FIC: Successful Secrets of the Sexual Kind (Tony/Pepper, NC-17)
Title: Successful Secrets of the Sexual Kind
Fandom: Iron Man
Pairing: Tony/Pepper
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Five times they don't have sex, and think about it anyway.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not real, no money, no harm, etc.
A/N: OMG, the tenses on this thing practically KILLED ME. Argh. One day, I swear to god, I will have a pairing for which I do not have to resort to weird shenanigans to get them into bed. But not today! Title from Billy Bragg's 'The Busy Girl Buys Beauty.' Also, I am a sap.
Credits: I have become someone who needs a small army to keep me sane and on track while writing. Thanks to obsession_inc for early and late handholding, for channeling the porn force to come up with 2/5 of the scenarios, and for helping me make the end not totally suck; thanks to murklins for doing the beta despite her hatred, and also for putting up with me as I turned into a fucking raving lunatic and TEXTED HER ON HER WALK HOME about my story because, you know, I could not wait the ten damn minutes; and thanks to snubkin for the shoe beta. Seriously, I think I wrote four words about shoes in this story, and they were WRONG. If anything else is wrong, it is emphatically my own fault.
***
one.
He doesn't fuck her in the limo after the fundraiser.
He doesn't even know what fundraiser it is this time, puppies with cancer or something, but he's too drunk to care. He's sick of this, of fundraisers and benefits and openings and premieres and parties, except for the parts of them where Pepper wears gowns that leave very little up to his very good imagination.
So they slide into the limo at some socially acceptable time that Pepper is aware of -- he's aware of all he needs to be, which is her hand on his elbow and her voice in his ear -- and he pours another drink and slouches in the seat and says, "Trying to get me alone?"
Her thumbs are flying over her Blackberry, and she doesn't look up when she says, "Desperately."
He spreads his arms wide, smiles slowly, and says, "Do your worst."
What's supposed to happen is this:
She puts down her Blackberry with a smile that matches his own, slow and sultry and with a kind of alarming amount of teeth, and she slides off her seat and onto his lap. She doesn't hesitate, and there's no worrying about what people will think or if he'll have to fire her in the morning; there's only lips and tongues and his hands on her back and her teeth on his earlobe. He scrapes his five o'clock shadow against her neck and her gasp is hot in his ear.
He has to stop himself from tearing the gown off her body, and instead he shoves it up to her waist and lets it pool around their legs. She fists her hands in his lapels and hauls him closer, kisses him harder, and then she pushes him back, shoves the jacket off his shoulders, yanks on his tie, rips at his buttons to get at his skin.
His laugh is soft, low in his throat, and he slides a hand up her leg, around and between her thighs. Her hips jerk forward, just a little, just enough, and he leans forward to lick at the ridge of her collarbone. She drops her head back to let him and he leans a little more, arching her over and back, her hair hanging free, and he pauses to stare at the long line of her neck because nothing is ever going to be this hot again.
After a few seconds of this, of watching her skin heat up as his fingers skim higher up her thighs, she gets impatient and he gets impatient and he moves, slides her off his lap and back to her own seat, slides to his knees and spreads her legs, and he licks at her cunt through the wet silk of her thong. Her hands fist in his hair, too hard, and she breathes his name like it's the only word she knows.
He does this for hours.
At least, it seems like he does it for hours; he loses track of time, kneeling on the floor with two fingers inside her and his tongue on her clit as she spasms around him again and again, boneless and helpless and falling apart.
What actually happens is this:
She arches an eyebrow and informs him that 'her worst' involves scheduling him for an entire day of meetings and then forcing him to go to every single one of them, so he should just be quiet and let her do her job.
He takes a sip of that drink.
two.
She doesn't jerk him off in the restaurant.
She thinks about it, because they're having dinner with a group of senators from the Committee on Energy and Natural Resources and the Armed Services Committee, and Tony is being more obnoxious than usual. So obnoxious, in fact, that Pepper is afraid he's going to tank the pilot program before it even gets off the ground, before they can sign the contracts to deliver arc reactors to the national laboratories.
They're in an overpriced steakhouse in Washington, one that borders on the obscene, all dark-paneled walls and navy blue booths, very old-boys-club, in a semi-private room at the back. Pepper does not reach over and rest her hand on Tony's thigh, lightly, just enough so that he feels it and reins in the story about the time he got laid in an F-22 doing maneuvers over the Med.
And because she hasn't touched him, he doesn't glance at her, doesn't swallow, doesn't smirk and keep telling his ridiculous story, and she doesn't take it as a challenge. She doesn't slide her hand up farther, under the napkin draped over his lap. She does not press her palm against his cock, feel it harden inside his pants, listen for the telltale hitch in his breath.
Instead, she bides her time, waits for everyone else to be laughing loudly at something inane, and she says under her breath, "Tony, a little help would be nice."
And because she doesn't have her hand on his cock, he doesn't realize what this means. He doesn't drain his drink and look around, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tries not to give anything away. She doesn't squeeze and twist her hand one more time, urging him on; can't read the "fuck it" in the way his lips twist slightly; doesn't move her hand as he reaches under the table and unzips.
She very definitely does not reach down and cup his balls, roll them in her palm, all the while explaining the cost/benefits analysis she put together and the money the government would save by putting an arc reactor at Fermilab alone. She doesn't notice the way Tony shifts a little bit closer, spreads his legs a little wider, and finally, finally, stops talking.
Once he does that -- not that he does, because this is not happening -- it's a point of pride to keep going, to keep talking as she strokes him steadily, squeezing a bit at the tip, his cock hard and silken in her hand. She doesn't need to keep one eye on him, watch his jaw clench and his eyes cloud over, watch his knuckles go white around his glass, listen for the catch in his voice as he asks the waiter for another scotch, no, make it two, what the hell, save yourself a trip.
When he comes, because he doesn't, she doesn't watch his eyes close briefly, throat working, jaw clenching, shoulders tightening. She doesn't listen to him laugh, too loudly, covering for the noise he doesn't quite manage to stifle, and there is no moment of quiet triumph in which she's satisfied that she managed to shut him up long enough to seal the deal. She doesn't smirk as she very deliberately licks her hand, complimenting the crème brûlée and listening for his breathy whimper, daring anyone at the table to say a word.
No one does. Instead, Tony keeps on with his story, and she kicks him, hard, under the table. He pauses to grin at her, and she pairs her blandest smile with her most murderous eyes and says, "I'm so sorry. You were saying?"
He blinks. The smile that comes over his face both terrifies and reassures Pepper, because it means he's about to say something absolutely ridiculous, and that it's probably going to work. She's not wrong: "Sorry, I was saying that I think getting laid on the F-22 was not the best sexual experience of my life because I like things that go fast, and the Raptors only go to, what, Mach 2? Because they don't have variable intake ramps, which they're missing because Lockheed had to cut corners and keep the prices down, which they wouldn't have to do if they weren't wasting so much energy by not having arc reactors in their factories. That may be fine for Lockheed, but you represent the U.S. government. Stop cutting corners, gentlemen."
They do.
three.
He doesn't fuck her on the balcony of their suite at the Plaza, overlooking Fifth Avenue, while they're on break from a full day of board meetings.
He comes out of the bathroom, feeling better -- or at least more awake -- after splashing cold water on his face. If he actually wants to feel better, he needs a drink, but he's pretty sure Pepper will kill him with her eyes if he starts drinking at two in the afternoon with five more hours of meetings to go.
"Pepper?" He frowns when he sees she's not in the suite; she didn't say anything about going anywhere, but then he notices a slight breeze wafting through the curtains. He walks over, moves them out of the way, and stops dead in his tracks.
She's outside, leaning over the railing, not talking on the phone or working on her Blackberry. No, she's just enjoying the moment, watching the city, the sunlight setting her hair ablaze. She hasn't noticed him yet, so he's completely free to let his eyes wander, starting with the pair of strappy silver four-inch heels that he doesn't understand but can't complain about, not when they lengthen and shape her legs like that. His gaze travels up the legs in question, and up and up and up that smooth expanse of skin. Her suit is navy blue, perfectly businesslike, totally professional, but right now the railing's got her skirt rucked up her thighs and it's stretching across her ass, and his mouth goes more than a little dry.
He's probably not supposed to fantasize about her. He doesn't care.
So he thinks about what she would do if he were to come up behind her, put one hand on the small of her back and another on her hip, and just hold on. She'd try to straighten, maybe, or she'd tense her whole body and wait for him to do something else, up the ante in this game they're always playing. Or she wouldn't do anything, wouldn't tense, wouldn't stand, would just turn her head a little, a smile flitting across her face, and say something deceptively innocent like, "Ready for another round?"
She could mean another round with the board or another round of drinks, but he's going to take it the way he wants to take it and say, "With you, Potts, always," and he's going to lean in close just to see if she'll let him.
It's his fantasy, so she's totally going to let him. He'll run one hand up her back and she'll round into it. He'll slide the other hand around to her ass and she'll push back, sighing quietly as his hand moves lower, as his fingers play at the hem of her skirt. He'll lean over and then pull her back and up, wrapping an arm across her waist and burying his nose in the hair at the nape of her neck.
Neither one of them will say anything as she reaches up and wraps an arm around his neck, as she lets her head fall back against his shoulder, as he sucks at a spot just under her jaw. She'll push and he'll pull, trying to get closer, nestling his dick against her ass. The heels, he is pretty sure, put her at the perfect height for this, for reaching underneath her skirt and hiking it up out of the way.
He'll need to pull back, need to unzip his pants and unbutton his jacket, wrap it around them both in case the people in the suite next door come outside, in case the people in the building across the street look out the window.
He'll push her underwear to the side, skim his fingers along her slit and dip one inside, just to see how wet she is -- she'll be wet and ready and waiting -- and then he'll be pushing into her, bracing them both against the railing, panting against her ear as he--
"Tony?"
"What? Huh?" He shoves off the doorjamb, caught.
She peers at him suspiciously, frowning. "What's wrong? It's time to go back."
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Why do you always think something's wrong?"
"You weren't drinking in the bathroom, were you?" She moves a little closer, sniffs at the air.
"You wound me, Potts," he says, both hands over his heart.
"I will," she says. "Let's go." She starts for the door.
"Hey, Pepper? Nice skirt."
four.
She doesn't fuck him when he comes home after his latest insane mission, battered and bruised, his suit in pieces.
She doesn't say anything, either, just presses her lips into a thin line as she grabs the first-aid kit from the cabinet in the kitchenette. Jarvis and the rest of the robots get him out of as much of the suit as possible, and then it's up to Pepper to pull the pieces out of his skin, to staunch the bleeding and patch him up as best she can.
He sits carefully on the couch, still and pale, and his eyes are empty, staring right through her as she smears the antiseptic cream on a gash over his left eye. She doesn't want to know doesn't want to know really just does not want to know, but she asks anyway, "What happened?"
His voice breaks as he says, "Land mine. Africa. I couldn't."
She should push him more, probably, but she's not his therapist (not that he has one, though if anyone she has ever met is in need of a therapist, it's Tony), and so she doesn't.
It'd be the easiest thing in the world to lean in and kiss him, to tug him close and let him lose himself in her, show him that she doesn't care what happened over there, how many people he saved or didn't. He's Tony, and that's more than enough, and she puts a hand over his reactor and tries to say it without saying it, without losing herself the way she knows would happen.
He looks at her, finally focusing, and the pain in his eyes almost breaks her, almost makes her do it. She cups his cheek for a few seconds, lets herself imagine what it'd be like: harsh and hard and mindless on the floor, animals in their sweat and grime and blood, the edges of his reactor digging into her breastbone, the whole thing too bright and too sloppy and over far too quickly.
It wouldn't help. She moves on.
five.
He doesn't fuck her in the bed, on the couch, over his desk, or against the windows in the living room. He doesn't go to sleep next to her or wake up with her body draped over his, one leg between his and her hair in his mouth. He can't bury himself inside her when the nightmares wake him up, can't talk her into blowing off a day of work and spending it in bed with him instead, can't kiss her goodbye when he's flying to some presentation and she's not coming with him, can't let her know quite how serious he is when he calls her, bored, and says he misses her.
But he can say, "Morning, sunshine," at six a.m., when he wanders into the kitchen and she's there, making coffee, setting out breakfast. "What's cookin'?"
"You know I don't cook," she says. "I brought bagels and fruit."
"Mmm," he says, and he can't kiss her good morning, so he reaches around her for two bagels. "Hand me the bread knife?"
She does, her fingers nearly brushing over his. He takes it without comment and slices their bagels, scoots behind her and throws it all in the toaster. "Jarvis, you're in charge."
"I'm honored, sir."
"Just don't burn my bagel. You can burn Pepper's, though, she likes it when they're crispy."
She sticks her tongue out at him and he can't lean in to capture it with his mouth, can't pull her close and stand with his arms around her, waiting for their bagels. He digs silverware out of the drawer while Pepper grabs plates and mugs, and the toaster dings at the same time the coffee finishes. She pours it for them and he grabs the bagels, and the easy routine makes him wonder if life would be different if he didn't pay her to take care of him. If she'd do it anyway.
"Hey," he says, sitting down. "If--"
She sits down next to him, stirs sugar into her coffee, and raises her eyebrows. He loses his nerve. "Hey, how much do I pay you? Enough?"
She sets her coffee down and reaches for the fruit. "Enough for what?" she finally asks, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.
He shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. "Give yourself a raise."
"No," she says, tilting her head a little, smiling in the sunlight. "No, it's more than enough."
FIN
Fandom: Iron Man
Pairing: Tony/Pepper
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Five times they don't have sex, and think about it anyway.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not real, no money, no harm, etc.
A/N: OMG, the tenses on this thing practically KILLED ME. Argh. One day, I swear to god, I will have a pairing for which I do not have to resort to weird shenanigans to get them into bed. But not today! Title from Billy Bragg's 'The Busy Girl Buys Beauty.' Also, I am a sap.
Credits: I have become someone who needs a small army to keep me sane and on track while writing. Thanks to obsession_inc for early and late handholding, for channeling the porn force to come up with 2/5 of the scenarios, and for helping me make the end not totally suck; thanks to murklins for doing the beta despite her hatred, and also for putting up with me as I turned into a fucking raving lunatic and TEXTED HER ON HER WALK HOME about my story because, you know, I could not wait the ten damn minutes; and thanks to snubkin for the shoe beta. Seriously, I think I wrote four words about shoes in this story, and they were WRONG. If anything else is wrong, it is emphatically my own fault.
***
one.
He doesn't fuck her in the limo after the fundraiser.
He doesn't even know what fundraiser it is this time, puppies with cancer or something, but he's too drunk to care. He's sick of this, of fundraisers and benefits and openings and premieres and parties, except for the parts of them where Pepper wears gowns that leave very little up to his very good imagination.
So they slide into the limo at some socially acceptable time that Pepper is aware of -- he's aware of all he needs to be, which is her hand on his elbow and her voice in his ear -- and he pours another drink and slouches in the seat and says, "Trying to get me alone?"
Her thumbs are flying over her Blackberry, and she doesn't look up when she says, "Desperately."
He spreads his arms wide, smiles slowly, and says, "Do your worst."
What's supposed to happen is this:
She puts down her Blackberry with a smile that matches his own, slow and sultry and with a kind of alarming amount of teeth, and she slides off her seat and onto his lap. She doesn't hesitate, and there's no worrying about what people will think or if he'll have to fire her in the morning; there's only lips and tongues and his hands on her back and her teeth on his earlobe. He scrapes his five o'clock shadow against her neck and her gasp is hot in his ear.
He has to stop himself from tearing the gown off her body, and instead he shoves it up to her waist and lets it pool around their legs. She fists her hands in his lapels and hauls him closer, kisses him harder, and then she pushes him back, shoves the jacket off his shoulders, yanks on his tie, rips at his buttons to get at his skin.
His laugh is soft, low in his throat, and he slides a hand up her leg, around and between her thighs. Her hips jerk forward, just a little, just enough, and he leans forward to lick at the ridge of her collarbone. She drops her head back to let him and he leans a little more, arching her over and back, her hair hanging free, and he pauses to stare at the long line of her neck because nothing is ever going to be this hot again.
After a few seconds of this, of watching her skin heat up as his fingers skim higher up her thighs, she gets impatient and he gets impatient and he moves, slides her off his lap and back to her own seat, slides to his knees and spreads her legs, and he licks at her cunt through the wet silk of her thong. Her hands fist in his hair, too hard, and she breathes his name like it's the only word she knows.
He does this for hours.
At least, it seems like he does it for hours; he loses track of time, kneeling on the floor with two fingers inside her and his tongue on her clit as she spasms around him again and again, boneless and helpless and falling apart.
What actually happens is this:
She arches an eyebrow and informs him that 'her worst' involves scheduling him for an entire day of meetings and then forcing him to go to every single one of them, so he should just be quiet and let her do her job.
He takes a sip of that drink.
two.
She doesn't jerk him off in the restaurant.
She thinks about it, because they're having dinner with a group of senators from the Committee on Energy and Natural Resources and the Armed Services Committee, and Tony is being more obnoxious than usual. So obnoxious, in fact, that Pepper is afraid he's going to tank the pilot program before it even gets off the ground, before they can sign the contracts to deliver arc reactors to the national laboratories.
They're in an overpriced steakhouse in Washington, one that borders on the obscene, all dark-paneled walls and navy blue booths, very old-boys-club, in a semi-private room at the back. Pepper does not reach over and rest her hand on Tony's thigh, lightly, just enough so that he feels it and reins in the story about the time he got laid in an F-22 doing maneuvers over the Med.
And because she hasn't touched him, he doesn't glance at her, doesn't swallow, doesn't smirk and keep telling his ridiculous story, and she doesn't take it as a challenge. She doesn't slide her hand up farther, under the napkin draped over his lap. She does not press her palm against his cock, feel it harden inside his pants, listen for the telltale hitch in his breath.
Instead, she bides her time, waits for everyone else to be laughing loudly at something inane, and she says under her breath, "Tony, a little help would be nice."
And because she doesn't have her hand on his cock, he doesn't realize what this means. He doesn't drain his drink and look around, his teeth sinking into his lower lip as he tries not to give anything away. She doesn't squeeze and twist her hand one more time, urging him on; can't read the "fuck it" in the way his lips twist slightly; doesn't move her hand as he reaches under the table and unzips.
She very definitely does not reach down and cup his balls, roll them in her palm, all the while explaining the cost/benefits analysis she put together and the money the government would save by putting an arc reactor at Fermilab alone. She doesn't notice the way Tony shifts a little bit closer, spreads his legs a little wider, and finally, finally, stops talking.
Once he does that -- not that he does, because this is not happening -- it's a point of pride to keep going, to keep talking as she strokes him steadily, squeezing a bit at the tip, his cock hard and silken in her hand. She doesn't need to keep one eye on him, watch his jaw clench and his eyes cloud over, watch his knuckles go white around his glass, listen for the catch in his voice as he asks the waiter for another scotch, no, make it two, what the hell, save yourself a trip.
When he comes, because he doesn't, she doesn't watch his eyes close briefly, throat working, jaw clenching, shoulders tightening. She doesn't listen to him laugh, too loudly, covering for the noise he doesn't quite manage to stifle, and there is no moment of quiet triumph in which she's satisfied that she managed to shut him up long enough to seal the deal. She doesn't smirk as she very deliberately licks her hand, complimenting the crème brûlée and listening for his breathy whimper, daring anyone at the table to say a word.
No one does. Instead, Tony keeps on with his story, and she kicks him, hard, under the table. He pauses to grin at her, and she pairs her blandest smile with her most murderous eyes and says, "I'm so sorry. You were saying?"
He blinks. The smile that comes over his face both terrifies and reassures Pepper, because it means he's about to say something absolutely ridiculous, and that it's probably going to work. She's not wrong: "Sorry, I was saying that I think getting laid on the F-22 was not the best sexual experience of my life because I like things that go fast, and the Raptors only go to, what, Mach 2? Because they don't have variable intake ramps, which they're missing because Lockheed had to cut corners and keep the prices down, which they wouldn't have to do if they weren't wasting so much energy by not having arc reactors in their factories. That may be fine for Lockheed, but you represent the U.S. government. Stop cutting corners, gentlemen."
They do.
three.
He doesn't fuck her on the balcony of their suite at the Plaza, overlooking Fifth Avenue, while they're on break from a full day of board meetings.
He comes out of the bathroom, feeling better -- or at least more awake -- after splashing cold water on his face. If he actually wants to feel better, he needs a drink, but he's pretty sure Pepper will kill him with her eyes if he starts drinking at two in the afternoon with five more hours of meetings to go.
"Pepper?" He frowns when he sees she's not in the suite; she didn't say anything about going anywhere, but then he notices a slight breeze wafting through the curtains. He walks over, moves them out of the way, and stops dead in his tracks.
She's outside, leaning over the railing, not talking on the phone or working on her Blackberry. No, she's just enjoying the moment, watching the city, the sunlight setting her hair ablaze. She hasn't noticed him yet, so he's completely free to let his eyes wander, starting with the pair of strappy silver four-inch heels that he doesn't understand but can't complain about, not when they lengthen and shape her legs like that. His gaze travels up the legs in question, and up and up and up that smooth expanse of skin. Her suit is navy blue, perfectly businesslike, totally professional, but right now the railing's got her skirt rucked up her thighs and it's stretching across her ass, and his mouth goes more than a little dry.
He's probably not supposed to fantasize about her. He doesn't care.
So he thinks about what she would do if he were to come up behind her, put one hand on the small of her back and another on her hip, and just hold on. She'd try to straighten, maybe, or she'd tense her whole body and wait for him to do something else, up the ante in this game they're always playing. Or she wouldn't do anything, wouldn't tense, wouldn't stand, would just turn her head a little, a smile flitting across her face, and say something deceptively innocent like, "Ready for another round?"
She could mean another round with the board or another round of drinks, but he's going to take it the way he wants to take it and say, "With you, Potts, always," and he's going to lean in close just to see if she'll let him.
It's his fantasy, so she's totally going to let him. He'll run one hand up her back and she'll round into it. He'll slide the other hand around to her ass and she'll push back, sighing quietly as his hand moves lower, as his fingers play at the hem of her skirt. He'll lean over and then pull her back and up, wrapping an arm across her waist and burying his nose in the hair at the nape of her neck.
Neither one of them will say anything as she reaches up and wraps an arm around his neck, as she lets her head fall back against his shoulder, as he sucks at a spot just under her jaw. She'll push and he'll pull, trying to get closer, nestling his dick against her ass. The heels, he is pretty sure, put her at the perfect height for this, for reaching underneath her skirt and hiking it up out of the way.
He'll need to pull back, need to unzip his pants and unbutton his jacket, wrap it around them both in case the people in the suite next door come outside, in case the people in the building across the street look out the window.
He'll push her underwear to the side, skim his fingers along her slit and dip one inside, just to see how wet she is -- she'll be wet and ready and waiting -- and then he'll be pushing into her, bracing them both against the railing, panting against her ear as he--
"Tony?"
"What? Huh?" He shoves off the doorjamb, caught.
She peers at him suspiciously, frowning. "What's wrong? It's time to go back."
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Why do you always think something's wrong?"
"You weren't drinking in the bathroom, were you?" She moves a little closer, sniffs at the air.
"You wound me, Potts," he says, both hands over his heart.
"I will," she says. "Let's go." She starts for the door.
"Hey, Pepper? Nice skirt."
four.
She doesn't fuck him when he comes home after his latest insane mission, battered and bruised, his suit in pieces.
She doesn't say anything, either, just presses her lips into a thin line as she grabs the first-aid kit from the cabinet in the kitchenette. Jarvis and the rest of the robots get him out of as much of the suit as possible, and then it's up to Pepper to pull the pieces out of his skin, to staunch the bleeding and patch him up as best she can.
He sits carefully on the couch, still and pale, and his eyes are empty, staring right through her as she smears the antiseptic cream on a gash over his left eye. She doesn't want to know doesn't want to know really just does not want to know, but she asks anyway, "What happened?"
His voice breaks as he says, "Land mine. Africa. I couldn't."
She should push him more, probably, but she's not his therapist (not that he has one, though if anyone she has ever met is in need of a therapist, it's Tony), and so she doesn't.
It'd be the easiest thing in the world to lean in and kiss him, to tug him close and let him lose himself in her, show him that she doesn't care what happened over there, how many people he saved or didn't. He's Tony, and that's more than enough, and she puts a hand over his reactor and tries to say it without saying it, without losing herself the way she knows would happen.
He looks at her, finally focusing, and the pain in his eyes almost breaks her, almost makes her do it. She cups his cheek for a few seconds, lets herself imagine what it'd be like: harsh and hard and mindless on the floor, animals in their sweat and grime and blood, the edges of his reactor digging into her breastbone, the whole thing too bright and too sloppy and over far too quickly.
It wouldn't help. She moves on.
five.
He doesn't fuck her in the bed, on the couch, over his desk, or against the windows in the living room. He doesn't go to sleep next to her or wake up with her body draped over his, one leg between his and her hair in his mouth. He can't bury himself inside her when the nightmares wake him up, can't talk her into blowing off a day of work and spending it in bed with him instead, can't kiss her goodbye when he's flying to some presentation and she's not coming with him, can't let her know quite how serious he is when he calls her, bored, and says he misses her.
But he can say, "Morning, sunshine," at six a.m., when he wanders into the kitchen and she's there, making coffee, setting out breakfast. "What's cookin'?"
"You know I don't cook," she says. "I brought bagels and fruit."
"Mmm," he says, and he can't kiss her good morning, so he reaches around her for two bagels. "Hand me the bread knife?"
She does, her fingers nearly brushing over his. He takes it without comment and slices their bagels, scoots behind her and throws it all in the toaster. "Jarvis, you're in charge."
"I'm honored, sir."
"Just don't burn my bagel. You can burn Pepper's, though, she likes it when they're crispy."
She sticks her tongue out at him and he can't lean in to capture it with his mouth, can't pull her close and stand with his arms around her, waiting for their bagels. He digs silverware out of the drawer while Pepper grabs plates and mugs, and the toaster dings at the same time the coffee finishes. She pours it for them and he grabs the bagels, and the easy routine makes him wonder if life would be different if he didn't pay her to take care of him. If she'd do it anyway.
"Hey," he says, sitting down. "If--"
She sits down next to him, stirs sugar into her coffee, and raises her eyebrows. He loses his nerve. "Hey, how much do I pay you? Enough?"
She sets her coffee down and reaches for the fruit. "Enough for what?" she finally asks, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.
He shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. "Give yourself a raise."
"No," she says, tilting her head a little, smiling in the sunlight. "No, it's more than enough."
FIN