Chapter 14: Vogue

After lunch on the following afternoon, Tony traded his jeans and t-shirt for a silk jacquard dressing gown in black and gold. The dressing gown had belonged to his father, and was sensuously oversized on Tony's reduced frame, the fabric smooth against his naked skin. He also wore his mother's pearl necklace, a nod to the choker and pearl earrings in Olympia. He hadn't discussed it with Steve; look how you want to look had been the only instruction.

He felt complicatedly sick as he made his way to the studio: anxious about possible dysphoria and excited to be ogled. He hadn't let Steve see him naked since the bloody mess in the shop, but if he could cast his mind back to the Halloween party, reclaim just a little of that exuberant exhibitionism, he'd be alright. Though it was one thing to do it alone in his own head, probably another to do it in front of someone else. In some ways, he longed to be lusted after, but he also wanted to be seen as only his authentic self (whatever that meant), and the twinned desires mixed uneasily in his psyche.

Meanwhile, sand was running out of the hourglass: Bruce's three week moratorium on sex would expire, and Steve's dick wouldn't be limp indefinitely. Shit, Steve was getting impatient with Tony as it was. Feeling the ticking clock, Tony wanted a peek in the sexual crystal ball: Would Steve's gaze turn him on or freak him out? It felt like even odds, but a stint as Steve's nude model would definitely let him know. And if Steve's attention did make his brain melt, maybe the prolonged exposure would normalize it, make it endurable if not actually pleasurable.

When Tony entered the studio, Steve had a tube of paint in his mouth, gripping it with his teeth while he tried to unscrew the cap.

"Jesus," Tony exclaimed, snatching it out of Steve's mouth, "didn't eating paint make Van Gogh lop off his ear?"

"Yeah, but his paints had lead in them. Hard to even find lead paints now."

"Still bad for your teeth," Tony said, unscrewing the cap for him before offering it back.

"Thanks." Steve squeezed a generous glob of the titanium white on his free-standing palette, really just a piece of plexi clamped to a music stand. "My dentist wishes you'd been here earlier. That's my last color." Steve tossed the tube onto the work table, then turned to assess his model for the first time, and Tony willed himself not to turn pink under the appraisal. His new face blushed if the wind so much as blew in an embarrassing direction. It was awful; he'd never blushed before.

Steve reached for the collar of Tony's robe, rubbing the patterned silk between his fingers, considering. "Would you wear this?"

"The robe?" Tony was suspicious. "Why? You chickening out on me already, Steve?"

"No," Steve said. "Not chickening out. I just like it. It's dramatic. I'd unbelt it, open it at the front—" he gestured at Tony with his hand, outlining the drape in his mind. "If you're ready to pose, I could show you?"

A shiver ran up Tony's spine, a sensation combining the same mix of anticipation and dread roiling his stomach.

"Always," Tony agreed. "I was born in the centerfold."

And then Steve's hand was on his elbow, shepherding him over to the artistically unmade bed piled with expensive sheets and big goose down cushions. Tony reclined against the pillows and discovered he had lost the knack for normal breathing.

"May I undress you?" Steve asked, his voice soft.

No sharp response this time; Tony found he could only nod. Deliberately, Steve moved his hand to Tony's waist, tugging open the robe's loose tie, then paused, his hand resting against Tony's silk-covered hip, waiting to be stopped if Tony changed his mind. It was considerate, but Tony couldn't change his mind because he didn't know what he wanted to change it to. He couldn't tell whether he wanted to run and reclad himself in all his masculine signifiers or let Steve strip him down to soft feminine flesh. So he did nothing and closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Steve's palm against the jut of his pelvic bone. It was nice, just that little piece of contact. After a minute of silence, Steve's hand slipped into his robe and parted the silk, arranging it in soft folds on either side of Tony's naked breasts. When Tony dared to open his eyes again, Steve was studying the strand of pearls; with a single finger, he reached out and caressed the smooth beads.

"Mom's," Tony explained.

Steve's eyes moved to Tony's face, "Can you see her now? When you look in the mirror?"

Tony thought about it, then shook his head, "Not really. The face is just Dear Old Howard in drag. But I can hear her a little bit, y'know? She had a pretty voice."

"Sure," Steve said quietly. He cleared his throat, then said, "I know I told you to look how you want—"

Tony's stomach dropped. He'd done it wrong somehow; he knew he should have worn make-up or shaved his legs or—

"But can I add something?" Steve took his field watch out of his pocket and held it over. "I've had a lot of recent run-ins with timepieces, and this seems fitting. Would you mind?"

Tony accepted the watch; it was too loose on his wrist, so he strapped it to his forearm. "How's that?" Tony asked.

"Just right."

Steve was gently moving Tony's limbs now, precisely arranging Tony's ankles. He moved Tony's hand next, placing it high on Tony's thigh, just beneath the hip crease. The inadvertent brush of Steve's fingertips against Tony's leg felt like being grazed with a live wire.

"The other hand holds the mask," Steve explained, and produced a thin turned rod from his back pocket. "Here. The end should be just under your ear."

Tony held the wand as requested, imagining with wistful envy the Tony who really could take off this strange face at will, revealing the familiar one underneath. According to hinkier theoretical physicists, that Tony did exist somewhere in the multiverse.

Steve stood away to survey his handiwork, tilting his head to the side, and Tony felt another rush of self-consciousness. Ironically, when Steve had been closer, Tony had felt less vulnerable, shielded by that strong broad body. Now he was truly exposed; all the fragile, raw parts of himself were on full display. Still, he resisted the urge to snatch his robe closed and bolt. In fact, the fear straightened his spine, made him lift his chin. He'd asked for this.

"Tony?" Steve asked warily. He'd moved to the easel and taken up a brush, waiting for the go ahead to apply it to the canvas.

"I'm fine," Tony said.

"You sure?"

"Yes." It wasn't entirely true, but it wasn't quite a lie either. He was fine enough.

Minutes and then hours trickled by, sometimes quietly enough that Tony could hear the tick of Steve's watch. Steve had drilled it into him over breakfast and then again over lunch that he absolutely could not talk, and the silence made Tony deeply uncomfortable. Steve's minute attention made his skin prickle, but the sensation faded. It wasn't the attention of a lustful voyeur or even a lover; it was more impersonal. Steve wasn't seeing him at all, not really. The lines, the shapes that made up his body, but not him. Tony had been reduced to a geometry problem. Steve was right: this was boring. It was kind of a letdown, kind of a relief. Tony had expected something else, something altogether more charged that might give him some data about the emotional viability of sex with Steve, but the information simply wasn't there.

With nothing else to do, Tony watched Steve paint. Steve's artistic process involved a lot of frowning, both at Tony and then again at the canvas. Often, he frowned while closing one eye. A painter with one good eye and one good arm: it was like being a life model for Long-John Silver or something. In the end, it was the shoulder that finished the session. Steve was so absorbed he seemed not to notice the increasing stiffness in his movements, but Tony did.

"Steve," Tony said finally, "are you sore?"

Steve blinked and shook himself, like a man coming out of a trance. "Uh, yeah," he said, and then the frown was back, but it was a frown of pained surprise, rather than concentration.

"Okay. I'm calling it." Tony dropped the pose and sat up, pulling his robe closed. "What time is it?" He checked Steve's watch: six fifteen. "Shit. Some nurse I am. You missed pills almost two hours ago. Let's go catch you up."

Watching Steve walk back to the bedroom, Tony knew they'd let it go too long. After Tony dispensed the morphine, Steve immediately climbed into bed and shut his eyes.

"Should I get Bruce?" Tony asked guiltily.

"No," Steve said tiredly. "I'll be alright."

"What can I do?"

"I don't want my paints to dry out. Would you go back to the studio for me? There should be some clingfilm in there somewhere; just wrap the palette. You can stick the brushes in a jar with mineral spirits. I'll wash them tomorrow."

"I could wash them."

"You'll stop before they're clean enough. Just stick 'em in the jar."

Alone in the studio, Tony tidied up, tinglingly aware the whole time of the massive portrait like some ghost in the room, watching him. He wouldn't let himself look at it, not until he was through with his job, but then he gave it his undivided attention.

Steve had worked sure and fast, and Tony was all there, tip to tail, sketched out in brown paint and the rough beginnings of color. Only the second face, the one behind the mask, remained an undefined field. Fitting, Tony thought, because his mood was also an undefined field.

Even unfinished, the painting was beautiful, and he was beautiful in it. Beautiful and interesting, someone he wanted to know, likely wanted to flirt with, possibly even wanted to be. Doe's eyes and short hair. Pearls and a field watch. Big tits and a Hugh Hefner dressing gown, playboy and a playmate rolled into one. Studying himself like this, life-size on canvas, made him acutely aware of his body in a way he hadn't been for awhile. It was an undeniably alluring body, and seeing it on full display made him recognize anew the impossibility of divorce from it. Yes, he was the flash and intellect behind the big, brown eyes, but he was the big, brown eyes, too.

Suddenly desperate for a drink, he fled to the bar in the living room and poured a healthy measure of scotch. He was mid-gulp before he noticed Pepper on the sofa, watching him over an issue of Italian Vogue.

"Ahem," she said primly. "I was thinking of ordering dinner if you and Steve are finished."

"I think," Tony coughed, "I'm already drinking mine."

"Where's Steve?"

"Laid up. Probably asleep. He was hurting pretty bad."

"Sit," she said, pointing at the spot beside her on the sofa. It didn't sound like an invitation so much as an order from the rear admiral. He took another gulp of scotch, considering his limited options. Refusal would probably result in being hung from the yardarm, so he refilled his drink under her disapproving gaze and slunk to the sofa. He was careful to sit far enough away that she wouldn't attempt to pry the glass from his fingers.

"What are you trying to get out of this?" she asked bluntly, pointing at his dressing gown, but really indicating everything he wasn't wearing underneath.

He shrugged, "I don't know."

"Guess," she said flatly.

Tony scrubbed at his hair and blew out his cheeks, "I want to see myself?" It was a supremely lame answer.

"That's what mirrors are for, Tony. What you want is to see yourself the way Steve sees you." As soon as Pepper said it, it seemed obvious.

"Well, shit," he said, "why even ask me then? If you've got all the answers?"

"To assess your degree of self-awareness."

He snorted. "How'd you find it?"

"Lacking."

"Yeah, well, what's new?" He took another gulp of scotch, reducing overall volume by a third.

"Slow down, Tony."

Making deliberate eye-contact, Tony significantly reduced the volume again. Pepper rolled her eyes, but bit her tongue; they both knew that nothing she'd say would do any good.

"You wanna see it?" He asked when he lowered the glass. "Come on."

As they entered the studio, Pepper gasped.

"Right?" Tony agreed. "Can you believe the U.S. government pays him to punch people? And that's only the rough draft."

"Maybe Steve needs a new job, Tony. This is beautiful." Her hand stretched towards the canvas, hovering above the expressive lines.

"Maybe. But how do you talk the captain out of Captain America?" He shrugged and jutted his chin towards the painting, "Anyway, what do you think?"

"What do you think?" She bounced it back.

"Can we not?" he snapped. "I'm not on the couch, Pepper. You don't have to lead me to my own understanding. Just fucking tell me."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but ultimately she just pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. After some consideration, she said, "He sees you in your complexity, and he wants you to know that he sees. I wish someone would paint me like that."

Tony took another swallow of scotch, sucking it through his teeth, savoring the burn of the liquor in his mouth as he weighed her answer.

"And here I was thinking he just wanted to shag me. But yeah, sure, I guess he sees me," Tony agreed half-heartedly. "I guess that's part of it. But let's face it, he also wants to look."

"He does," Pepper assented. "And who could blame him?" Her hand hovered over the portrait again. "You gave him the opportunity, remember? Unless you actually wanted him to say 'no'?"

Had Tony wanted Steve to say 'no'? Had this been some kind of secret loyalty test in which Steve was meant to deny himself what Tony knew he wanted and swear fealty to the Once and Future Tony alone? Looking at the canvas, Tony didn't think so. The picture was extraordinary, and very flattering to his ego, in its own way. And he really had wanted to sit for Steve, though the experience had been less than he'd hoped.

"No," Tony decided. "I wanted to sit for him. Shit, Pepper, I want him to think I'm irresistible. The trouble is that I also want to wear a brown paper bag over my head, and I can't have it both ways."

Pepper sighed and moved to stand beside him as they both viewed the portrait. "No, you can't, at least not at the same time. But contradiction is inseparable from the female body, Tony. Society makes women want and need to be attractive to men, but it also makes them want to wear a habit at the same time. In your case, it's even more complicated."

"Is that what it's like for you? I mean, for you, personally? Or is that just the correct feminist line?" He'd never considered it.

"Are you joking?" she laughed and turned to look at him, disbelieving, "No, that isn't a 'line.' You know, I sometimes forget how shockingly self-absorbed you are. What percentage of my initial employment would you say came down to the fact that I am a well-groomed blonde?"

"Erm…" the question made him wildly uncomfortable, "I'd still have hired you if you'd been a well-groomed redhead."

"I'm serious. Do you know I used to strategize my clothes down to the underwire? When I first became your assistant, I walked the line between sexy enough that you'd want to keep me around and not so sexy that you'd flirt your way right into a harassment suit. And, Tony, it was a thin, thin line to walk. Everyday, I'd look at my outfit and wonder: 'Will he like this skirt? Or will he like it so much it earns him a complaint with HR?' It was exhausting."

"Christ, you dressed for me?" He was shocked, though it was obvious in retrospect. Of course she had. And now that he thought about it, so did every woman in the building, probably. Except Naomi in Finance. She was old, and mean, and men's watch butch, and absolutely did not give a fuck—

"I dress for you, Tony," Pepper corrected him. "Present tense. Though not with the same specificity, thank god. I no longer select hemlines with you in mind. But my appearance reflects on you, and because of that I maintain a certain look: professional, but never dowdy, attractive, but not vulgar. It doesn't happen by accident, you know."

"I don't…" he didn't know what to say, "Is this your way of asking for casual Fridays?"

She snorted, "I'm just pointing out how much work goes into my appearance, and that it isn't work I'm paid for."

"But—" He was lost. Didn't she like clothes? Didn't she like makeup and perfume and shoes and all the rest of it? She did, didn't she? He wasn't crazy…"But you were just reading Vogue. It wasn't even in English. You're telling me that's homework?"

"Of course not, but there is an element of professional pressure that makes dressing more serious than it might be otherwise. And, frankly, there are days I don't want to dress, but that isn't a choice I get to make, is it? Mr. Stark's personal assistant doesn't do casual, no matter how chic."

He understood what she meant; she did have to look a particular way. He wished he could tell her he didn't care, but even he was self-aware enough to know that wasn't true. He admired her intelligence and practicality, but he also admired her grace and beauty. He loved the way she looked beside him when he walked into a room, but he was second guessing that. Was it wrong somehow?

"The male gaze," Tony muttered.

"What?"

"Nevermind, something Steve said. Pepper," he said, frowning, "the skirt thing. The hemlines. How long did that go on?"

She considered, "Not too long. A few months. Maybe a year. But I knew before, almost right away, really— How do I put it?—I knew you were safe to be around. Frequently inappropriate, of course, but not predatory. Never malicious. I was never afraid of you. I don't want you to think that. You've always been a decent man."

"I didn't scare you? That's the bar for decency? Seems like a low bar to clear, Pep."

"You'd be surprised. I have never seen you deliberately use money or power to coerce a woman into sex or anything else. You certainly never tried it with me. That's rare for a man in your position."

"But still," he mused, "I would never have survived Me, Too, right? At thirty, I mean."

"Ha. No. And thirty, Tony? You wouldn't have survived at forty, not after everyone suddenly developed the good sense to insist on professional conduct in the workplace. You'd have kept counsel busy day and night."

He knew she was right, and it wasn't a comfortable revelation, particularly under the circumstances. He wasn't delusional: he knew he'd spent a long time as an MVP for Team Patriarchy, but the view of his misdeeds was startlingly clear from his new seat in the opposition dugout. Why, oh why, had he agreed to be traded?

"You know, Pepper, it comes to my attention that I might be an asshole," Tony pronounced, and drained his glass.

His one consolation was that maybe Steve Rogers would pray for him during his inevitable stint in Purgatory. Then again, maybe he wouldn't, because Tony probably wouldn't deserve it, and Steve was nothing if not committed to fair play.

Shit.

The more he thought about it, the more he reckoned he was going to rot in the karmic penalty box for a long, long time. But then, it was just possible he was already there.