Hi. This isn't really complete (or, um, have a general plot direction at all) but I would fucking love any feedback. And I do mean any. So, please consider that. :)
The first thing he ever made was a simple circuit. It was fairly basic: just a copper wire attached to a battery on one end and attached to the bulb on the other. He was two years old.
He can remember, even now, his father's big, warm hands guiding his own, touching the wire to the bulb (the light went on), and pulling it back (the light went out) and touching it again (light) and pulling it back (out). It was the Stark family version of peek-a-boo.
"See, Tony," his father would explain. "It doesn't matter where the break in the circuit is. Whether if it's the battery that's not touching the wire or if it's the bulb, it's not going to light. See?"
(Tony, being two years old, did not see).
By the time he was seven, he could make simple and complex circuits in his sleep. He had designed and crafted an electrical outlet for a two-story house that would cost half the price and offer two times the volts.
When he was nine, he was sent to an elite boarding school for the gifted youth of America. Unfortunately, "gifted" had become synonymous with "ludicrously wealthy", and Tony was surrounded by boys who couldn't design a robot but could blow through a debit card in a matter of days. On his first day, after he'd unpacked and gone to dinner, he sat in the dark on the floor of his single dorm, where he'd unattached the light bulb from the lamp, pulled out the battery from the clock and found a small piece of wire. He made a simple circuit, just as he'd been taught eleven years ago. He hadn't made one in ages. Tony spent the night touching the wire to the bulb, pulling back, touching, and pulling back, letting the light flicker on and off, on and off.
He lasted at the boarding school for five months, twenty two days, and thirteen hours. Apparently, the boarding school didn't appreciate a gifted youth of America telling one of its professors that his theory on the quantum model was "completely useless to anyone with half a brain".
(The theory was, by the way, completely useless to anyone with half a brain).
After that brief stint, most of Tony's education took place in his father's workshop. There, he was surrounded by smooth wrenches, cold metal, finicky wires and his father's booming laugh. His mother would occasionally call from upstairs, asking them if they were done waiting it out for the new ice age or if they were perhaps interested in ever seeing sunlight again.
"What's this hunk of metal do?" She would ask, whenever she ventured downstairs to bring them a glass of water.
"It's a surface plate." His father answered. "It's to carry the electrons from the main source to the—"
"Isn't that what you said this thing does?" she interrupted, nudging another plate with her toe.
"Well, in a sense."
"So you tinker around here all day and night to build piece after piece that basically does the same job?"
"It saves me from having to talk to you, doesn't it?" His father grinned.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," his mother replied. "Maybe someday, you could build me a microwave that actually works."
"Marie, the best microwave in the world couldn't save your cooking."
"Well, we'll never know that because you've never managed to build one."
They went on, but Tony had learned to stop listening long ago. Between their bickering and insults and his mother eye-rolls, his father would almost imperceptibly brush her hand or cheek, and she'd smile. Those were Tony's clearest, earliest memories.
-------
"This," Tony says. "Has got to be the greatest sham in the entire world."
"If by 'this'," Pepper replies from somewhere behind him. "You mean a man declaring himself as the world's most promising inventor, while spending all his time watching television, then yes, it is the greatest sham."
"First of all," Tony said. "I meant this show. Am I seriously supposed to believe that she and her boyfriend just happened to run into her ex at this restaurant? Don't tell me they parade this around as reality TV. Second of all, I never declared myself to be anything. If Time magazine—"
"—Newsweek—"
"—if Newsweek wants to call me the emperor of the seven seas, that's their choice. Third of all, my latest project is blossoming as we speak. Do we have any gin left?"
"You've got a conference meeting tomorrow at 8, and, just so you know, the phrase "blossoming as we speak" won't really work with share holders. You've just finished the gin, but I'm sure you're well stocked in rum or something."
Even though she's sitting behind him, he can practically picture her sitting at his kitchen table, papers stacked up, palm pilot out, her legs crossed, and her eyes on some important document that needs his signature that she's in the process of forging effortlessly and accurately, because she knows all too well he'll never get around to signing it.
"Rum, Miss Potts, is the devil's piss." He gets to his feet, the ice clinking against his empty glass. And just as he expected, Pepper is at his kitchen table, signing away on some document. It's nearing midnight, but she hasn't even loosened her hair from its prim bun, not a single strand falling out of place. She looks the exact same way she does at eight in the morning or five in the afternoon or anytime of any day of the rest of eternity: professional, smart and competent.
And also, kind of alluring.
He makes his way to the cabinet and finds the tall bottle of vodka sitting expectantly on the shelf. "How do you know that my latest project isn't already finished?"
"The same way I know my name is Pepper Potts and I may have the worst job in the entire world. They're just facts, Mr. Stark."
"I could think of a few worse jobs. Like being a nanny, for instance. Could you imagine having to take care of a snot-nosed brat all day long?"
"Just during the day? No, I can't. That must be wonderful." She still hasn't looked up at him. He absently wonders if those documents she's always signing are a particularly fascinating read or something.
"Ha-ha," Tony says sarcastically. "The disadvantage in that job, of course, is you don't get anyone to wound with that piercing tongue of yours. No ego to puncture. No heart to stab. "
Pepper looks up at him. Ah, success. "I could never stab your heart, Mr. Stark," she says.
He stares back at her. In the dim light of his kitchen, the "alluring" part of Pepper Potts is suddenly, overwhelmingly, dominating the "professional, smart and competent" part, and the balance with which he plays is dangerously steeping the Other Way.
"And why's that?" he asks, involuntarily stepping closer.
"Because there's a giant metal plate around it, remember?" She smiles at him, before she goes back to work and signs off another document, and the balance tips back again.
-----
The first girl he ever kissed was named Laurie Krehbiel. She had long, straight blonde hair and she dotted the "i" in her name with an obscenely fat heart. He was eleven years old.
It was at a neighborhood block party for the fourth of July. She asked him if he would help her light a firework. He said yes. He lit a sparkler for her; she took it and lit the end of one of the fireworks that shot a few pathetic feet in the air. They watched it for a few moments; Tony could feel her leaning against him, her arm brushing against his. He turned towards her, she turned towards him, and they kissed.
Their relationship ended a week and a half later when Tony kissed Amy's best friend, June Lekas. He was standing out on the sidewalk on that maddeningly bright summer day when Amy accosted him. The sun beamed directly into his eyes, and his shirt was damp with sweat, while Amy's shrill voice sounded much too loud. He concentrated on the crack on the sidewalk just to stop thinking about the sun, and his sweat, and her piercing voice, and ugh. He waited just long enough for Amy to draw breath before he bolted.
When he got to his father's workshop down in the basement, he nearly cried with relief. It was cool and dim and the only noise was the low, vibrating hum of the fan. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the sound.
-----
Tony pushes the blonde against the wall, maybe a little more forcefully than a gentleman would do.
(But, then again, what gentleman would ever be doing this in a bathroom?)
She sighs as he kisses her neck. Her hands, which had been so nicely entangled in his hair, are not there anymore. He vaguely puzzles over that for a moment, before he realizes that they are now fumbling with the back of her dress. He hears the zip being pulled, and a moment later is aware that the front of her dress has opened up, and there—
"Dear god," Tony whispers reverently, and his hands, which had been around her waist, are definitely not there anymore.
A few moments later, as she's wrapping her legs around his waist, she says, "I think they just called your name. Aren't you—" she breaks off and sighs, closing her eyes. It's a moment before she starts speaking again and her voice has gotten higher. "Aren't you supposed to be giving a speech?"
"I'm shit at speeches," Tony murmurs into her collarbone. "I try to stick to what I know."
"Well," she says, smiling at him, as her hand tangles into his hair once more. "You should stick to this."
Afterwards, once they're dressed and almost presentable, they leave the bathroom and he offers to get a drink with her. It's as they're approaching the bar that he sees Pepper striding towards him, looking fairly murderous.
"Where were you?" She says, and it's obvious she's trying to reign in her fury. "You were supposed to—" She stops, having caught sight of the disheveled blonde behind him. Her eyes narrow. "Really, Mr. Stark," is all she says.
"Really, Miss Potts," he counters. "So old Rhodes got up and gave a speech on my behalf, right? He always does. They're always Nobel prize worthy speeches," he adds to the blonde behind him. "Great liar too. Comes up with fantastic excuses every time. Is there anything else, Miss Potts?"
There's a small pause as she considers him. "No," she says, finally. "No, that's it, Mr. Stark." She watches him go to the bar, blonde in tow, where, no doubt, he's ordering himself a shot of gin and Coke.
"You really don't get paid enough," a voice says behind her. She turns to find Rhodes standing there, smiling kind of ruefully at her. He motions to a nearby table, and they sit down.
"It's made up for in perks," Pepper says, after a small pause. "I haven't had to pay for gas in years."
Rhodes grins. He looks over at Tony, who is still at the bar and still with the blonde. Rhodes sighs, and then, with the obvious intention of changing the conversation topic, says, "So, you look nice tonight. Hair down and everything. Who're you aiming to impress?"
Even from here, Pepper can hear Tony's voice. "No one," she says brusquely, and finishes her drink in one move.