Tin Can Man

Anthony Stark. Self professed genius. Suit, tie, shiny Italian shoes worth more than my whole luggage put together.

He was my first.

Well, my first Avenger. I didn't have a particular set of questions and I didn't feel the need to. It was six am, we both looked like shit, both shook hands, grumbled formalities, then crashed on the couch.

Yup. I meet one of the most powerful people in the whole world and we pass out within minutes. I can try to blame the combined pressure of our egos creating a short lapse in the oxygen around us, but I won't.

I'll just give the truth, which starts at the fact that I know he was out until all hours the night before, partying at an event to promote the Stark Expo in a few months, and that I was up all last night making sure I didn't ask redundant questions about shit the public already knew, before crashing about two hours before I needed to be at Stark Tower.

This is why I don't get work often.

When we wake up, it's because Tony's CEO, Virginia 'Pepper' Potts, is yelling at him. Well, 'yelling' isn't the right word. She's intensely frustrated, she's saying he's missed a meeting and that he has company and he's just so rude.

He wipes drool from his chin with his lilac tie - Bold choice, Mr. Stark - and gives her a grin that makes me want to laugh, but Miss Potts isn't laughing.

She's a stunning woman - not exactly conventional, but absolute in her beauty. She's tall and willowy, thin all over with a shock of red hair pulled neatly away from fierce blue eyes. Her pants suit looks so easy on her, where mine seems to be well aware the rider is not a native to business attire.

Tony gets up, still grinning, and plants a gentle kiss on her cheekbone.

I see her softening.

But soft is exactly what she's not, because she's still tough as nails, wearing a look like a viper might at prey who was just prolonging it's death by general cuteness. I don't know how he kept his swagger on full force or how she kept him at a safe distance, because if I were in either one of their shoes I'd be swooning either way.

Luckily, I'm not, so I stand up and start to make my apologies.

"No, don't be silly. Hi, I'm Pepper Potts."

"Eliza Black." I put my hand in hers - her grip is firm, but she had bones like birds, and I think I nearly snap her fingers. "It may have been my fault that we, er, took a nap."

"Mr. Stark should really have been prepared for you." she amends.

"Please. Call me Tony." he coos to her, then he looks and me and wiggles his eyebrows. "Goes for you too, Liza."

"Ho...kay. Tony. I can do that." I look between them, sensing a rift. It's kind of like Spiderman powers but not - the animosity, the chemistry, it's like a hole in the time-space continuum itself. There's a lot of history there, in those few inches between them, a lot of power, a lot of affection.

Can't call it love, it's not my place. But when she looks at him, I can see it. It's wonderful, the way she tames him, the way he pushes her buttons, gets her so riled up and then brings her down again.

I myself would rather punch him in the face, black both his eyes and leave him bleeding, but Pepper Potts is not me, and I think Tony should be intensely grateful she's got reins on his company...

And on him.

He's giving me a bright once over he missed out on doing in the morning. I look down and see that my nice grey suit is crinkled and raised well-above-the-knee, and try and smooth it down to it's respectable length, south of my patellas.

Doesn't really work.

The world is against me.

"So," I say lightly. "What time is it?"

"Eleven thirty."

Good effort, Black. You're such a royal mess.

"Sheesh. Here was me thinking an awkward breakfast was needed." I rub my temple. "How hard do you party, Mr. Stark?"

"Like a rockstar. You went quicker than I did, though."

"Read the full article to find out why."

"Shameless self promotion. One of my better qualities. Have you been made aware of the new range of StarkTech that have gone into mass production as of late?"

"I have." I nod.

Pepper just briefly stares at the ceiling, willing it to come down on him as he starts spinning random facts at me. He's one part robot, must be, because his mouth is like a never ending motor...

...Which I'm sure as he reads this will make him think of some dirty joke to send my way.

Pepper organises him into another suit - I get my blue sundress, the one that's longer than I think is necessary and floral. Typically not a floral person, I scowl at it in the mirror, holding out the excess material to see how I now look like a sugar glider of some description.

"You look like a grandmother." Tony says as I approach, eyeing the hem of my trailing dress.

"I don't know what grandmothers you've seen recently," I pout, strike a flattering pose. "But I don't think they're the same kind as everyone else's."

"Point to you." he makes goo-goo eyes my sternum, then straightens, unfazed by the wit, which may slightly annoy me. "Seriously, though, ditch the dress."

"I have another dress, but it's classy. Bottle green, high rise." I motion on my collar bone to where it hides my chest.

"Why do you ruin my fun?"

I shrug.

"I like Pepper."

"You mustn't have known that before you came here, packing granny-wear." his eyes go south. "So, is everything, you know... Ick?"

"I really hope you aren't referring to my vagina, here."

He barks a laugh.

His eyes are dark, I realise this only because he's tipping his head forward at me so I can see past the line of his shades. For all the intelligence and brightness, the mischief and glittering, they're endless, dark pools, framed by rather attractive laugh lines. I like the fact he smiles enough to have them.

"JARVIS?"

"Yes, sir?"

Now I'm looking around, because there's no one else in the room and that voice seems to be in here somewhere.

"Do we have the WOS closet still online?"

There's a small pause.

"It's in storage, sir. Under the garage."

"C'mon." he waves his hand at me.

"The..." I don't often get floored, especially not with words - with them being my forte. But he's just spat out some undoubted Tony Stark Approved code, and, I permit myself to play the fool. "What, closet?"

"WOS. JARVIS, explain." he leads the way, and I follow along, still looking around for speakers or a well dressed English butler named Jarvis.

"The Walk Of Shame, closet. Mr. Stark, in his... More energetic, days-"

"-Don't think I won't disable you. I was getting a lot of tail."

"Yes, well." he sounds completely unenthused. "Would frequently ruin his mistress' dresses beyond acceptable wear for the morning after, and kept a catalogue of different garments to suitably clothe them with after they were done in the morning. The clothes are for the, aptly named, Walk Of Shame."

"Pepper thought it was handy." Tony tells me over his shoulder. "She had to dry clean sequins one too many times. This way I was more organised."

"The fact you did this frightens me, a little." I look at my dress, the tiny blue flowers with red centres, the swirliness around my ankles. I thought it was pretty, at least, as well as mildly flattering, just not slutty. "Can't you just be seen in public with a lady, for once?"

"I have Pepper to be a lady. I think we both know you are no lady. I'm just keen to bring it out, a little more."

"Keep that talk up, and I'll show you how much of a lady I am." I say to the back of his head.

"Yeah, you beat up a bunch of aliens, right? That's how you got here, earned that award?"

"That'd be me." I say, and watch him punch in a number on what appears to be a slice of misplaced glass.

"That's cool. I, myself, am quite the alien beater-upperer. We should beat up some aliens together, sometime." He pulls open a glass door that reveals a work station - there is a mess of stuff everywhere. "Like 'em all beated up."

Semantics, numbers, technical designs hanging on walls, bits and pieces of machinery laying half finished. Lonely cups ringed with week's worth of coffee dregs, food wrappers, a box of Fruit Loops. A robotic arm squeaks and nervously hides behind a whiteboard as Tony sends it a blistering glare he doesn't bother to explain.

"You know," I say, twirling around. "For a genius... You have a fairly unsatisfying vocabulary."

"Oh come on." he snorts, digging through some drawers that were already open. "Wait until you meet the Doc, or maybe even Thor's girlfriend Jane. Then you get really long words and really big headaches. Chill."

"Thor's got a girlfriend?"

"Don't be so disappointed Everyone else is free but us. Well, maybe not Hawkeye and Black Widow. I think they're knockin' more than just boots. But, don't publicize that, I might get sniped."

Which is exactly why I chose to publicize it.

"JARAVIS? Where's the remote for storage? Where'd I leave it?"

"I don't know."

"Well can you find out?"

I swear the computer is sighing.

"Let me review my files, sir."

"Should I invent a remote finder? Like a beeper?"

"You'd lose the beeper too frequently." he advises.

"Yeah, probably." Stark rubs the plate of light in his chest.

I gawk.

"Okay, seriously, that's your AI?"

"Yup. That's JARIVS." he looks around at me. "What, you know Artificial Intelligences, kid?"

"I, for starters, am not a kid. I happen have a huge hard on for nerdy stuff like this." I tell him. "He's... really advanced. Like, his personality is phenomenal."

"Baby, you had me at hard on." His grin is naughty.

"Sir, the remote is in the coat hanging on the white board." the cool voice says. "And thank you, Miss Black, for your compliment to my personality."

"You're welcome, JARVIS." I look around. "Okay, I don't actually know where to look when talking to you."

"I am a house hold entity, Miss Black. I am everywhere."

"Ominous." I mutter, but he still hears me.

"Undoubtedly." he says, and I look back to Tony, who's got a red button in his hand. He presses it and tosses it over his shoulder, not bothering to watch where it goes. There's a low rumble, and I whirl to see the ground is now coming up at me.

"Just another day in the Stark household." I say, blinking at it.

The four Iron Man suits stare back at me, as they go on past. The concrete that acts as a roof shudders, then slides open and lets them pass on through. There's more machine bits and pieces a vast expanse of a real world display that might be mimicking Stark Expo, and a few more - need-to-know items I can't legally mention, thanks, Nick.

Nick is my not-boyfriend. But I know he finds me hot. It was he who turned up at my place of work and talked me into this nonsense, made me read and rehash the guidelines of my admittance into the Avengers' world.

Nick, my not-boyfriend, is the boss of all things Avengers.

"There they are. You're a size-" he then correctly measures me with nothing but his eyes, and wonders off into the WOS wardrobe that had risen from hell. When he comes back, he's got a little - TINY - black dress over his arm and a pair of bright red pumps in the other.

"No." I say, and knock him out of my way and shove my purse in his general direction. "If you close this shit while I'm in there, I'll crawl out and break your face."

"Look forward to it. Your size is up the back, on the left." He says, and engages JARVIS in mild conversation that leaves my head reeling. If I go missing, the computer is threatening to send footage of some kind of detriment to some important government agency I can't mention on fear for my life (from Nick).

The AI is on the defence for me.

So.

Cool.

"JARVIS?" I mock whisper, when I find my sizes.

"Yes, Miss Black?" he isn't whispering, but his volume is lowered, and he's only addressing me from a single speaker closer to my person.

"Can- uh... Can you tell me if Tony starts to peek on me? I need to change."

"Of course, miss. I'll keep all thousand eyes on his person."

"Thanks."

"You are welcome."

The skirt I pick is well above the knee, but it's supposed to be high waisted, so I pull it to a more comfortable length, still up around my belly button somewhere. There are a decided lack of shirts, so I end up with a tank-dress tucked into the skirt and a sheer billowy white shirt that comes in dramatically at the hands and waist.

I have to pull the tags off these items, and I try very hard to ignore their prices, but I just can't. The skirt alone has me wanting to take inch-long strides as it is. Luckily, I ignore that timid, easily intimidated part of my brain and strut.

I keep on my little black flats and try to ignore the smell of thousands of dollars of untouched shoes, staring sadly at me as I pass on by them.

"If you comment negatively on this, and try and make me change," I tell him, who's got his hand in the cereal box. "I'm not above letting the public know about your sudden and strange fetishes."

His eyes linger on the tightness of my skirt.

"Not that I don't have several, strange and intense fetishes, but I won't say a word. Nice ass."

I'm very tempted to revel in the praise, and might do it, just a little.

"I work hard to keep my ass like this. Let's go, I'm starving."

"All those clothes in there," he says, mouth full of pasta. "You want 'em?"

I nearly break the glass I'm holding.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. S'not like I'm usin' them. I'm a changed man, now."

"You told me I had a nice ass."

"So?... I didn't touch it."

I consider that.

"I see the improvement, although I would've had to exert some kind of brutal force if you had."

"Turns me on, not off. I know a buncha ladies capeable in more ways'n one."

"Like Pepper?"

He stabs his fork at me.

"No one is like Pepper."

Pause.

"But those clothes..." I go on, because now my interest is well and truly piqued. "The shoes!... Shouldn't you, auction them off, or hand them to charity?"

"They're old. Out of date."

"So you give them to me?"

"I saw the way you tried to inhale the heels." he waves his fork at me. "Just say yes."

"My grandmother would kill me if she knew." I wince like it's selling my soul to the Devil.

"Just say yes."

Sorry Gran.

"Yes?"

"Good, they're yours."

I nearly die. Instead, I eat some more of his chef wrought pasta and drink some more sweet wine.

"Where is Pepper?" I ask him.

He thinks he hides the loneliness, but he doesn't. Those dark eyes of his stop glittering. It's like I'm killing his dog, expressed all in the eyes.

"Out. She's got a company to run, apparently it has to run in Russia."

"Russia. Never been."

"Lotta spies come from Russia." the twinkling is back, so I figure he's speaking about something that he's not supposed to be speaking about, and for both our sakes I now have to delete the resulting conversation from my brain.

Nick, I'm not going to have anything left to write about!

From the conversation of secrets, we get onto the Iron Man idea.

"Nothing like being tortured." by now he's (we both have) had a lot of wine, and he's just sent over for more alcohol that isn't mild but incredibly strong, because I've had a bit to drink in my time and I can smell it from where it is. "I mean, there's shit like watching people you love being tortured, and that's worse, always worse because..."

He drinks a big mouthful.

"Because you wanna take that pain away, you know? You want that pain to be yours, to own it, you can't... You don't want 'em to hurt, you'd rather take the beatings, the ice dunkings, the blood letting...But I mean, when you're hurting so bad, when people have so much o' that hate in 'em that they try and break you... Snap you, shatter you, tear you apart... Nothing like it. Nothing like it in the whole world."

"Tony?"

His eyes are unfocused. I know he's just talking. My hand goes out and I squeeze his, which is loosely hanging onto the side of the table.

"I hate to think that you went through that." I say, because 'I'm Sorry', isn't enough. "And I don't know you. But I hate it for you."

"Thanks." his fingers lose purchase on the table, and he pats my wrist. "You're alright, for the media. I hate the media."

"I ain't the media." I inform him. "I'm just a girl who happens to write for a living."

He reaches over and pours a healthy-... well, too much, in my glass and clinks his against it with force. He skulls his but I sip mine, trying to keep a sober mind in the presence of a mildly smashed Stark.

"I have never..." he said, after smacking his lips. "Ever, talked about the kidnapping, before."

"I have never heard a personal kidnapping story told before." I tell him in return.

There's a small bout of his chuckling and my snickering, then he says:

"I have never sat in a normal movie theatre without getting laid."

"That isn't reserved for the elite, cuz neither have I."

He smacks my shoulder, and I laugh into my glass.

"I have never... Hmm... There's not a lot I never."

I seem to put thought into what I say next.

"I have never met anyone as famous as you until I beat me up some aliens. But I like you. I thought I was going to have to fake the death of my father to get out of this, I'm not gunna lie. I don't lie a lot."

I hear my own laughter on the recording. But then I hear something else. Something I'm not quite sure I remember on my own merit.

"Hey, wanna play a drinking game with me?" he says, then the line goes dead and I drank too much to recall what happened next.

Tony is casually sitting on the kitchen table, reflective aviators on, nursing a big opalescent blue mug against his temple. I slit my fingers over my eyes, but it doesn't stop the pain stabbing me in the retina.

Waking up on his bathroom floor was not pleasant I realise that my mic has been on the last few hours and that I'll eventually hear what happened after, but at that moment, I could care less about the 'interview' or 'days in the lives of', and just hold my throbbing skull with both hands.

"You're not wearing pants." he says.

"I don't care." I've got the hangover from hell and, besides, I found a oily t-shirt of his, and pulled it on over the tank dress from yesterday, which I hasten to lower with one grumpy hand. "Jesus, Stark, what the hell did you feed me?"

"Brandy." he belches, groans a little. "Lots, and lots, of brandy. Then some whiskey. Chased it with scotch. Here." he takes the mug off his head and I see it's swollen, cut, black and blue.

"Hell. What'd you do to your head!" the explanation makes me claw a hand over the pound in my brain, and for once, I wish I was the more quiet type.

"As if I know." he shrugs one shoulder. "It's got stitches in it, I'm sure it's fine."

"Naturally, your ego cushioned whatever impact you've had."

"Do you want the only known cure for nasty hangovers?" he wiggles the mug at me.

"What's in it?"

"Trust me, sweetheart, you don't want to know. Just know it works."

I take it and sip it - it's thick and cold and soothes my abused throat. I'd clearly been throwing up all night, clearly been drinking something that burns, but where that begins or ends is a total mystery to me.

I make a sound like I'm having a religious experience which makes him snicker a little. Without much thinking about it, I put my head on the marble of the kitchen table, just before his crossed legs. He fondly, carefully, pats the back of my head, chuckling.

"Glad you think this is funny." I grump.

"You put 'em away, Kitten. Gave me a run for my money."

"I must've been running nonstop, all night."

"I wouldn't say that." he shuffles back, slides his horribly bright green Hulk inspired pants in front of my face, which makes me stand up and take a sip of his healing elixir.

"What would you say, then?"

"There was running... I think there was water..."

"I know my bra is wet. But I don't know why." I feel my way to his sink - my eyes are still mostly closed - and shove my face under the nozzle for some mouthwash. The mug is full of a miracle, I'm sure, but the after taste is downright horrid. I rinse and spit.

"I was in a puddle when I came 'round. It wasn't the stinky kind of puddle, which is always good." he reaches up, finds the mug, and producing a straw, drinks a little, hollowing his cheeks to get it into his mouth.

"How many stinky puddles have you woken up in, exactly?" I mumble, not really expecting an answer.

"Twelve." is a curt reply.

I stand up so fast I get severe headspin and Tony catches my arm as I start to teeter to the side.

"Not all of them were his own. I would know, because I was the one picking him up from them, in varying states of dress, composure, half dead-" Pepper has got this face like a snow queen on, but damn her, she's still like a goddess. "-which is what you're gonna be when you realise what time it is."

"Nine?" he tries.

"Twelve?" I'm more realistic.

"Four. In the afternoon. You had JARVIS lock me out." hands to hips, this is a bad sign. I suddenly feel like offering to help clean up and baking her something, but I can't put my abilities in the kitchen to the test, not when I feel like hurling into the sink.

"Awh, Pep-"

"Don't you Pep me!"

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"You could've been dead in here! Do you know how many times I had to scoop the vomit from the back of your throat, Tony? Do you know how many times you were nearly catatonic, and I was the one who picked you up? What about all the times I took care of the hookers and the floozies, and all the rest of your women and tramps who think that because they spread their legs they rule the god damn world-!" the tirade ends, because she's getting shriller, and shriller, choking up.

For all that panic, all that anger, she's just concerned for him.

My heart breaks a little.

"Ah, shit." now I'm guilty. I want to apologise but she's forgotten I'm even here.

"Yeah, you'd better skeddadle." Tony says, sitting up more fully.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR HEAD?!"

"Well, shouting isn't helping-"

"TONY!"

"It's nothing, it's only a few stitches-"

"WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"I'll send those clothes to you." Tony promises as Pepper grabs a handful of his scalp and drags him down to eye level to better inspect his injury. "Just- ow! - go on, Happy'll take you home. JARVIS, direct Kitten to Happy?"

"Yes, sir. To your left, Miss Kitten."

"Uh... Nice meeting you..." I say, but it's tiny and awkward and a little bit sad.

So.

We got really drunk.

From what I gather, the mic was turned on sometime when Tony and I were hysterically laughing about something - I'm gonna go ahead and say we were smoking pot, because that's exactly what we sounded like we were doing.

A few hours after, the echoing bathroom scene.

"UGH, I feel like utter shit-"

Belching.

"I got your hair."

"Ugh, why won't I just throw up?!"

"You hold good liquor, for a dame."

"Shut up, Tony."

"Sure, Kitten."

"I'm not a kitten!" But I'm laughing again, breathlessly wheezing into the bowl.

He's chuckling too, and I hear a sloppy kiss - can't be on my mouth because I'm clearly saying: "Ewwww! Don't, I feel sick enough as is!"

"Meow?" he shouts another laugh and I join him, before we settle briefly.

"I think I'm gonna-" anxious pause. "No, no it's gone. Wait- wait-" the wet and solid sounds of vomit hitting the bowl.

"There you go, princess." Tony encourages. "Breathe. It's alright." there's the sound of him petting my shoulder, rubbing my back. I'm quietly sobbing now, and he makes a sad sound.

"You don't have to wipe my face." I sniff.

"You've got make up everywhere."

"You make me think about my dad when you care." It is the most pathetic sounding line ever uttered from my mouth, and you bet I'm blaming the alcohol still then in my system.

"I'm not that old. Don't cry, Kit. Blow." I can hear myself blowing my nose. "There ya go."

I sniffle.

"And daddy issues are never a good thing. Lookit what happened to Loki."

"I don't have daddy issues."

"That is literally what he said."

I sniff, and he sighs.

"I'm not cryin' any more, stop wipin' my face."

"It makes me feel better." he says. "So shut up."

"I hate that you're so nice." But now I'm crying again.

"Don't tell any one, it's a secret."

More violent throwing up happens.

"Naw, poor Kitten." he says, and sighs. "It's alright, kid, I'm an expert. You just throw up lots now and you'll be okay. I'll look after you n'meantime."

"No one's looked after me, 'fore." I whisper quietly, into the rim of the toilet. "You won't even 'memeber this t'morrow, will you?"

"ARVIS!" he says. "SHARVIS! 'Mind me that I gotta look after this girl. Remind me tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Should I send for a proper doctor, sir?"

"Nah, nah. Doc's said she's okay. She's okay. You're okay."

Now he's petting my hair, because I'm making the low mewling noise I make when people do that. There's more vomit - more tears - more Tony promising to keep an eye on me, and look after me.

As I sit there and listen to it, it makes me feel a little sad I probably will never see him again. Plus, I still have his oily, sweaty man shirt in my hamper, somewhere.

The clothes came not a day after I was at home. Complete with shoes and more purses than I know what to do with.

It was adressed to: "Kitten."

...

But I have no idea why.