NOTES: updated 4/13/21
This story is a trope-filled, sexual tension laden examination of what it means to know yourself, find yourself wanting, and try to change. I intended this to be a sexy romp but my writing just does what it does. It's definitely more lighthearted than Exile All the Longer, but it's not the 'polar opposite' as I had initially called it. As much as I mourn the loss of my initial intention of writing a more Pride and Prejudice style story with more sexual tension and a Yinsen acting as the Jane role, this... didn't turn out that way. It's better.
Tony does not start out being super likeable in this, because that's where he starts out in the days before he's kidnapped. I say this as a reminder, because it's not like all of you have been watching clips of Iron Man 1 to make sure dialogue and mannerisms are accurate! SUCH a chore, you guys. [[HIS ARMS! gahhhh.]]
4/25/2021: Chapters have been shuffled from 11 down to 8, but NO CONTENT HAS BEEN LOST. I apologize for any confusion (and reviews left prior to this date will mis-match the chapters they've been left on). I also apologize for any reviews that were lost, I value all of them and I am sorry that a consequence of my reshuffle is that some are lost.
Chapter One: Sunlight
"Oh, wow! You're like, a pocket sized version of Rory Fall!" the soldier says, looking down at Emory. She smiles, sweet and insincere. The kind of person who makes remarks like that never catches that her reaction is condescending. Then again, the kind of person who makes 'pocket size' comments probably doesn't think it's possible for a five foot, two inch woman to be condescending.
Emory Autumn had always been small for her age. As a baby, her level of nutrition had been a concern; as a toddler, she'd wowed everyone who thought she shouldn't be able to walk or talk at her size; in elementary school, she was always seated in the front of the classroom and in photos. By middle school, she discovered that the 'growth spurt' she was hinging her hopes on was going to be centered on her chest rather than anywhere else, with the possible exception of her hips. In high school, she'd embraced her looks. Emory grew her wild, wavy red hair just past her shoulders, learned how to use makeup to enhance her 'sultry sweetheart' aesthetic, and stopped buying shirts that didn't have a scoop or a vee neck.
If they were going to garner so much attention, 'the girls' needed to breathe.
Emory's parents got divorced when she was seventeen, and she became the bait in a really frustrating fishing expedition on the part of both of her parents. Her only joy during that time was music. Maybe nothing else about Emory's body had worked out the way she'd wanted it to, but she could sing. After her parents dragged her from school district to school district in a mad bid for control over the child support money on offer, she'd ended up at a high school with a really great music program.
A really great music program and a really great friend to enjoy it with.
Natalie Poricofsky had pretty much everything Emory wanted, save for the singing voice. Tall, blonde, popular, and reasonably busted, Natty could have been another one of the snooty girls who shut Emory out when she'd first walked in the door. Instead, they'd become really close. Emory had taught Natty everything she knew about music, and Natty had taught Emory everything she knew about men.
Namely, that they're almost never worth the time and effort.
Nearly eight years later, Emory is sweltering in her shiny black blouse and miniskirt. She's grateful that she'd worn the knee-high black boots for the solid, reassuring sole and sharp heel. Even though she'd never actually do it, it's comforting to think about digging that heel into the soft parts of someone who refuses to take her seriously.
She's done it before, metaphorically and physically.
A lot has changed over the years. Natty is now Rory, a consequence of their appearance on Make U A Star, a singing competition show on the now-defunct United Artists network. The producers had taken blonde, sweet-voiced Natalie Poricofsky and turned her into Rory Fall, a redheaded siren with a sultry alto her friend still couldn't quite master, even after years of Emory's patient voice coaching.
It wasn't that Emory hadn't seen what they were trying to do. Best friends show up with enough talent between them to make one pop star, one winner for the one and only season of UA's breakout makeover/voice competition. Of course they chose the tall, willowy one. Hair could be dyed. Voices could be faked.
"I don't know how to do this, you HAVE to help me, Em!" her friend had begged. Emory was always a sucker for begging. She'd read the Harry Potter books and immediately saw herself as a Hufflepuff, through and through. Loyal, patient, generous? Absolutely.
Lately, though, entertainment writers are starting to write articles about Rory with seasonal puns (Is Rory Fall Heading Out of Summer into FALL With Her Latest Antics?), and Emory is starting to describe herself with adjectives far less positive than she used to. Doormat. Steamrolled. Lonely. Being her friend's Personal Assistant is no longer like being in Rory's corner. It's more like being a handler, the handler, whose absence means catastrophe. Everyone relies on Emory's gentle, steady hand on the tiller to navigate Rory's ship through the dangerous waters, but no one wants to keep her from getting saltwater in her wounds. No one even acknowledges that the wounds are inflicted by Rory herself.
Something is going to have to give, Emory knows. She's not looking forward to it.
"Are you kidding me?!"
Emory holds back her eye roll with over half of a decade's practice. Their own private USO-style tour is going well so far, which hadn't been a given. But there are protocols involved with traveling in a war zone, even if the fighting is nowhere near their current location. Rory brought her current boyfriend with them, and there is a minimum number of soldiers required to travel in each Hum-Vee. Hank had offered to switch to a different one before the main caravan group arrived to satisfy the regs, but Rory won't hear of Hank riding anywhere but with her.
Hank means well, but he doesn't quite know how to handle Rory. Their trip is a career rejuvenating tour at its core. They need this to play well, with the troops they are interacting with on the ground, the ones Rory performs to, and most importantly, the people who will report on the first two. Leaving Rory Fall alone in a Hum-Vee with just Hank to keep her from saying the wrong thing is like tuning a piano without a tuning fork and expecting it will work out fine.
There's a small percent chance it will! But not a realistic chance.
"I don't care what my assistant said. You go back there and you get my fucking boyfriend and put him in the car with me, okay? Okay."
Shit, Emory thinks to herself. Rory's image may be that of a redheaded siren, but her audience is preteen girls whose parents control the purse strings. They'd never been able to break into the more adult listener base, college students and young professionals. They would understand a frustrated young woman swearing at the person standing in the way of 'true love,' but those preteen girls wouldn't ever hear about the scandal, if it got out. They'd just be told that Rory Fall wasn't an appropriate role model by their parents, and that would be the end of it.
"What can I do to make this better, Diva mine?" Emory calls out, speaking the magic phrase she's getting really sick of having to say.
"You can take your fat ass and put it in a different vehicle, Em," Rory says, her eyes completely covered by sunglasses that cost about as much as Emory's current rent for a month. "Because not only do I refuse to ride with you at all, there isn't room anyway, because riding with Hank is non-negotiable. So either you stay behind, or you ride with the weapon tycoon's people. Kay?"
Insulting Emory's looks is a new thing since Hank. It's such an obvious way of trying to damage her value as possible competition for Rory's boyfriend's attention that Emory is usually able to slough it off. This time, though, Rory is saying it in front of other people. Their uncomfortable expressions show a range of pity and disgust, which makes the whole situation worse.
"That's brilliant, actually," Emory says brightly. "I didn't know there would be room with the other convoy. Thanks for the suggestion. Do me a favor, though?" As she says this, Emory hands over one of the last of her supply of Rory's favorite candy. It makes her feel gross to treat her grown friend the same way a parent might treat a toddler, but when you're trying to handle one of the most volatile stars in the business, you do what you can.
"Just this once, and only if I want to. Tell me," Rory demands.
"The commander in charge of the unit we're traveling with today told me one of his guys' daughters absolutely loves your music. He got called away after that and didn't tell me which one. It's really important we don't make this guy unhappy with the idea of letting his kid listen to you, okay?" Emory holds up her phone and wiggles it a little. "You remember that Reddit thread where people talked about the famous people who are jerks in real life?"
Rory makes a groaning sound. "Ugh, yes. Okay. You always take such good care of me!" she says in a girlish, squeaky kind of voice, leaning over to kiss Emory on the top of the head. "Have fun with Stark. You remember him, right? Man was fantastic in bed, but way too into kissing."
"Oh, sure," Emory says. She can't picture that ever being a problem. "Keep Hank safe, okay? See you when we get there."
"Bye-eee!"
Emory doesn't want to watch Rory hamming it up for the nonexistent paparazzi cameras, so she turns away. The group commander must have been standing right behind her, because she almost walks into him.
"Excuse me, sir," she says politely.
"Young lady, you need a raise," the man says bluntly. "I recognize combat experience when I see it. But when we tear down, we build back up. Keep that in mind."
Emory looks down, embarrassed by the praise. There is one thing she hopes he can help with, though. "By any chance, do you know if there's space in Stark's caravan? I was told there was an addition to ours that leaves us one person over the number of spaces we have."
"Come with me," the man says.
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The best way to impress people with opulence is to look like you're not affected by it. Tony takes the cold glass of amber liquid from the custom-built liquor enclosure and waves a dismissive hand.
"We'll be throwing one of these in with every purchase of-" he pauses for a fraction of a second, thinks up a ridiculous number. "Five hundred million or more."
They won't, of course. It's his own private 'Tony Stark turns everything into a vehicle for pleasure' show-off piece. His people will pack it up once the troops get a gander at it.
Tony takes another sip and answers his phone. Obie's encouraging as usual, and Tony hurries him along as quickly as he can. The work part is basically over, and he wants to put that behind him. Hang out with a few of the troops, get to his plane, get back into the air, and maybe find out what the new blonde flight attendant's lip gloss tastes like.
He gets into the waiting car and an obliging soldier shuts the door for him.
As Tony's eyes adjust to the darkness in the Hum-Vee, the first thing he sees is a pair of black leather boots with a killer heel. They go up higher than he expected they would, but what he really appreciates is the strip of skin between where the knee-high boots end and the black miniskirt begins. Tony traces his eyes up some more and tightens his grip on the glass. Her black blouse is snug, lovingly cupping a pair of breasts that his connoisseur's eye tells him are probably magnificent.
Please be blonde, please be blonde, he thinks to himself, tracing his eyes upward. The woman's eyes are focused on the phone in her lap, so he can't see what color they are, but her hair, which is tightly pulled back in some kind of horrible professional bun-thing, is flame red. Hell yes, that's even better.
"Hey, Tony?" Rhodey says, reaching for the handle as if he's going to get inside with him.
"Oh, I'm sorry, this is the Fun-Vee," Tony says, wondering if Jessica Rabbit will hear him and understand he's referring to her. He leans out of the car to block Rhodey's view inside, just in case. "The Hum-drum-Vee is back there."
"Nice job," Rhodey says, the corners of his lips tightening in disapproval. He definitely saw her boots, at least, Tony thinks.
"See you back at base," Tony tells his friend. Rhodey doesn't respond, simply pats the metal door in silent acquiescence. The sound breaks Boots' concentration, and she looks up, sees Tony, and makes an unhappy face.
Hmm, he thinks to himself. It's too dark inside the HumVee to see what color her eyes are, and he wants to know. If he's honest, he wants to know a lot more things about her, inappropriate things, but that expression she made is one he's seen before. She disapproves of him, Tony thinks.
He likes that. It's more of a challenge.
"That was quite a face," he says, holding his drink up near his lips. He wants to see what her reaction will be if he touches his tongue to the glass before taking a sip. That's usually a great indicator of whether a woman's interested, because they often don't even realize that they're following that movement with a touch of hunger in their eyes. To Tony's disappointment, she doesn't look back up. It could still be a good sign, though. The ones that want to resist him have a tendency to deliberately avoid looking at him, to prolong it.
Tony knows he's handsome, knows the effect his confidence and open interest can have. There's no shame in being obvious, he's found. Of course, that's probably connected to his wealth, but that's not going anywhere, and he's all about appreciating his advantages.
The soldier in the front passenger seat turns around. He's got a camera, and as soon as he lifts it, the young man beside Tony grins and makes 'photo, please?' puppy dog eyes at him.
Tony leans over. Both soldiers are almost giddy, the one posing for the photo, the other snapping it.
"What about you, sweetheart, you want to tuck in over here for the picture?" Tony asks. There's… practically no room for that, which has all sorts of pleasant implications for the precarious nature of the buttons on her blouse. She's obviously never been told that the body retains some water in heat like this, and to bring clothing that allows a little extra space.
Not that he's complaining.
"'Sweetheart?'" she repeats, one expertly plucked red eyebrow lifting.
"Boots, Buttons, whichever. Come on, don't disappoint the man with the camera."
Her breathing is quickening with her outrage, just as he'd hoped it would.
"You have no idea who I am, do you?" she asks.
"Woahhhh," at least two of the soldiers say, watching the exchange.
"Well, it is dark in here, but I am certain I would have remembered a chest like that, so I'm going to say nope, no idea." If she gets mad enough, Tony's certain one of the buttons will let go. He thinks he recognizes the make of the blouse, and he's done the movie-move of ripping one of them open after an awards party once. The buttons gave way like they were snaps.
"Typical," she says.
"Ooooohh," Tony says at the same time as one of the male soldiers. "One of those."
She looks up at him, then, and he takes a sip of his drink, touching his tongue to the glass. Her eyes follow the movement. Excellent.
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Emory thinks that Stark is totally Rory's type. He's got the kind of insufferable confidence that was always like a red cape waved in front of her friend, as if catching that kind of a man's eye means more. She looks up after he implies she's some kind of a man-hater, and catches him taking a sip from the glass.
The way he moves his tongue reminds her, incongruously, of the comment Rory had made about kissing, and her face heats up. She's grateful for the darkness of the HumVee.
Suddenly, the vehicle in front of them explodes. Emory is facing backwards, so it's behind her, and when she turns to look, it's almost like every single angle of escape bursts into fireballs around them.
"What have we got?" Stark says, freezing in his seat. She slips down onto the floor, listening to the sounds of gunfire and shouting voices. This is the worst-case scenario, the thing she'd been most afraid of when she and Rory had first talked about coming to sing for the troops. Emory's shirt is too tight; her lungs are full of fear. It's spilling out into her chest cavity and making breathing practically impossible.
She catches the eye of the young man who had been making a peace symbol in a photograph with Stark just minutes earlier. The look on his face is that of deep regret, as if he knows it might cost him his life to have to worry about their safety as civilians right now.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. He flashes a brief smile, instructs them to stay put, and then climbs out, lifting his gun.
Immediately, there's a burst of gunfire that cannot possibly have missed him. The side of the vehicle is punctured by what has to be twenty holes through which the harsh, bright light of the desert sun is now shining.
Emory never thought she'd be horrified at the sight of sunlight before, but she is now. Gunfire is a temporary, momentary shock, but those rays of light are part fearful memorial, part penetrating promise: the HumVee is not safe. The desert outside it is not safe. Nowhere is safe.
"Should be fine if you-" Stark says, sounding ill. He gestures with his hands that she should lay flat to the floor, but the next thing she knows, he's opening the door and practically falling out. All Emory can think of is that his business suit and the HumVees are probably the most expensive things in the entire area, two objects that are from two vastly different theaters.
There's more yelling outside, a man's voice clearly yelling, "Get down!" She decides that she doesn't want her body tangled up in the metal of this car that was filled with life only ten minutes ago. Emory pushes open the door Stark had used and crawls out, her body low to the ground. She can see him, his black suit so obvious against the desert sand, embarrassingly so- until she remembers that she, too, is wearing black.
She starts crawling toward him, mostly because there are rocks to hide behind.
There's a loud 'thunk' nearby that brings to Emory's mind a podcast she'd listened to about World War I and artillery. Then there's an explosion, a slicing pain in her legs, and the air is sucked from her lungs, leaving only the fear to expand into blackness as she falls unconscious.