Disclaimer: I do not own nor do I claim to own any characters or concepts related to Iron Man or the associated Marvel Universe. This is a nonprofit work of fanfiction.

Author's Notes: Sharing is Caring was written for lj user shaney for the given prompt of Tony's living room (location), quiet yet playful (mood), and red (color).

Sharing is Caring

Tony took the stairs as he did most evenings: two at a time, his heels cracking against the wood. Pepper glanced at him over her laptop, taking him in as he crossed the floor: sweats wrinkled at his ankles, grease spattered across his shirt and along his right wrist, the arc reactor shining above his heart.

He wrinkled his nose as he approached the long, lean leather couch. "Something smells good. Have you been cooking?" Too late Pepper remembered her untouched chicken fettucini, perched in the seat of honor upon the otherwise spotless coffee table. Naturally Tony zeroed in on it with a sudden and surprising intensity.

"When did you last eat?" Pepper said.

"Lunch," said Tony. "No, this morning. Chinese, reheated, please don't lecture me."

Pepper lifted her chin. "I didn't intend to."

"Right, uh-huh. You're a terrible liar, you know. I can see it in your eyes. The welling disdain. Is this Italian?"

He rounded the coffee table and before she could stop him - while she reassured herself with the knowledge that of course Mr Stark would not dare steal her dinner - he grabbed the fork where it rested lengthwise across the bowl and stabbed it deep into the pasta.

"Tony!"

He paused, fork already in his mouth, one long strand of pasta dripping on his chin.

"That was my dinner," she said.

Tony collapsed on the leather cushion beside her, his knee bumping the table, then coming to rest on her thigh. He wiped at his beard with his thumb. "Sharing is caring, Miss Potts," he said at last. "It's the golden rule."

Pepper nudged his leg aside, succeeding only in giving him cause to settle deeper into the couch. "'Sharing is caring' is not the golden rule."

"It's not? Strange. See, I could've sworn..."

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you," she said quite primly.

Tony chewed, mulling this thought over. "Twain?"

"The golden rule."

"Well, that settles it, then." He sliced off a thin wedge of chicken with the long edge of the fork, then carefully nicked it between two fingers. "Next time we go out, you get first dibs on my plate. Pinky swear." And with great gravity, he lifted his hand and stuck out his pinky.

Pepper eyed him for one long moment. The fork in his hand, the spot of sauce hidden in his goatee near the corner of his mouth. The line of grease on his throat. The swollen circles under his eyes. She sighed. "Fine," she said, and she hooked her pinky with his. They shook twice, then released. "But you owe me dinner," she added.

"Pizza's in the fridge," he said around a mouthful of chicken.

Pepper wrinkled her nose. "I think not."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"I will," she said, with dignity.

Tony finished the chicken breast and most of the pasta in seven large bites, half as many as Pepper would have required. Pulling his collar high, he cleaned his mouth and jaw of sauce, but left a faint trace of grease across his nose. "Can't beat home cooking," he said. He clapped his hands on his thighs and went to stand, his leg pushing against hers, then sliding away once more.

"Oh, just a moment--"

He turned to her and Pepper took advantage of the moment to rub her fingertip across his nose. Tony blinked at her down the thick line of his nose, over the splayed ridge of her fingers.

"There," she said.

"Thank you, Pepper," he said, quite seriously. "Where would I be without your gentle touch?"

"Not eating my chicken," she said, just as seriously.

"Let it go, Potts!"

Pepper called after him: "You have a meeting at nine, so please at least try to be in bed before four!"

Tony flashed her his open hand in salute, then descended the stairs with the same casual grace he displayed in ascension: two at a time, heels thumping hard on the wood in a quick and recognizable rhythm.

In his absence, Pepper stared into the empty bowl: the few bedraggled strips of pasta lining the sides, the bit of tomato floating in the sauce. Oh, well, she thought. I'll just have to get him back at some place fancy. The room was quiet, her leg cold. Pepper turned back to her laptop.

This story was originally posted at livejournal on 05/15/2008.