A/N: So, apparently it is CA:CW where we find out they are taking a break so there's that, but (Spiderman: Homecoming spoiler) Tony and Pepper are back together now, a few months after CA:CW. But I feel like there should be a bit more to this story. For some strange reason, they are a straight couple that I just absolutely adore. Probably because Pepper is the only one who can wrangle Tony and his crazy antics. So, here's another chapter, sorry it took so long. It has a very different feel than the first. Indulge me. takes place post CA:CW, pre IW. spoilers, of course.
She goes to the house by the sea at midnight to gather some things she had forgotten. The rooms are empty, a ghost town within the walls, the overlooked ocean an inked grave to go with it. She wanders through, barely recalling why she came in the first place. Her phone buzzes again in her pocket, and she switches it off, walking into the living room, where she picks up the remote and turns on the news. Part of her wants to see if he had come home after the reported destruction of the airport; after the Avengers' Civil War.
The moment the Captain's shield hits the ground, Tony Stark grows still. When he is able to pick himself up, he does not even muster the strength to disengage his wrecked suit. Instead, he limps towards the quinjet, ears still ringing from the fight, from finally knowing how his parents died.
"Would you like me to run a final damage analysis, Mr. Stark?" F.R.I.D.A.Y. asks. He sags against the pilot seat, his mask thumping to the ground.
"No thanks," he sighs, "Just take me home."
"OK, which locat-." He does something he rarely does: switches his AI off.
He arrives at the house by the sea. He's too exhausted to reactivate and berate F.R.I.D.A.Y. for taking him here, this damned glass and steel reminder that he is now utterly and completely alone. He stumbles up the door, finding it unlocked. His heart rate spikes again, tunnel vision setting in as he slinks inside, donning his helmet again.
The TV is on; he can hear it as he creeps further into the house,
"The whereabouts of Tony Stark are unknown, as are Steve Rogers, James Buchanan Barnes, Sam Wilson, Wanda Maximoff, Clint Barton, Scott Lang, and Natasha Romanoff. Thor and Dr. Bruce Banner are still missing, as off the tragedy of Sokovia."
He raises his hand, blasters ready, and whips around the corner into the living room.
Pepper Potts whirls around and freezes, eyes stretched open at what she sees. Iron Man is there, poised for attack, scratched, banged up. Broken. The remote clatters to the floor, batteries popping out, rolling across the marble.
Everything happens in slow motion; he reaches up and takes off the helmet,
"Pepper," he gasps, disengaging his suit. She stares, still. His limbs are quaking. His face is swollen and bruised, there's blood on his lips and under his nose. She finally meets his gaze, remembering how bloodshot they were last time she saw them in person. Now, they are foggy with unwilled tears, ringed with black and blue; now, they are still.
She cannot remember the last time she saw him not creating. "Tony," she breathes, "What happened?" He takes a step forward before crumpling towards the ground. She springs forward and catches him before his head hits the floor. "Tony?" He's unconscious; he's breathing, albeit shallowly. She cradles his head in her lap and waits.
When he comes too, she is watching him. She's been crying. He sits up, too fast, whacks their heads together. She yelps and it's his turn to hold her. He's saying her name over and over, increasingly desperate and softer, against her cheek. He holds her against his chest, where his heart is thumping unevenly, and she stays there, breathing in the scent of blood and sweat and ash. He's nearly unrecognizable, this broken, sober, crying man.
"Tony…" she starts, but his eyes are fluttering shut again, his breath sour with blood on her face. "Come on," she murmurs, "Let's get you cleaned up."
In the bathroom, she starts the shower. He groans as he goes to undress, and she looks away, biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. When she finally hears the shower door slide shut, she simply gathers his clothes in her hands and heads towards the washing machine, grateful for the moment in solitude.
She steels her nerves to simply walk passed the bathroom when she's started the wash, but his voice calls, "Thank you, Pepper," and she pauses.
He is standing in the water stream, wincing as he washes his hair. Shampoo suds spill towards his eye and he groans, rubbing them under the water before blinking them open and squinting around the sting.
She hovers in the doorframe. Just walk away, she tells herself, Just. Walk. Away.
"Let me help you."
His eyes widen as she steps into the bathroom, into the shower, fully clothed but there nonetheless. Her eyes are careful not to wander, fixed on his before he turns around and sighs as she reaches up, running her fingers through his hair, massaging gently.
When he groans or flinches, she apologizes gently. When she is finished with his hair, she pauses, hands having trailed to his shoulders unconsciously, fluttering lightly over the bruises. Her eyes follow the purple map of the broken man.
He turns meaning to say something, anything, break the silence, kiss her, touch her, anything. She balks, eyes snapping up to meet his gaze again, suddenly remembering where she is, how she came only to make sure he was alive.
"I'll, um, let you finish," she breathes, getting out. She feels his eyes on her as she exits the bathroom.
She makes her way towards their – no, his – bedroom. Some of her clothes are still there, thankfully, and she goes for a pair of sweatpants and a long t-shirt. The back of her mind remembers that the shirt used to be his, and, after slipping the pants on, she holds it out in front of her, hesitating.
The water turns off, and after several moments and muffled groans of pain, she hears his footsteps. He doesn't bother with a towel as he makes his way to his – no, their – bedroom. She is half-dressed. She is beautiful. She has always been beautiful. She barely flinches when he clears his throat to announce his presence, just half moves to cover herself.
She nearly drowns in the sorrow she sees in his still eyes.
"Tony, what happened with Steve?" she finally asks. He moves forward, into the room. She steps back until her legs hit the mattress. He reaches out, hand soft on her skin, and the shirt falls from her hands. His eyes search her face, lips parted. His words are building up: how much he misses her, how hard Steve hit him, how scared he is that the Avengers are ruined forever, how he will never be able to unsee that Mission Report, how much he loves her. "Tony?"
The way he kisses her reminds her of the first time his lips met hers. Except this time he's crying, clutching her shoulders in his scarred fingers. He spins them around, letting himself collapse painfully onto the mattress, pulling her with him, just kissing her and kissing her and kissing her.
She pulls back – to catch her breath, to yell at him, to remind herself that he is alive. The bruises terrify her; but this is not like his decent into self-destruction that made her leave. This is the fight she could not ask him to give up, the one that chewed him up, spat him out onto the cold concrete. With his chosen family gone, who else but his true partner to pick up his pieces?
They make love.
The news, still playing far away, relaying its endless list of tragedies makes for fitting background noise. His teeth catch her lips, nails drag down her back. She tangles her fingers in his still-damp hair, breath hot against his chest. Occasionally he winces from his wounds, but he pretends he does not feel the pain. She pretends not to notice.
She knows he is not creating, as there is nothing new to make between them. Rather, he is making up for lost time - finally, finally, returning home.