It had only been a year; just twelve months. But as his mind unwound it seemed like forever. Well of course it would. He had to think of it logically after all. Of course it would seem like forever; Pepper had been there since the beginning. Girlfriend Pepper may have only been a year long reality but she was an innovation on an old idea. Like an electric toothbrush. Just, for some reason Girlfriend Pepper's stretch seemed to pass along the corridors of time beyond a reasonable length. Time being relative; he knew what that meant and didn't want to think of it. If there was one thing Tony Stark was genuinely any good at was pretending there was nothing wrong.

But it was impossible not to think of it. She was everywhere. Fucking everywhere. At work, at home, at S.H.I.E.L.D. She wasn't breathing down his neck or anything, but no amount of sensible thinking could do anything to dissuade him from (incorrectly) perceiving her somewhat overwhelming presence.

He knew that it was him. His problems. His fault. She was downright perfection and he was Tony Stark. She'd always deserve better; more. He couldn't stand her seamless smile constantly reminding him that she didn't need a Tony shaped hole in her life. She'd already dealt with him as a platonic co-worker; how could she deal with him as a girlfriend. The expectations were weightier, consequences far more dire. And he had a responsibility to her now. How did she not know that he was not one of those guys; Responsibility was not his middle name. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Or she knew what he was; she always had, she knew that he would never change and made the first bad decision of her entire life.

It hadn't always been like this obviously. The first weeks are always easy. Those are the weeks you think you could change. Being a better man suddenly becomes a surmountable mountain; the climbs are suddenly not so steep, the drops become far from fatal and those jagged rocks below look survivable. The blindness of iridescent optimism. He'd had that other week too; after they'd defeated Loki. A hero again. He suddenly didn't look so bad beneath the luminous radiation of redemption. He became a better boyfriend, remembered the date nights, called to say he'd be late, just told her he was thinking of her every now and again. In facing death, she had become more than precious to him. And in that light; far more than he deserved. It was a quick drop, and only two months ago.

Since then the suit had needed his attention far more than usual; S.H.I.E.L.D had been riding his ass day and night, the practices had started running ridiculously late, and all these damn fundraisers just kept cropping up out of the woodwork last minute. He was really sorry, and he'd make it up. But he was quickly running out of rain checks. He made sure to come home late enough that he missed her. If he didn't; if by some cruel of fate she was up (not waiting for him, never waiting for him), five seconds of disappointment in her eyes would haunt him that whole week. She'd pretend that it was no problem of course, but Tony could see through the cracks in her faltering smile. Pepper Potts was far too honest to be any good at pretending.

Two months.

Tony was wearing a nice suit. Not his best suit, but a good one anyway. Versace or something. Sitting at the bar of some shindig or other, surrounded by dull old businessmen and vapid young heiresses. That was as far as variety provided for. His invitation had been all very last minute: I can't stand watching all these bastards blow smoke up their own asses Pep, you know that. But this guy insisted. I'll make it up, I promise. Whether or not she had beleived him was uncertain; but given that his personal invitations no longer went through her anymore, at least his story was plausible.

In his hand he held a glass of carbonated pink wine water. Something no doubt fashionable and very in at the moment, but he would've chewed off his own leg for a bottle cap of whiskey. Drinking this rose colored swill; it would take him downing at least a couple of gallons to get drunk. And he needed to get drunk. He wondered about first aid; maybe there was rubbing alcohol he could swipe, if it could make all of this go a little bit faster. He sighed and tipped back the thin, delicate glass. Bubbles fizzed away on his tongue.

'Barkeep!' He motioned. A well dressed young man in a vest and matching tie came as beckoned. 'Your strongest vodka, please.

''I've already said Mr. Stark,' He took the glass from Tony. 'There's no vod-'

'I know. Just humor me please. Do you have anything besides fizzy drain cleaner?'

'Honestly, if you're looking to get buzzed you might as well try anti-freeze. Kill two birds with one stone.'

Tony smiled. He liked this kid. 'Any in stock?'

'Like the Rockwells would let anyone get out that easy.'

'Makes me regret leaving my suicide pill in my other pants.'

They both laughed. The boy nodded to someone behind Tony, and Tony swivelled his chair to look. 'I bet she's not gonna make you feel any better about that.'

A blonde with hair in far too much of a bouffant for anything this far from Texas was walking with unnerving determination to where Tony sat. He moved to ask for more of that watered down wine cooler, but the bartender had since evacuated. He only wished he could do the same. The blonde made it to his side and plopped herself down on the empty chair beside his.

'Hi.' She smiled. Her perfectly white teeth gleamed overbearingly, expectantly, awaiting some sort of conformation. Validation. Girls with daddy issues.

'Hi.' He smiled back. Hate and its pit of abominable monsters bit at the surface of his mind, and he had to struggle to keep that voice shushed.

'Uh.' Small falter. She wasn't expecting to work for this. 'My name's Mickeala Smith-Lucas. My mom and dad owned Justice Proprietors.' Hint of a Texan brawl in there. She was educated away from her state; some place fancy, given her propensity for rounding O's and pronouncing T's as she did.

'I'm Tony Stark. I own-'

'Silly,' She ran a delicate finger across his arm. He had to work not to flinch. 'I know who you are. You're a hero.'

His smile came reflexively, before he knew what he was doing. She flushed. Tony Stark; Lady Killer.

'My uncle made me come. I barely know anyone. Uh, we just flew in from Texas.' Cute. She knew what she was doing, playing helpless, needing a hero to help a little damsel in distress. 'Maybe you can show me around some time, Mr. Stark. You must know New York really well.'

The bartender appeared and, with a knowing smile, placed a couple of glasses of carbonated water and cough syrup in front of the two of them.

'Thank you.' Her smile was made of treacle and broken childhood promises. The bartender's was made of condescension. 'Oh. I love this, isn't it fabulous?' She eagerly took a long sip. Tony watched her. She had lips different than Pepper, pink and full, glossy with some sort of flavoured product. And her eyes were blue and strangely alive. She was cute. Her make up made it clear that she didn't believe that fact herself. Believing, it seemed, that she needed longer eyelashes, more prominent cheekbones and darker skin. It was too dark around her eyes.

'It's not really my thing.' Tony smiled. 'Have you tried getting anywhere with this? I'm still at zero and I've had about ten.'

She laughed sincerely. 'No. You're not supposed to get anywhere with it. It's like a cooler. Like warm up.'

'A warm up?' Tony grinned. 'So when does the actual liquor come out. Or is all this waiting in vain?'

'It never comes out, Mr. Stark. The Rockwells are abstinent.'

'Lucky me. But please, call me Tony.'

'Okay... Tony,' Her face was veering on crimson.

Two hours later, he knew too much about her. Mickeala Smith-Lucas was the eldest of three, a former beauty pageant competitor who had given up competing at eleven; never to be forgiven by her mother. Her father had expected big things and been bitterly dissapointed when she'd flunked college. An ammendment to the will shortly thereafter had left the company to her uncle who would bequeath the multi million multi national consulting firm to her little sister when she turned thirty. Her parents had died and Mickeala had received the least from the will.

And she was twenty four years old. She was far too young for him.

But he didn't think of that when he invited her for a drink at some bar he knew, to wash down the taste of lemonade flavoured laundry detergent on his tongue. Good clean fun.

He couldn't tell if she was drunker than she was or just pretending. But he needed to leave her someplace; there was no taking her to Stark Tower and he couldn't just abandon her. He booked her into a hotel.

And he showed her to her room.

Standing beneath the arch of her doorway, in the dim light, he thought of leaving. Mickeala was slipping off the straps of her dress. And her smile was real (if slurred) and inviting. He imagined Peppers crystalline blue eyes; feigning indifference. Pepper's broken smile. He decided to stay.