Dear Readers.
I know it has been a considerable amount of time since you have seen me wandering the delicate pages of this wonderful site. Unfortunately, I've no news on my existing stories, but I do have a two-part one-shot for you here. Movie-verse Iron Man. Because I love Roberty Downey Jr with a raging, firey passion.
My absence is to blame due to work, my best friend taking all my time (not that I'm complaining J) and falling into the Twilight series by Stephaie Meyer. Nevertheless, I have something, from the minds of my great friend Kayla and I, to fill an empty hole. This is the buildup. The next piece will have my ever-present smut.
The end. Enjoy.
Your Obedient Servant,
RW
Disclaimer: I, or my friend K Rose, own none of the following characters. If we did, I do believe that Tony Stark would be a broken man. + No profit is being made from this work of literature. It is strictly for casual purposes only. All characters belong—legally—to Marvel, Stan Lee and the geniuses behind the film.
Flashing bulbs that burn white and leave the residual crusting yellow color behind eyelids. High-pitched praises competing for attentions. Martinis refilled—with increasing concentration—before the glass bowl reaches half empty. Charm and wit floating through the air, a palpable layer nearly suffocating those uninterested and unaffected.
A rock star life led by only those with pockets too bottomless, too many bank accounts. Too many enemies, too many prices on one head, to count on both hands. Those who hold too much knowledge and learned it too early; a technological prodigy.
"Tony." Her voice was ridged, stiff, though she kept that same soft smile on her lightly freckled face. A delicate finger pressed the access code on the hologram of a keypad, gaining her entrance to the newly remodeled garage. With an extra touch, the music was muffled.
"How many times must I tell you not to turn down my music?" He rolled out from under the silver Audi, tucked against the far wall.
The strawberry blonde bypassed his comment and glanced at the small stack of memos and papers in her arms, most begging for his signature.
"Nick called again. Well, his assistant did, anyway. You really should return that." She usually had an almost playful attitude towards him. Today was a ghost of her smile, only a lick of her sarcasm. "And here," she resumed, presenting him with a carbon-copied form "Sign this."
"What? What am I signing?" he asked absently as the pen glided with pressure across the designated line.
"Another dry cleaning bill." Here her tone was dry.
"It went well, then?" his voice only mildly curious.
"Very," a slight nod, "Like she's done this before. Oh wait, she probably has," a teasing tilt of her head. A touch of that old, mocking tone came through.
"Ouch," he said with a smirk, clutching a fist to his heart. He watched as this brief flash of his assistant's usual charm faded, his fist uncoiled and a finger began to tap a rhythm on his chest plate, the glow of sheer energy shining though the thin material of his grease-stained tank. It was one, he realized, he wore while building the Mark 1 suit.
He always noticed, however, when something was wrong with her. She had stood by his side far too long for him to not. He also knew her well enough that, if he were to ask, she would never admit to something upsetting her. For now, he would let it sit. Later, he would find a way to get whatever it was to spill from those mauve-painted lips.
"A suit is pressed and laid out for you on the bed, which has clean sheets. Please, don't forget the benefit tonight, and if you go out, don't get yourself killed." She could always say things so professionally, so casually, as if she were asking for the salt at the dinner table.
"What? Concern for your boss, Miss Potts?" That eyebrow went up, as it always does. That corner of his mouth turned up, as it always does. It was his look. Just one, specific look that was nothing but Tony.
"You know how I hate looking for another job," she said with a small flip of her hair. A turn on her heel and she was back up the stairs.
Tony's eyes followed her as she ascended the stairs, hips swaying naturally. Stop, he told himself. Wrong. He wiped his hands on the rag shoved in his back pocket and walked back toward the car he was working on. Just a few more modifications and it would be done.
If only he could keep his mind focused long enough to finish.
Adjusting. Over and over again. Nothing was right. With glasses, or without. Without, definitely. No, with. Shit.
"Mr. Stark, the car is— " She smiled slightly at the sight of him, removing and replacing his glasses, fixing his collar.
"Oh, good. Pepper. Glad you're here, I need your—" He lost his train of thought as he looked over his shoulder at his assistant; glasses held loosely in his left hand.
"Help? When do you not need my help?" She began to step towards him, her step slightly lighter than this afternoon.
"Wow, Pepper. You… You look…" He couldn't finish his train of thought. All was lost as he took in the slight scoop of her emerald dress, how the thin straps threatened to just fall off her pale shoulders.
"Thank you, Mr. Stark. Now, the car is waiting. Shall we?" Her lips were still turned upwards in the slightest. She was amused.
He slipped the glasses back on his face and moved toward her, his arm bent and extended in invitation. She nodded and accepted the offer; they began walking together, arm in arm, toward the front door. Just as he ducked to enter the car, Pepper put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.
"What?" he asked suspiciously.
She straightened his frame by twisting him towards her and her hands ran over the cloth of the tuxedo, feeling, lingering just a second too long, before fidgeting with his tie. Tugging just a bit to loosen it, her azure orbs latched in a trance to his brown. Her fingers kept working without her eyes and the guidance they offered. Their gaze deepened, held, and her face grew slightly warm, the freckles resting on the apples of her cheeks suddenly becoming more apparent than ever. She broke the stare, eyes flickering all across his face, then swiftly down to her hands, now removed from his straightened tie, resting flat against his chest.
Tony leaned slightly forward, testing the waters. When she didn't move, he pressed closer, their faces inches apart.
"It was crooked," she breathed, barely audible to herself; the sound of her voice competing with the pound of her heart, rushing through her head.
She pulled away and disappeared into the car before the air could pass through his parted lips to protest.
Once you have attended one benefit, you have attended them all. After a while, the glamour of the black and gold draperies and the trickle of the fountains become dull details. Even for an alcoholic, the fancy, visually appealing bars become plain and boring. The only redeeming quality would be a never-ending supply of scotch.
His eyes managed to scan the room to find that shimmering green amongst the black-and-white penguin suits and the overly-flashy gowns that never ceased to sparkle for paparazzi cameras. She was the only one lacking sequins, shining without the help of glitter, flawless without the help of countless foundation applications. Her eyes never strayed from her glass, her lips only moving in idle conversation. There was not a hit of suspicion about being so closely looked upon. It was one of those rare occasions she overlooked the details of her surroundings.
The index finger of his right hand made indolent circles around the rim of his empty glass. A female bartender, her dark blonde hair slicked back tight into a ponytail on the top of her head, approached him; her eyes were so dark they were almost black, and held only a dry sparkle of admiration.
"Another, Mr. Stark?" she asked in a deep, heavily accented voice. Australian. That would explain the perfect tan.
He looked up at her slowly, hardly willing to peel his eyes from the woman across the room. "No, not tonight, gorgeous." A flash of his signature grin, and then it was gone, his hand covering the top of the glass.
"Ya know, ya got it good, mate. A shelia like her." Her head inclined toward the previous object of his attentions.
A sigh leaked from between his pursed lips. "That's just the problem, my dear. I don't have her."
"Now," the bartender leaned forward across the counter, "why is that? Ya got every other gal in here wrapped around that finger o' yours. Why not her?"
"Society tends to frown upon bosses who get involved with their assistants." His voice drawled out lazily, not from intoxication, but more from the disappointment of the truth in his words. When had he become Mr. Insightful?
The bartender laughed, a sweet, surprisingly melodious sound.
"What?" he asked confused.
"Since when have you ever done something socially acceptable, Tony." Her use of his first name didn't say much except the fact that she new a few men just like him, the careless, hi-rolling business tycoons that had it in for an employee. Well, at least he wasn't married or anything.
"Well, my work here seems to be done for this evening. Good night, Mr. Stark." There was a slight incline of her head as she grabbed her purse and removed a set of keys. The tone of her voice had an underlying edge, as if something bothered her.
"Ms. Potts. Can I ask a question?" he asked, seemingly nonchalant.
"Of course, Mr. Stark. Anything." She turned her upper half toward him, the dangling tendrils of her hair sweeping gently across her exposed back.
"Might I inquire as to what the fuck is wrong?" His voice raised and stressed, but he refrained from shouting, the smile still present on his charming features.
"Excuse me?" She turned herself to face him fully, a hint of incredulity creeping with her words.
"Did I st-st-st-stutter? What the hell is wrong, Pepper? What did I do?" It was always his fault.
Her back straightened then, becoming the picture of perfect posture. She could lie well when the situation called, but never to Tony Stark. Never once had she been able to lie straight to those chocolate eyes she had come to love so much. So very much. Despite failure in the past, she decided to try, anyways.
"To what could you possibly referring, Mr. Stark." The lie slipped shockingly easy from between her lips. They curved slightly upward, allowing a mask of calmed confusion to fall into place.
She was lying. It was a beautiful, mauve-painted, delusional smile meant to mislead him. Contrary to popular belief, he failed to become intoxicated by anything other than her presence this night. He could see right through her and that knowledge shook her as she stood there, stationary and falsely calm in her stiletto heels.
TBC...