Caquelon
He came off the bottom step and flipped the light switch.
Tony looked over the assorted collection and breathed in the stale air. Familiar scents wafted towards him, bringing back memories with swift clarity in their wake. 3 In One oil—grapefruit tart and forever associated with bike chains; crumbling ancient gum erasers, essential to the drafting necessary to become an engineer back in the day; the musty traces of old paper and over it all, a faint taint of metals slowly oxidizing in the dark.
He stepped deeper into the basement, glancing at the trunks with their paper labels, the collected rolls of blueprints, the hulking machinery standing silent and dead along with walls. A quick puff of breath sent up dust and revealed a dial, the Stark logo still jaunty under the anchor of the needle. Tony bit back a smile, studying it a moment before looking around at the assorted clutter.
"Geez, Dad," he murmured to himself, "Exactly how much World War Two junk did you save? And for God's sake, why?"
With a sigh, Tony circled the room, touching a few things and wondering how he could sweet-talk Pepper into taking care of the mess when an oddly shaped device caught his eye. He stared, trying to fit what he was looking at into some known context, some relevant connection. Carefully, Tony reached out and touched the short handle. The wood was still satiny, and the rich oxblood enamel although dusty, was clearly of top quality. He picked it up, hefted the surprising weight that told him the pot was cast iron.
Curious, Tony brought it up and sniffed, hoping to detect what had been cooked in it, but too much time had passed, and the only odor in the pot came from the few cobwebs inside it. Tony flipped it to look at the underside, but the name Roessler meant nothing to him.
He pulled out his cell and snapped a picture, sending it off to the one person he knew would be as intrigued as he was. Within two minutes she was down the steps, peering into the gloomy basement. "Tony?"
"Over here. Don't sneeze or we'll both be wearing gray," he warned her. "Having fun yet?"
"The townhouse is always magnificent," Pepper assured him. "At least, the upstairs. Down here though . . ." she rubbed her upper arms and looked around cautiously.
"Creepy," Tony agreed. "Yep, always was. Most of the time mom had the staff keep this place locked, probably on orders from dad so I didn't end up climbing into some old refrigerator or something."
"You'd never do that," Pepper protested, and then hesitated. Tony caught that and made a moue.
"I HAVE been known to encase myself in metal occasionally," he admitted with dry good-humor. "Although I'm pretty good about making sure I've got breathing holes. What is this thing?"
"It's a caquelon," came her prompt reply. She smirked at his continued bafflement. "A fondue pot."
"Fondue?" Tony looked up, fine brows drawn in complete confusion. "Fon-due. As in melted cheese you shove bits of bread into fondue?"
"One and the same, although this pot's probably a collector's item now," Pepper nodded, taking it from his hands. "It looks vintage."
Tony drew in a breath, blinking. A sudden spike of memory hit him, and he found himself trying to pull images into focus as Pepper spoke, her fingers touching the rim of the caquelon in a manner reminiscent of . . .
. . . his mother.
Her delicate hands holding a pot, moving the handle away from him, his father showing him how to spear a cube of French bread on the little trident. The quiet glances of his parents over the spirit burner on the table. Intimate glances, full of secret mischief and some other fiery emotion that at the time he hadn't understood, but now in the awareness of adulthood he realized easily.
" . . . and although you can use Gruyère I've never liked that as much as Emmental, and you haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?" Pepper chuffed with mild exasperation.
Tony took the pot from her, staring into it thoughtfully. "Potts, let's do that fondue that you do so well."
Her pretty expression of puzzlement lasted only until he pulled her into a kiss, smiling against her mouth and stealing her breath.
When she could speak again, Pepper sighed. "Fondue? Is that a new word for . . .?"
"Oh no," Tony smirked, hefting the pot and looking around for the rest of the set. "It's an old one. Trust me."
Pepper looked around at all of Howard Stark's possessions, and gave a yelp. "Tony!"
"Hey, he wasn't all work and no play," Tony smiled very gently. "That came later. In the meantime, I'm in the mood for something . . . cheesy."
Pepper rolled her eyes, but her dimples deepened as she took the pan, twirling it expertly. "Very well. After you . . . fondue."
He laughed all the way up the basement stairs.
end