Tony dodged the bullets, twisting in mid-flight, his concentration fierce. He could feel his shoulders aching slightly; the Suit's compression against his wings hurt, especially when adrenaline made them want to pop out. He gritted his teeth and looked down at the infuriated cluster of men aiming the rifles.
They stood on a long, narrow bridge over a stone gully, aiming up at him as he circled around, and Tony could see only two options. He could target the weapons, which would cost a few of the terrorists their hands, or he could target the bridge, which would kill them all. Neither could be called a good choice, but he needed to cut off the convoy that was due over the bridge within minutes.
"Jarvis, how low can we go?"
"Within ten and a half inches over the ground, sir, although your vibration is sure to set off whatever road mines we pass over," came the reply.
"Are there any? Along the bridge, I mean."
"There are not," Jarvis assured him. Tony gave a grunt and shifted, arcing around to the far end of the bridge, and dropping to parallel along the road, zooming towards the men.
"This is a little game we like to call Chicken," he murmured, building speed. The zippy 'pings' of bullets against the Suit didn't faze him, and for a moment he enjoyed the look of panic on the men's faces as he approached them at nearly ninety miles an hour. They began to drop their rifles and lose their nerve, pushing to get out of his way, crying out orders. Tony pulled up at the last possible moment, his afterburners igniting a few of their robes as he wheeled around.
The bridge was clear. Swiftly he extended an arm and blasted the structure, which went up in a dusty fountain of dirt and rubble, the brown sandy soil choking up the air.
Tony climbed higher, looking down at his handiwork with a sense of satisfaction. "I'd say that was pretty damned impassible now."
"Indeed sir, and you have cover as well. Might I suggest we take advantage of the confusion below and proceed home?"
"Copacetic with me. Let's ride—" Tony murmured, rising up through the dust and gaining altitude. He soared high and fast, not bothering to look at the passing landscape below.
For a while Tony was silent, but after the first hour, he sighed and spoke. "Jarvis, by estimate, what percentage of the human population has Fey blood?"
"The current population and generation, sir?"
"Yeah."
"Approximately one hundred percent have some percentage of Fey genetics in their composition now," Jarvis replied.
"Huh. So what percentage of the population has enough to exhibit outward manifestations and be considered part of the Fey community?" Tony pressed on.
"I cannot present an accurate figure—"
"--Estimate, Jarvis. I'm looking for a ballpark figure."
"Given the information I have gleaned from various databases, I would put the percentage at three point five percent of the world's population, sir."
"So that's roughly half the current population of Europe," Tony mentally calculated. "That's a lot of people with wings out there."
"Not all of them have wings," Jarvis pointed out. "Fey characteristics are not limited to physically observable ones, sir."
"I know, I know," Tony sighed. "Charm and Glamour and Luck. Any others?"
"Beauty has often been linked as a Fey trait," the AI added, "And there is documentation that certain manifestations of prodigy are Fey-related."
"Like Mozart?"
"It seems to be generally accepted as so in the Fey community," Jarvis agreed. "In my discussions with Mister Bes, we have often—"
"Whoa! You have had discussions with Cupid?" Tony gawked. "Seriously?"
"Indeed, sir."
"But he only shows up in dreams . . ." came the confused comment. "And you don't—"
"I do, sir. I created a random imagery computation program that I run for myself from midnight until three in the morning. This simulates REM sleep, and through it, I am able to in effect, dream."
Tony blinked, startled and intrigued by this revelation. "You dream."
"After a fashion," the AI agreed.
"That is . . . and you talk to Cupid?"
"Indeed. We have had several enlightening conversations on many topics. I find him to be an endless source of information on the foibles of humanity, particularly in regard to the concept of love."
"Great. Next thing you're going to tell me is that you can love, too," Tony muttered. "Got your eye on the Braun coffeemaker, or maybe my Alfa-Romeo?"
"Our sense of irony has a fine edge at the moment, I see," Jarvis replied. "However, no. Lush as your appliances and modes of transportation might be, I cannot even begin to simulate an attraction to any of them."
"It better not be the Suit," Tony warned as the alarming image of Jarvis sweet-talking his armor dawned on him.
"Nor that. I am not capable of love as you understand it," Jarvis assured him. "Mr. Bes and I have discussed the matter at length, and while I can appreciate the model and theory of love, there are too many variables in it even for a program of my complexity and capacity."
"It IS pretty damned glorious," Tony agreed. "From a human or Fey point of view. So . . . what else have you discussed?"
"Young Maximillian is a favored topic," Jarvis replied evenly.
Tony blinked. Under him the land had long since disappeared to be replaced by water, endless, wrinkled and grey. "Jarvis, security directives expressly in place forbid you to discuss Max!"
"No security directives have been violated or breeched, sir. Mr. Bes has repeatedly shared information with me about Max and I have asked questions in return. That is neither dangerous nor by the strict sense conversation. I theorize that Mr. Bes is attempting to pass on information that he cannot state directly to you or Miss Potts."
"Shit," Tony gritted his teeth. "Okay, let's have it. What's he saying about Max?"
"That your son is more powerful than Mab," Jarvis replied.
"What? No shit?"
"Your orders are unclear, sir—do you wish to defecate or not?"
Tony growled. "Neither, Jarvis—file the terms under slang interjections. Seriously, Max is going to be more powerful than the Wicked Witch of West?"
"No, sir. Is."
*** *** ***
Pepper pushed away the laptop, feeling an ache behind her eyes. Catching up on office Email was always a chore; more so now that she could only do it in chunks of time here and there. Prior to Max's birth she'd worked to streamline her job and share some of the lesser tasks with Tony's immediate office staff, but several of the key day to day operations still required her deft touch.
Still, it was manageable, and Pepper was grateful that she'd had time to juggle the bulk of it. She glanced over to the bassinette, where Max lay sprawled on his back, milk-glutted and sound asleep.
Finally.
He'd been a bit of a terror in the past hour, crying and fussing while she walked the floor with him. Pepper figured that he was working his way through a major BM and rubbed his tummy until his beet-red, scrunchie-face expression changed and she felt the weight shift in his diaper.
She'd laughed; years of dealing with Tony Stark made this little event barely noticeable. Once Pepper had changed her son's diaper and settled him down amid the tribbles, Max had sighed and drifted off to the soft hum of his fuzzy guardians.
Pepper stretched, checking the clock and noting that Max would probably be down for at least two hours . . . she debated which she wanted more—a chance to bathe, or a chance to stretch her wings.
"Jarvis, what is Tony's ETA?" she asked softly.
"He should be arriving within an hour," came the prompt reply.
That settled matters nicely, and Pepper smiled to herself, moving to the master bedroom, humming. She ran the water, added Lilac Butter Wing Toner, extended herself, and lay back in the tub, giving herself over to bliss.
Wing care was one of her favorite self-indulgences, and Pepper was amused at how her own rituals fascinated Tony. He was good about taking care of his own wings—Ming's Pond Polish was his current favorite; a Dragonfly lotion that added luster to his own pair, but they didn't hold the same interest for Tony as her own did.
And that definitely delighted Pepper. She knew she had a decent figure, and nice legs of course; she worked hard enough to keep both of those in good shape. The wings, though, were her one private vanity, and to have Tony entranced by them . . .
After soaking for a good half-hour, Pepper rose and dried off, fluttering her wet wings to dry them completely. The tawny colors were looking better now after Max's birth, and the shoulder tufts were . . . fluffier.
She wrapped herself in a mocha colored towel and stepped out of the steamy bathroom, heading for the dresser, but the sound of footsteps made her look up to see Tony there, sweaty, tousled and wide-eyed in his tank top and sweats.
Pepper took a step backwards, smirking. "Tony--"
"Wannnnnnnt," he replied, staring hungrily. "Pepper----"
"But I just got clean," came her token protest. "And you're all . . ."
"Yeah, yeah, covered in essence of hero," he grumbled, moving closer and reaching out for her. Pepper squeaked as Tony wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling her chin, his heat and musk dissolving her protests like Alka-Seltzer.
He always smelled good, even sweaty, Pepper knew. Tony was one of the few men she'd ever encountered whose body chemistry held a permanent appeal for her. She wanted to chalk it up to Fey influence, but couldn't figure out how . . . and concentrating was getting difficult now, with Tony's fingers trying to tug her towel off as he licked her throat. "Mmmmmm, moth flavor, my favorite!"
"You are . . ." Pepper squirmed, "such a . . ."
"Horndog? Guilty," Tony whispered, his own wings sliding out through the wide armholes of his tank top. "But given the temptation of a nearly nude you all damp and buttery, and the wings and all--"
"Max—"
"Is sound asleep, surrounded by his adoring fluff-groupies," Tony assured her, moving to nibble her ear. Pepper groaned a little, wriggling once more, but not in an attempt to escape this time. "He's fine. You on the other hand, look as if you need some attention."
"Oh this is about me?" she retorted with amusement, flicking her wings a little. Tony pressed up against her, making her back up until her calves bumped the edge of the bed.
"Yep," Tony growled. "All about you needing me to . . . relax you. Everyone knows new moth mothers are too tense."
"Everyone?" Pepper let herself fall backwards on the bed, pulling Tony down with her. The beautiful spread of her wings across the mattress made him suck in a deep breath.
"Every . . . oh God you're gorgeous, Pepper . . ." came his awed whisper. "Are you . . . is this okay? I mean, because it's been a while and I know you're healing . . ." Tony fumbled, not sure of his words as he leaned over her.
Pepper reached up and let her fingers dance along the edges of his wings. "Not yet, but we definitely can do a few other things."
"Yeah?" his dark eyed look of lustful speculation made Pepper giggle.
"Yes. Ever read Joy of Wings, Tony?"
"No. Maybe you should show me the highlights," he suggested. "I'm a very good student when I'm . . . motivated."
Pepper kissed him, her fingertips flicking gently against the membrane of his wings. Tony gulped a little, body rocking forward. He broke off the kiss, "Whoa!"
"That's called romantic raindrops," Pepper told him sweetly. "And I can go faster or slower, depending on how nice I want to be."
"Okay, I have to read this book!" Tony announced. "Do it again, please?"
She did, moving her hands out as far as she could reach along each wing, varying the intensity of her touch and watching Tony respond. It was fun to see him speechless, caught up in the delicacy of her caresses. After a while, Pepper rose up on her knees and bent to nibble the edge of one wing, Tony gurgled, his lean body as tense as a bow.
"Stop . . ." came his ragged plea. "Gonna lose it, sweetheart, if you do that . . ."
She laughed and slipped a hand into his sweatpants, caressing his rampant shaft, stroking it as she leaned against him and firmly nipped his wing.
With a strangled groan, Tony arched against her fingers, splattering them with enthusiastic spurts, his body shuddering. Pepper licked his wing ridge where she had bitten, and helped ease him down onto the mattress, taking care not to bend any wings. Tony stretched out, limp as a pot of over boiled Ramen. "Unnnnnnnghhhhh. Book. Top. Of. Reading list. ASAP."
"Shhhh," she murmured, and rose up. One wet washcloth and pants stripping later, Pepper curled up next to Tony, amused that he was fighting sleep.
"This was supposed to be about you," he mumbled. "Although I'm not sure I can move, not after that wing-bite hand job from heaven."
"Two weeks," Pepper whispered to him. "You can make it up to me in two weeks, Tony. That should give you time to catch up on your . . . reading."
"Deal," Tony sighed, slipping an arm around her and pulling her in for a kiss before adding, "hey, I've got news for you, too. Did you know word is that Max is more powerful than Mab?"
Pepper laughed, softly. "Tony, he's only a month old, and Mab is easily a thousand years beyond that. Who told you this line?"
"Jarvis, via Cupid. I think that explains why the Godmother wants us to sign on the dotted line," Tony sighed. "She's desperate to keep in good with us."
"Right," Pepper snorted softly, settling around Tony and closing her eyes. "I'm so glad you've got it all figured out."
They said nothing more and drifted off to sleep, wrapped around each other.
In the nursery, Max slept on, dreaming of rainbows as the walls of the mansion shifted colors, and clusters of confused tribbles drifted over the crib, humming softly and tumbling in fuzzy constellations over his head.
End
(coming next: All About Max, with apologies to Lois Lowry.)