Enrique Maldonado is a bright, mellow baritoned voiced man with a dry wit and sensible goals. He works in a psychology clinic connected with Stark Industries, compiling research on job site stress factors and working part time towards his Master's degree. He's happily partnered with a boyfriend of six years, Alden, and they plan to marry at some point soon.
And, since he has the same dark eyes and hair, the same general body build and facial looks, he's also Tony Stark's official body double.
Enrique has studied hours of tapes of Tony to catch the mannerisms and unconscious body language of the man; he's well-paid to do so, and is an excellent mimic. When Tony has to put in appearances in different places at the same time, or when he needs to escape the media, he calls Enrique. His double dons a fake goatee and sunglasses, then allows himself to be photographed, escorted, feted and followed, leaving Tony to escape the pressure for a while.
It's a living, and by great good fortune, Tony not only pays Enrique well, but also genuinely likes the man who has allowed him to have nights of freedom and privacy, so when Tony calls, Enrique is delighted. "Hey it's been a while! So you need to be able to slip out for a date? Okay, when?"
"Friday, dinner."
"You're in luck, boss—that actually is the *only* free night on my calendar. So where am I going, and do I need a date?"
"You're *me* for the night; of *course* you need a date, and no, it can't be Alden, adorable as he is," Tony sighs. "Seriously."
"Does Jim want to do dinner?" Enrique muses in his deep voice.
"He's in Pensacola for the week, sorry. You'll have to find another way to make Alden jealous," Tony teases. "I could fix you up with Russell Crowe."
"No thanks. Jealous is one thing, but suicidal I'm not. I can ask my cousin Francesca. She's just done the cover of Elle, and would love the chance to play arm candy for a free dinner."
"Elle?" Tony perks up, but Enrique snorts.
"Trust me, I'm saying this as a friend, but you don't want to date Francesca. She's an art major, only into eighteenth century painters, so unless you want all your conversations to center on Turner and Watto—"
"Gotcha," Tony sighs. "Ah well. Where can I set you two up?"
"Oh I'm partial to seafood—how about Santoro Grill?"
"Good enough. Happy will make sure to get you in and out; order whatever you and your cousin want."
"Great," Enrique enthuses. "So is Miss Pepper going to help me get that damned beard on right, and when are you going to shave that thing off?"
"Yes and never," Tony shoots back. "It helps me maintain my Satanic image."
"Whatever. It's a pain in the ass," Enrique replies cheerfully. "But, hey, *you're* the boss."
"And don't you forget it, cutie. Show up about seven and we'll get organized," Tony replies, and after a little more small talk, they hang up.
000ooo000ooo000
Well before Friday comes, Pepper is just slightly, seriously nervous. More so than she was on Wednesday, if that's possible, because she's aware that dinner with Tony officially qualifies as a Big Deal. In the scheme of dating, it's definitely moving into the realm of relationship now.
She hopes the disguises will help, and settles herself into juggling a few items on the agenda around so she can get her legs waxed on Thursday, along with a pedicure, just in case.
The 'just in case' is definitely making her nervous, and in that tingly stomach way Pepper hasn't felt since her pre-appendectomy days, because while it's one thing to make out with Tony on the sofa, it's quite another thing to make love with him.
Pepper knows she's pretty. She's been told so by people who love her, and has fended off enough attention in her lifetime to know that yes, she was blessed with good features and the ability to highlight them. It's not vanity on her part; she doesn't obsess about it, or spend hours on her looks.
Nevertheless, Thursday night she stares at herself in her bathroom mirror and frets. She's seen the sort of women Tony Stark has taken to bed: Supermodels. Starlets. Glamorous playgirls with sleek figures and no tan lines and perfect teeth. Impossibly beautiful women.
Pepper stares at her freckles and pale lips; her blonde eyelashes and thin nose and frets. Her BlackBerry, sitting on the counter rings, and she picks it up with a sigh. "Yes?"
"Forgot to tell you--Enrique is coming to get his goatee done before we go to dinner," Tony tells her. "He's going to buy us a little more privacy for tomorrow, okay?"
"Oh good," Pepper murmurs, pleased. She's always liked Enrique. "Where's *he* going for dinner?"
"Santoro Grill. Given *their* prices, I should have him bring home a doggie bag for the two of us," Tony snorts. "Sooooo . . . what are you wearing?"
His tone is huskier; sweeter, and it's enough to make Pepper bite her lips and blush. Impishly, she glances at herself in the mirror, taking in her old Kiowa Coyotes sleep jersey with a smirk. "Oh nothing much. Just a tiny Victoria's Secret pink satin bra and panty set with matching garter belt, white stockings and six inch lucite heel stilletos."
The sharp gasp at the other end of the line is truly gratifying. "Jesus, *seriously?*"
"Tony--!"
"Sorry, Tony's not here right now, his synapses have fried from certain imagery . . ."
"I bet," Pepper sighs. "I was pulling your *leg* Tony. Nothing nearly that . . . suggestive."
"Wait, let me file the mental picture away anyway. So what *are* you wearing, really?"
"My high school sleep shirt," she mutters, blushing a little. "Completely UN-exotic."
"Mmmmmmmm. I think I might like *that* one ever better," Tony murmurs softly, and her throat aches because even over the distance, she can hear sincerity in his tone. "Yep. That's pretty much doing naughty things in my head too."
"I'm fairly sure I could wear a burlap sack and you'd have naughty thoughts," Pepper tells him. "You're hormonally overcharged at times."
"Guilty, totally," he replies. "And that brings us—me—to a point I'd wanted to check about, namely once we get to naughty actions to go with those naughty thoughts, what's our preferred method 'o contraception, Potts?"
"Oh," Pepper blurts, slightly startled at his matter-of-fact question. "Um, condoms, I suppose?"
"Tried and true," Tony murmurs, "I can handle the supply end of that."
"Considering you have yours custom-made," Pepper murmurs, not altogether happily.
Tony is silent for a long moment. "Pepper---"
"Forget I said anything. Condoms are fine," she tells him, but Tony pushes on, his voice slightly urgent.
"You know as well as I do that ninety percent of that is PR for the image, and since I'm not exactly going through them at a spectacular rate anymore, by which I mean have come to a dead HALT in case you hadn't noticed, I think I deserve the benefit of a little support here, okay?"
"Yes, I know. You're right—it was . . . an uncalled for remark. I'm sorry," Pepper sighs.
There's a quiet on the line now, and finally Tony gives a little sigh. "I'm . . . sorry too. Is it always this hard? This relationship thing?"
"I think it's supposed to be," Pepper reassures him. "At least part of the time. And for right now, condoms are a good choice."
"Give us a few months and we could work our way through the stockpile," Tony offers with a purr, making her laugh.
"And on that note, good *night* Mr. Stark. We both have a lot to do tomorrow before our . . . date."
"Sleep well, oh beloved Potts. You'll need the rest," comes the sweet warning, and he hangs up.
Tony sets the phone down and wanders into his bathroom, turning on the lights there to their brightest setting. He stares at himself in the huge mirror over the sink, and his attention isn't on his washed-out features or tired-looking skin.
Instead, he's focused on the blue glowing disc in the center of his chest. It looks particularly alien in the harsh light, and his expression as he studies it is melancholy. "You're . . . a freak," Tony tells his reflection. "Damaged goods. Supplemented to survive."
Ugly, he thinks bitterly. What woman in her right mind would want to have this device between us in an intimate moment?
Part of it is vanity; Tony is aware that he's been both blessed and lucky in terms of his body up to now. Just getting out of Afghanistan with his brains and balls intact was a major accomplishment, and he knows it.
He doesn't even think of the reactor most of the time; it's intergrated now, a part of him as much as his toes or elbows. Only in the privacy of own self-assessment is Tony aware of how this . . . thing . . . sets him apart from other men. A chrome and metal reminder; a living tattoo.
Tony remembers Pepper's distress at touching it; at having to reach into him, and his eyes close as he decides to keep his shirt on when they finally become lovers.
000ooo000ooo000
Pepper reaches the mansion and hurries inside, calling a quick, absent greeting to Jarvis as she looks around in the living room. The sound of voices coming from Tony's bedroom reach her, and she heads that way.
"Just give me the cheapest one; the one easiest to dryclean," comes Enrique's baritone.
"Are you sure you're gay? Because no offense, but I assumed fashion concerns are a big part of that lifestyle," Tony counters. "And I'm not going to have either one of us look cheap, all right?"
"Damn straight I'm gay," Enrique retorts. "So much so my DNA can sing showtunes. Fine. How about the Hugo Boss? I like the cut of the shoulders."
She steps into the bedroom and both men look up at her, smiles nearly matching. It's like seeing angel and devil Tony since only one of them has a goatee at the moment. Pepper hugs Enrique, who looks relieved to see her. "Lookin' good Miss Pepper!"
"You do too—picking out your ensemble, I see."
"Yeah. *Some* one is very choosy tonight," Enrique grumbles good-naturedly. "You'd think *he* was going on a date the way he's fussing."
"I *heard* that," Tony replies, sorting through shirts, "And unless you want the tabloids speculating on the symbolism of a green tie with a neon yellow shirt, you'll get over here and find something coordinated."
"Sheesh you're bitchy," Enrique snorts, and moves to the electronic tie rack, hitting the button to send the revolving racks moving.
Tony looks over at Pepper gaze soft. "You're back. How was San Diego?"
"Warm and sunny," she replies. "The booking for the convention center for the stockholder's meeting is set, and I've got people working on the catering, accommodations and logistics. How was *your* day?"
"Pain in the ass," he grumbles, and Pepper wants to laugh, because she knows perfectly well that his schedule included a surprise visit to the propulsion lab, which he loves, and an afternoon trip to the Duesenberg Museum.
"Sorry life was so hard," she offers him mock-sympathy.
Tony manages a snort, and turns to Enrique, sighing. "So—we find something to showcase our studly charms?"
"Deliciously so, I think," the other man sighs, pulling out a heavy silk tie. "Ohyeah."
000ooo000ooo000
Getting the goatee on Enrique is not helped by comments from Tony, who circles around and offers candid observations. "It looks crooked."
"Not helping, Mr. Stark—" Pepper warns with exasperation. She's not a makeup artist per se, and having the extra critique is getting on her nerves. Enrique doesn't look too amused either, perched as he is on a stool in the kitchen.
"Nobody is going to be taking a ruler to my chin tonight, you know," he grumbles. "And after dark, the lighting is always low."
"You should just *grow* one," Tony sighs, crossing his arms. "Would save us all a lot of trouble."
"Not a chance, boss. Alden likes me smooth . . . so to speak," Enrique tells him. "Beards burn."
"Not from my side," Tony cheekily replies. Pepper and Enrique both shoot him dry looks. "Hey, it's true."
"Tony, don't you need to get dressed yourself?" Pepper pointedly remarks, and he sulks out of the kitchen, leaving her to finish the job in peace.
Enrique checks his reflection in the mirror a few minutes later, nodding gratefully. "Looks great. You should work on getting him to shave it though. He always looks like he's from that Mirror, Mirror universe with this thing."
"I doubt anybody can," Pepper sighs with amusement. "It's pretty much a part of the Stark image."
Enrique rises, and pulls on the suit's coat, smoothing the sleeves. Pepper steps behind him and brushes the shoulders, patting them gently.
"I know I'm not supposed to ask, but, he really *is* dating, isn't he?" The doppelganger asks softly.
Startled, Pepper avoids Enrique's gaze. "I . . . I couldn't say."
He reaches out, big brown eyes full of sympathy, and before Pepper realizes it, Enrique is hugging her gently. "Oh honey, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to pour salt in the wound," he murmurs just as Tony lopes back into the kitchen carrying a cufflink case.
Tony stops in surprise at the sight, and for a few seconds stiffens, his face going to that *blank* expression he gets once in a while; the expression that Pepper realizes is very dangerous.
"Oh hey, I hope I'm not interrupting anything here," he murmurs softly, relaxing.
"Nope," Enrique smiles brightly, moving away from Pepper. "Just thanking my makeup artist for putting up with both of us. Oooh, links. Those big gold coin ones, right?"
"Nah. Company logo in diamonds," Tony replies, his stance slouching a bit. "You'll need some cologne too."
"Right," Enrique replies, happy to slip out of the kitchen. Tony shoots a questioning look to Pepper, who smiles a little too brightly as she crosses her arms.
Both of them stand there, looking at each other for a moment.
"He's worried that I'm jealous of your date tonight," Pepper finally tells Tony with a straight face.
"You should be. She's the hottest woman on the planet," he murmurs in a happy sigh. "Legs from here to Canada, magnificent tushie, and did I mention she's up for sainthood for her patience? Word has it the Pope wants to rouchambeaux me for her."
Pepper's lips twist as she tries not to laugh. "All that, huh? Quite a woman."
"Rocks my world," Tony assures her. "Come on, we have . . . disguises to try on."