatee tickling her neck in a way that makes her breath hitch, she remains immobile, paralyzed. When his lips come in contact with her burning skin, she gives up on breathing all together. Her entire body is burning with in an icy fire now, and she is all too happy to let it. It's been so long… too long.
She can't turn around.
For, at any moment, the perfect mirror of her illusion will shatter into the million, razor-sharp pieces of reality. And in the end, she would be not only the one cleaning up the mess, but the only one cut as she tries to pick up the jagged shards of her broken life. But as he presses one last kiss to the sensitive spot where her shoulder meets her neck, her defenses waver and crumbles away completely under his touch.
She turns around, desperately searching for her salvation.
The room is dark. Pitch black. Just the way she likes it. The way it has to be so she can't see, even though she knows, that the bed is empty. For one more second of eternity his touch lingers on her body, and then she wakes up just as a strangled sob escapes her throat.
After a few, drawn-out moments, she manages a deep breath, wondering how many more nights of torture she can take before she breaks. She's a strong woman; she endures more than this on a daily basis. She is proud of what she's done, what she's accomplished, and she'll be damned if anyone says otherwise.
She presses a hand to her heart, just to feel the steady, if a little eccentric, beat of it beneath her fingertips. Her breathing calms, establishing a soft rhythm, and she returns to sleep in her dark room.
The sun is harsh, like a slap against the face, as it hits her eyes, forcing its way through the curtains that were supposed to keep all light out. The realization dawns upon her like the sun that is just peeking over the horizon: it was just a dream. He wasn't gone, hadn't abandoned her like the countless women from his 'one-night stand' days. The thought gave her enough energy to pull herself out of the bed that is too big for her, and stumble toward the door. Halfway there, she stops, groaning as she presses her palms against her bleary eyes, waiting for the flashes of red dots to stop swimming in erratic patterns in front of her face.
She wants to run downstairs, down to the kitchen to see him wearing the "kiss the cook" apron he wears only for her. He'd turn around to tell her he's sorry he "can't cook worth—," but she'd cut him off with a stern look before he could finish his sentence. Then, he'd shoot her his trademark smirk, goofy and extremely sexy, and she wouldn't be able to help but smile back.
As her hand hesitates for a fraction of a second over the golden doorknob leading the hallway outside, the voice of a computerized butler interrupts her thoughts with his usual morning greeting. "Yes Jarvis?" she asks impatiently; she mistakes what she hears next as 'the type of sarcasm only a Stark robot would be able to deliver.'
"It is the 4th of June," he replies.
She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I am aware of the date, Jarvis."
"I trust you will need approximately one hour to prepare?" his voice sounds through the room. She raises an eyebrow in confusion.
"Prepare?" she asks, brow furrowing as she crosses her arms loosely. "For what?"
She did not anticipate his answer, could not comprehend the meanings behind it. It saps her body of what little strength she had and she crashes to the floor in a heap before the synthetic voice has had finished the sentence. After a hesitant silence that makes the AI seem almost… human-like, he replies.
"For the anniversary of Mr. Stark's passing, ma'am."
She wakes up, screaming and sobbing, for the second time that night. She doesn't know why, fear or frustration, this keeps happening, but she's sick of it. However, the sound emanating from her throat chokes off as it becomes too dry to produce any more sound. As she sits up straight and shaking, she sends the sheets into small ripples of movement. The sudden darkness after the harsh light of her dream burns her eyes and suddenly she doesn't know if they're even open or closed. She quickly puts out both hands to steady herself against the soft mattress as a wave of nausea wells from her stomach.
Her eyes are painfully slow in recovering and her throat is raw and dry, the result of her screaming. She gropes around for the cup of water on her nightstand and finds it only when her hand knocks the glass over and she feels the water rushing through her fingers. She quickly rights the glass and downs what liquid is left in the cup to pacify the burning sensation in her throat.
She heaves a weary sigh, wondering what kind of cliché soap opera she had gotten herself into. The past few months had seemed unreal as they passed in a brilliant blur of colors and events. For a while, it had seemed as though the world had forgotten him—them, decided to leave them alone so that they could walk happily into the sunset while holding hands, just like her favorite movies.
Oh, this is helpless. Frustrated at both her weakness and inability to control the feelings dominating her head, she reaches her hand out into the darkness and pulls the cord to turn on the reading lamp sitting on her bedside table.
A soft incandescent glow filled the room in a small globe of light, but did not reach farther than a few meters from the source. She carefully props up her pillows and pulls out a slim book from the drawer under the lamp.
She absentmindedly flips through the pages until she reaches her bookmark. She carefully places the bookmark on the table facedown so she cannot see the red and gold superhero grinning at her on the other side. She pulls her knees up as close to her chest as she comfortably can, and begins to read.
She reads the same line about eight and a half times before her vision becomes too blurred to continue. In the back of her mind, she wonders if everyone becomes this emotional in situations such as hers. The lightest touch of a smirk reaches the corners of her mouth as she thinks of the hell wives must put their husbands through and another tear rolls down her cheek.
Caught up in her thoughts, she barely registers a voice murmuring in her ear.
"Now, now Potts—Mrs. Stark (Damn, old habits die hard), there will be no crying in this room while I can help it."
She feels a sudden pressure on the bed and her eyes quickly dart up as her book falls to the ground. Before she can register what's happening, she's lying on her back with a pair of soft lips pressed against hers. A set of rough, calloused fingers stroke away the tears on her cheeks. From the second the contact is initiated, the feeling of loneliness is quickly dispelled, like moths scattering before a fire. The suffocating fog leaves her lungs and everything feels… right.
Any other time she would have stopped to consider how incredibly cliché that sounds, how she feels more like a horny teenager than an adult. But she could care less right now. She brings one hand up to tangle in his hair as his tongue traces her bottom lip ever so delicately before slipping past her parted lips. She moans into his mouth as she brings her free hand up to cup his cheek but stops suddenly as her fingers come in contact with something wet and sticky.
The world spins and crashes around her like a snow globe hitting the hard, concrete floor called reality. She quickly attempts to sit up, placing one hand on his chest to push him back. His arms remained stationed on each side of her head as he pulls back slowly, lingering a second longer than necessary, a questioning look on his face, lust in his eyes.
"Tony." Her voice sounds strained and distant and she realizes, with a sickening lurch, what's on her hands. Her eyes flicker over his form, taking his appearance in for the first time. His body is covered in small scratches and a few large cuts are bleeding freely onto the pillow behind her head, staining it with little red patches. "Oh. My. God. What happened?"
"Just some minor cu—" he cuts off seeing the concerned look painted all over her face and gently pulls his worn body away from hers, sitting with his legs hanging off the mattress, shooting her an innocent small smile like he isn't bleeding all over the bed. He knows the feeling of concern reflected in her eyes all too well.
He produces a tube of ointment in his left hand, using his right to strip—literally tear—off his shirt in one practiced movement. "Here, you can patch me up if it makes you feel better." He throws the ruined shirt on the floor and she shoots him a disapproving look. "No need to overreact." She doesn't find his jesting humorous in the least, but takes the medicine from him anyways. In silence she begins to clean and bandage his wounds, starting with the larger ones and making her way toward the minor ones from there.
"Why so silent?" he asks, and then winces as she rubs more gel over the gashes crisscrossing his shoulder. She's attempting to be as gentle as possible, he knows, but the cuts burn like liquid fire where the cream-like substance comes in contact with his skin.
"I thought you were dead," she says after a lengthy silence.
"It was only a few days!" he exclaims. "I was gone three months before. I wouldn't die on you that easily," he says, sounding slightly wounded. She tries, in vain, to hide a small smile as she moves away from him, examining her handiwork and setting the almost empty tube on the table.
She sighs. "Hmm. What are we going to do about the pillow?" she muses, more to herself than him, looking at the bloodied pillow with disdain. He is not as eager to change the subject.
"Leave it," he all but growls, stopping as he reminds himself that she is in a very 'delicate' state of mind. Or so he had been told. "We'll change it later," he reassures her, taking her hand into his and using his free one to throw the blood-stained pillow on the ground where it joins her book. There are more pillows resting against the headboard, enough to compensate for the loss of one.
"Did you take care of everything?" she asks as he gently leans her back and drags her under the covers, pulling her to face him. He raises his lips to tenderly kiss first her forehead, then her nose, and finally her lips before answering.
"I destroyed all the weapons I could find," he answers simply. She easily catches the double meaning to his words. "But it should be the last of them," he adds hastily. "Don't let it get to you." She traces around the arc reactor; the magical little device keeping him alive while taking in his words.
"Besides," he continues, "I have more important things to worry about now."
"Oh?" she questions, looking up at him. "Like what? Me finding another one of your—"
"I thought we agreed never to mention that. That's beside the point: I don't think Rhodey would survive without me there to screw up his life," he jokes, smiling a half-crooked 'your-sarcasm-wounds-me' smile that does not quite reach his eyes, but she hears the concern behind it.
"I'm… I'm sorry I worried you," she mumbles as he reaches over her to turn off the light. They are immediately bathed in darkness. "I really shouldn't have been so stupi—"
"No, no. I should—should've known and left someone here to watch you. You're in a really delicate… state… and it's… kind of my fault …" he mutters the last few words as he trails off and she swears she can feel him blush. It gives her a certain smugness to know that even the infamous Tony Stark cannot relate to something like this. Not that she holds it over his head… "I'm sorry," he finishes lamely.
"No—well, yes, but it's not just that. This is just as much my responsibility as yours. Obviously it's not something that one person can do alone. It's just…"
"It was easier to accept that I was dead than to think of the possibility that I left you?" he finishes for her. He takes her unresponsiveness as an affirmative.
"Virginia Stark." He addresses her by her full, legal name. "How could you think such preposterous thoughts?" He sounds angry, but when she looks up there is a twinkle in his eyes as if each is winking at her.
"It's not that, Tony." Her voice wavers slightly. "I mean… it is—was that, plus the fact that I'm just… scared." He opens his mouth to ask 'why?' but stops as the reason hits him.
"Oh." He lets out his breath in a small whoosh. He places one of his hands on top of hers, lacing their fingers together. "Well… it's all in the past now. There's nothing we can do now but hope for the best." He guides their intertwined hands over her stomach, resting gently on the small protruding curve there. "Don't worry Pepper; it's going to be okay."
"I don't know… if I'm ready for this," she admits.
"Hey," he says, "look at me." He uses his free hand to gently tilt her chin up so her eyes meet his warm chocolate ones. "This might not be my… area of expertise, but I sure as hell know I'm not letting anything happen to you while I'm around. Promise." He seals the deal with a light kiss. "Besides, too late to turn back now."
She chuckles lightly. "Alright Mr. Iron Man. I'll hold you to that."
"Actually the suit it made out of gold-titanium-alloy. I'm only 'Iron Man' in bed." A cross between a giggle and a snort escapes her as he raises one eyebrow suggestively at her.
He lets out a content sigh as he gently nuzzles her neck, the short hairs on his chin exciting the sensitive nerves there. She hears his breathing even, and feels his eyes close. After a moment, she hesitantly whispers into his ear, unsure if he's still awake. "Um… Tony?" She gets a quiet "mmhmm?" in response.
"Thanks," she says quietly, closing her eyes, for the first time in what feels like weeks, without any doubts or hesitations. He doesn't reply. A light snore escapes his parted lips, but she swears, just before her own eyes slide shut, that she sees the slightest pull at the corner of his lips like he's smirking at her in his sleep.
End Note:
Hope you survived that emotional rollercoaster; I am quite aware it seems that someone is suffering from bi-polar-ness, but I was attempting to capture the essence of "emotional-pregnant-woman." Seeing as I have never been in this position myself, it is based entirely on facts gained from the internet (and a few from "real life"). And we all know the internet would never lie to us, right? Ignoring my not-very-funny sense of humor, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did while writing it.
Reviews would be greatly appreciated!