Title: "The Masochist Says 'Hurt Me'"
Okay, so I am COMPLETELY SQUEEING over Gossip Girl tonight and there will probably be a post to that effect later. I just want to remind everyone that I was a fan of the OT4 from the beginning. (My first GG icon proves it!)
But for now...fic! Iron Man!
Title: "The Masochist Says 'Hurt Me'" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Iron Man
Rating: PG-13 for some language.
Word Count: 975
Disclaimer: Marvel owns all, I'm just its bitch.
Summary: A sequel to Snapshots from the Gawker Stalker. Tony/Rhodey. He listens harder than he's ever listened in his life.
Pepper stopped helping Tony up to bed the first time he tried to drag her under the covers with him. The woman's put up with Tony's bullshit for years, but everyone has a limit. It wasn't the strippers on the jet, it wasn't the time he filled the pool with lime Jell-o and had Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton over for a swim, no it was just reaching out and pulling her into bed… probably saying something like, "Don't go. Stay with me tonight," and working his big ol' Tony Stark orphan eyes. And Miss Pepper Potts would have none of it.
He still remembers the call, and how her voice was all crisp and efficient. Where anybody else would have been pissed as Hell, Pepper just laid out all the facts, telling him, "Jim," (because he graduated from Lt. Colonel Rhodes to Jim while Tony was missing in Afghanistan), "Jim, I would appreciate it if you could come over and handle Tony from now on."
So this is what he does. He "handles" Tony.
He asks Jarvis to check the garage, gets the security feed of the scotch on the workbench and the sparks flying from a soldering iron, and then he wanders into the state of the art, stainless steel and Italian tile kitchen to fix a gourmet dinner for one that his mama would be proud of. While Tony gets drunk off his ass, Jarvis pipes in some John Coltrane, and Rhodey cooks up a filet mignon with a port wine reduction. No sense in letting good steak go to waste, right? He hums to himself, finds a good French vintage to go with his meat, and eats sitting in front of the flatscreen.
He does what he always does. He catches a game or two or three. He takes his jacket off, puts his feet up. And he listens. He listens harder than he's ever listened in his life, trying to make sure he doesn't hear anything crashing, anything exploding, anything that means Tony Stark has killed his damn fool self.
Then, around three a.m., it's time to "handle" Tony. Get him up off the floor and half-carry him, or bust his ass until he gets it upstairs on his own. Rhodey's never stopped helping Tony into bed since he started… and Tone's tried to drag him under the covers at *least* three times with some crazy line about post-traumatic stress. Apparently his limit for bullshit is higher than Pepper's. A lot higher.
He takes the stairs down to the workroom two at a time. Tony still hasn't replaced the glass. "Bigger projects, bigger things to do," he'd said when Jim brought it up, moving around the Lamborghini as jittery as some cat on speed. He's not all that hyper tonight, though. No, Tony's slumped on the floor by the suit, fist curled around a glass that holds about three inches too many of Talisker's, staring up with an expression that he can't even begin to decipher.
"Hey. You okay, man?"
No answer. Not even an acknowledgment that he has breached Tony Stark's inner sanctum right on schedule.
He can't help it, he does the visual once-over that's almost natural in triage situations. Color's good, no pupil dilation, chest rising and falling normally. He's so relieved, even *before* Tony manages to answer, "Still good looking despite the giant hole in my chest," that he almost kicks out his kneecap from being… pissed as Hell.
"You're an asshole, man. You are an asshole and I am way too good to your worthless, skinny, white ass."
Jesus. His fuse is shorter than Pepper's after all. Rhodey is glad that there's only a drunk and a couple of robots around to witness it as he kicks the tires on the Porsche, kicks the workbench hard enough to move it three feet, and stomps back to where Tony is sprawled and kicks the goddamn red and orange suit for good measure. It looks like a Hot Wheels collectible or a Transformer, for Christ's sake.
This only elicits a laugh, and a good inch of scotch disappearing with an audible gulp. "And yet… you keep coming back, Rhodey. You're always here when I'm helpless."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know." He chuckles, shakily, dragging his palm across his head and trying to step out of the anger. Trying to remember that the best way to deal with Tony when he's like this is not to engage. To just let it ride. "You were wrong the other night. It ain't a dubious consent thing, Tone. I think I got it figured out: I'm a masochist."
"I guess that makes me the sadist?" Tony's glass is finally empty, so he punctuates his question by tossing it towards the wall. It's a half-hearted effort, like a third-grade girl playing pickle on the black top, so the tumbler doesn't even break into more than three pieces. One of the arms wheels off with a broom to get the mess anyway.
It's what they all do, isn't it? Clean up after Tony. Worry about Tony. Pray that he comes home safe. Hope that being home doesn't fuck him up worse than being out there.
Everyone has a limit.
Rhodey's is the hand that wraps around his ankle and yanks him down, hard, to the floor… and the big ol' Tony Stark orphan eyes that come into focus while he's still blinking away stars. "Don't go. Stay with me tonight."
Jim handles Tony. Like he always does. He hauls his butt up the stairs, gets his shoes off his feet and his shirt over his head. He points him towards the shower and is still waiting for him ten minutes later when he gets out.
Then, when Tony's toweling off his head, another towel hanging low on hips, he crisply, efficiently, says… "Okay."
--end--
May 12, 2008
But for now...fic! Iron Man!
Title: "The Masochist Says 'Hurt Me'" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Iron Man
Rating: PG-13 for some language.
Word Count: 975
Disclaimer: Marvel owns all, I'm just its bitch.
Summary: A sequel to Snapshots from the Gawker Stalker. Tony/Rhodey. He listens harder than he's ever listened in his life.
Pepper stopped helping Tony up to bed the first time he tried to drag her under the covers with him. The woman's put up with Tony's bullshit for years, but everyone has a limit. It wasn't the strippers on the jet, it wasn't the time he filled the pool with lime Jell-o and had Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton over for a swim, no it was just reaching out and pulling her into bed… probably saying something like, "Don't go. Stay with me tonight," and working his big ol' Tony Stark orphan eyes. And Miss Pepper Potts would have none of it.
He still remembers the call, and how her voice was all crisp and efficient. Where anybody else would have been pissed as Hell, Pepper just laid out all the facts, telling him, "Jim," (because he graduated from Lt. Colonel Rhodes to Jim while Tony was missing in Afghanistan), "Jim, I would appreciate it if you could come over and handle Tony from now on."
So this is what he does. He "handles" Tony.
He asks Jarvis to check the garage, gets the security feed of the scotch on the workbench and the sparks flying from a soldering iron, and then he wanders into the state of the art, stainless steel and Italian tile kitchen to fix a gourmet dinner for one that his mama would be proud of. While Tony gets drunk off his ass, Jarvis pipes in some John Coltrane, and Rhodey cooks up a filet mignon with a port wine reduction. No sense in letting good steak go to waste, right? He hums to himself, finds a good French vintage to go with his meat, and eats sitting in front of the flatscreen.
He does what he always does. He catches a game or two or three. He takes his jacket off, puts his feet up. And he listens. He listens harder than he's ever listened in his life, trying to make sure he doesn't hear anything crashing, anything exploding, anything that means Tony Stark has killed his damn fool self.
Then, around three a.m., it's time to "handle" Tony. Get him up off the floor and half-carry him, or bust his ass until he gets it upstairs on his own. Rhodey's never stopped helping Tony into bed since he started… and Tone's tried to drag him under the covers at *least* three times with some crazy line about post-traumatic stress. Apparently his limit for bullshit is higher than Pepper's. A lot higher.
He takes the stairs down to the workroom two at a time. Tony still hasn't replaced the glass. "Bigger projects, bigger things to do," he'd said when Jim brought it up, moving around the Lamborghini as jittery as some cat on speed. He's not all that hyper tonight, though. No, Tony's slumped on the floor by the suit, fist curled around a glass that holds about three inches too many of Talisker's, staring up with an expression that he can't even begin to decipher.
"Hey. You okay, man?"
No answer. Not even an acknowledgment that he has breached Tony Stark's inner sanctum right on schedule.
He can't help it, he does the visual once-over that's almost natural in triage situations. Color's good, no pupil dilation, chest rising and falling normally. He's so relieved, even *before* Tony manages to answer, "Still good looking despite the giant hole in my chest," that he almost kicks out his kneecap from being… pissed as Hell.
"You're an asshole, man. You are an asshole and I am way too good to your worthless, skinny, white ass."
Jesus. His fuse is shorter than Pepper's after all. Rhodey is glad that there's only a drunk and a couple of robots around to witness it as he kicks the tires on the Porsche, kicks the workbench hard enough to move it three feet, and stomps back to where Tony is sprawled and kicks the goddamn red and orange suit for good measure. It looks like a Hot Wheels collectible or a Transformer, for Christ's sake.
This only elicits a laugh, and a good inch of scotch disappearing with an audible gulp. "And yet… you keep coming back, Rhodey. You're always here when I'm helpless."
"Yeah. Yeah, I know." He chuckles, shakily, dragging his palm across his head and trying to step out of the anger. Trying to remember that the best way to deal with Tony when he's like this is not to engage. To just let it ride. "You were wrong the other night. It ain't a dubious consent thing, Tone. I think I got it figured out: I'm a masochist."
"I guess that makes me the sadist?" Tony's glass is finally empty, so he punctuates his question by tossing it towards the wall. It's a half-hearted effort, like a third-grade girl playing pickle on the black top, so the tumbler doesn't even break into more than three pieces. One of the arms wheels off with a broom to get the mess anyway.
It's what they all do, isn't it? Clean up after Tony. Worry about Tony. Pray that he comes home safe. Hope that being home doesn't fuck him up worse than being out there.
Everyone has a limit.
Rhodey's is the hand that wraps around his ankle and yanks him down, hard, to the floor… and the big ol' Tony Stark orphan eyes that come into focus while he's still blinking away stars. "Don't go. Stay with me tonight."
Jim handles Tony. Like he always does. He hauls his butt up the stairs, gets his shoes off his feet and his shirt over his head. He points him towards the shower and is still waiting for him ten minutes later when he gets out.
Then, when Tony's toweling off his head, another towel hanging low on hips, he crisply, efficiently, says… "Okay."
--end--
May 12, 2008