Fic: "Shoebox Greetings," Iron Man, Pepper/Agent Coulson, PG-13.
This is my SEVENTH Iron Man fic. Holey bejesus, people. It's an addiction.
This one's for tiffanynichelle, who knows the value of a good shoe-gar daddy.
Title: "Shoebox Greetings" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Iron Man
Word count: 1655
Rating: PG-13 for mild adult content
Disclaimer: Marvel Enterprises owns all. I'm just playing in the sandbox.
Summary: Pepper/Agent Coulson, Pepper/Tony-ish. There's the flutter she's been trying to suppress for years.
When Pepper comes into the L.A. office, there is a package waiting for her on her desk. It's wrapped in brown paper, completely innocuous, and thanks to Stark Industries security, she can be sure it's not ticking. Most people have learned to send things to the house, as she does most of her "personal assisting," from where Tony spends the most time. She's fairly certain (mostly because he's actually *said* it, and he has no tact whatsoever), that he'd rather be back in an Afghani cave than spend more than one day a week trapped inside the office that could probably host their entire secretarial pool.
So, yes, Pepper has a package… and she is just the tiniest, tiniest bit foolish enough to think it's from her tactless boss. There's the flutter she's been trying to suppress for years, and the skip of her pulse that she always chalks up to her secret indulgence for a raspberry latte with a shot of espresso on the side. And then she tells herself, "Get a hold of yourself, Virginia," sounding entirely too much like her Grandmother Potts, and notes that Tony has never, ever, bought her anything that she didn't pick out herself. Global awareness and hero complex aside, he's still the same Tony he's always been and he's not about to start being sensitive and thoughtful to her wants and needs *now*.
She doesn't rip at the paper first thing. No, she sits down, sets her purse in the bottom drawer, boots up her computer, and checks to see if there are any paper memos in her Inbox (no, there aren't). After looking through three corporate invoices, one brief note from Warren Worthington's people about an upcoming charity event in New York, and admiring the latest photo of her best friend from college's nauseatingly adorable baby son, Pepper carefully, slowly, unwraps the box.
She starts at the sides, slicing at the packing tape with scissors. Whoever wrote her name and office address on the top has impeccable penmanship. Pepper wonders what it says about her that penmanship is a turn on… probably that she's been working for Tony, who has truly appalling handwriting 90% of the time, for far too long.
Speaking of turn ons, her breath actually catches when she finally unearths what's inside the wrappings. A shoebox. From a very, very nice shoe store. With a neatly printed note on government letterhead taped to the lid.
Miss Potts,
During the unfortunate incident at Stark Industries last month, I couldn't help but notice your proficiency in running in heels. I sincerely hope you'll wear these to dinner with me and *not* be prompted to flee in the opposite direction.
--Agent Coulson,
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Oh. Oh, wow. How… sensitive and thoughtful. Pepper blushes as she lifts the lid of the box and then goes back to gasping because, wow, Agent Coulson has *taste*. They're a little saucy… okay, a *lot* saucy, being patent leather and red… but the straps are reminiscent of the shoes she had on the night she blew the arc reactor and the six inch heel is stacked instead of stiletto. The better to evade the enemy in, she thinks with a grin. He's persistent, observant, and practical… Pepper almost moans as she slips out of her pumps and into the perfect size 7 Christian Louboutins.
After she walks around her office in them three times --and maybe, just maybe, does a little tap dance and admires her pedicure-- she comes back to her computer and e-mails her benefactor.
Agent Coulson,
If your choice in restaurants is as impeccable as your choice in footwear, I don't think I'll be running away.
I'd be delighted to go to dinner with you.
Sincerely,
Miss Potts,
Stark Industries
Later, when Pepper goes back to Command Central in Malibu, JARVIS compliments her new footwear in a way that makes her wonder (not for the first time) just how much of his intelligence is artificial. She hums as she makes her way down to the shop and has to say, "Get a hold of yourself, Virginia," again just so she's not smiling like a complete idiot when Tony looks up from the Mark IV.
As usual, it takes him a moment to register that she's even there. Then, he frowns at her feet, speculatively. "You weren't wearing those this morning." It's more than she'd usually give him credit for. Besides the time she wore the Ridiculous Dress (yes, she thinks of it like that), he's never given much thought to her wardrobe.
"They were a gift," she shrugs, handing over a file folder with the Worthington invite and other various bits of paperwork.
"From me?"
"No. Most definitely not from you."
Tony's frown only deepens.
She knows better than to think that it's jealousy. Global awareness and hero complex aside, he's still the same Tony he's always been.
**
When he picks her up from her apartment in an unmarked, sleek black car that doesn't scream "discreet" so much as it whispers it, he holds the door for her and tells her it's okay to call him Phil. His gaze flits down to her feet with tacit approval and a slight smile before returning to her face. It's nice to have a man not stop at her chest… what there is of it showing in the simple red sweater dress she chose to pair with Coulson's creative invitation. She says he can call her either 'Pepper' or 'Virginia,' but, somehow, when they end up sitting down at the intimate table in a quiet corner at Campanile, they still maintain the 'Agent Coulson,' and 'Miss Potts.'
He orders her a dry martini with three olives without her having to ask, and she counters the intelligence gathering by pegging him absolutely correctly as a man who drinks gin and tonic… heavy on the tonic, light on the gin. It's one of the things she's picked up while working for a man who has more alcohol in his veins than blood.
"Touché, Miss Potts," he murmurs, as the waiter walks away with the untouched wine list.
She smiles, unselfconsciously. She's good at her job… no, *brilliant* at her job. Reading people is a huge part of it… and it's an ability that has only failed her once, a *big* once. Pepper winces and looks down at her shoes. Her truly, truly, awesome shoes. "It takes a secure man to voluntarily let a woman tower over him," she observes.
Agent Coulson smiles. "I've never had a problem with my security."
Over their drinks and salads, she learns exactly why. He regales her with stories of missions run, of crimes solved, of places he's visited like Wakanda and Genosha and Madripoor. He doesn't have a starring role in any of the tales, but that's all right. Everything he's not telling her tells her everything she needs to know. He's the kind of man who gets things done without fanfare, the kind of man who is effective because no one would expect him to be dangerous.
He tries a bite of her salmon and she a morsel of his lamb. They linger over coffee and an absolutely divine chocolate mousse as he tells her played football in college and she admits she was a basketball cheerleader for exactly one season before she nearly expired from the frivolity of it.
"Are you saying you're not frivolous?"
"I allow myself six inches of frivolity, Agent," she chuckles, wiggling her toes under the tablecloth. "That's really all I have time for while working for Tony."
"Only six inches?" His eyebrow quirks, and that is the only indication (because his even tone definitely doesn't give him away) that he means anything remotely risqué. She laughs before she can stifle it or look properly scandalized.
He drives her home via a leisurely route, and walks her to the door of her apartment complex. Neither one of them are the type to kiss on the first date, which is probably precisely why they do. He tastes like chocolate and a hint of gin and though he doesn't press her at all for a second kiss, she gives it freely. A third, too. Then, she leads him inside and into the elevator, where they don't touch at all because Mrs. Seponsky is taking Muffin, her Chihuahua, upstairs from his late night walk.
They get off at 5 and her place is roughly fifteen steps from the elevator door. On the sixteenth step, as she swings her door open and pockets the key, he smoothly slides his hands into her hair and undoes the demure knot she tied it into. She pushes his jacket from his shoulders and unknots his jaunty, very-un-agent-like Jerry Garcia tie and they never actually make it into her bedroom.
It's at least an hour before Agent Coulson lets her do anything to *him*, which is positively maddening and completely fantastic at the same time, and when he's finally sliding into her, deep and sure and safe, she's come so many times that she's lost count.
He lets her keep the shoes on the whole time.
**
Three days later, Pepper finds another package waiting for her on her desk.
All she has to do is look at the chicken scratch on the paper to know it's from Tony.
She sits down, sets her purse in the bottom drawer, boots up her computer, and checks to see if there are any paper memos in her Inbox (no, there aren't). After looking through five new corporate invoices, reading one brief note from the Colbert campaign about a fundraising gala in Chicago, and admiring a photo of baby Seth dumping last night's spaghetti on his head, Pepper still doesn't open the box.
She sends e-mail instead.
Dear Phil,
I had a lovely time this past weekend. I'd love to see you again as soon as your schedule permits.
Thinking of you,
Pepper
--end--
June 8, 2008
This one's for tiffanynichelle, who knows the value of a good shoe-gar daddy.
Title: "Shoebox Greetings" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Iron Man
Word count: 1655
Rating: PG-13 for mild adult content
Disclaimer: Marvel Enterprises owns all. I'm just playing in the sandbox.
Summary: Pepper/Agent Coulson, Pepper/Tony-ish. There's the flutter she's been trying to suppress for years.
When Pepper comes into the L.A. office, there is a package waiting for her on her desk. It's wrapped in brown paper, completely innocuous, and thanks to Stark Industries security, she can be sure it's not ticking. Most people have learned to send things to the house, as she does most of her "personal assisting," from where Tony spends the most time. She's fairly certain (mostly because he's actually *said* it, and he has no tact whatsoever), that he'd rather be back in an Afghani cave than spend more than one day a week trapped inside the office that could probably host their entire secretarial pool.
So, yes, Pepper has a package… and she is just the tiniest, tiniest bit foolish enough to think it's from her tactless boss. There's the flutter she's been trying to suppress for years, and the skip of her pulse that she always chalks up to her secret indulgence for a raspberry latte with a shot of espresso on the side. And then she tells herself, "Get a hold of yourself, Virginia," sounding entirely too much like her Grandmother Potts, and notes that Tony has never, ever, bought her anything that she didn't pick out herself. Global awareness and hero complex aside, he's still the same Tony he's always been and he's not about to start being sensitive and thoughtful to her wants and needs *now*.
She doesn't rip at the paper first thing. No, she sits down, sets her purse in the bottom drawer, boots up her computer, and checks to see if there are any paper memos in her Inbox (no, there aren't). After looking through three corporate invoices, one brief note from Warren Worthington's people about an upcoming charity event in New York, and admiring the latest photo of her best friend from college's nauseatingly adorable baby son, Pepper carefully, slowly, unwraps the box.
She starts at the sides, slicing at the packing tape with scissors. Whoever wrote her name and office address on the top has impeccable penmanship. Pepper wonders what it says about her that penmanship is a turn on… probably that she's been working for Tony, who has truly appalling handwriting 90% of the time, for far too long.
Speaking of turn ons, her breath actually catches when she finally unearths what's inside the wrappings. A shoebox. From a very, very nice shoe store. With a neatly printed note on government letterhead taped to the lid.
Miss Potts,
During the unfortunate incident at Stark Industries last month, I couldn't help but notice your proficiency in running in heels. I sincerely hope you'll wear these to dinner with me and *not* be prompted to flee in the opposite direction.
--Agent Coulson,
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Oh. Oh, wow. How… sensitive and thoughtful. Pepper blushes as she lifts the lid of the box and then goes back to gasping because, wow, Agent Coulson has *taste*. They're a little saucy… okay, a *lot* saucy, being patent leather and red… but the straps are reminiscent of the shoes she had on the night she blew the arc reactor and the six inch heel is stacked instead of stiletto. The better to evade the enemy in, she thinks with a grin. He's persistent, observant, and practical… Pepper almost moans as she slips out of her pumps and into the perfect size 7 Christian Louboutins.
After she walks around her office in them three times --and maybe, just maybe, does a little tap dance and admires her pedicure-- she comes back to her computer and e-mails her benefactor.
Agent Coulson,
If your choice in restaurants is as impeccable as your choice in footwear, I don't think I'll be running away.
I'd be delighted to go to dinner with you.
Sincerely,
Miss Potts,
Stark Industries
Later, when Pepper goes back to Command Central in Malibu, JARVIS compliments her new footwear in a way that makes her wonder (not for the first time) just how much of his intelligence is artificial. She hums as she makes her way down to the shop and has to say, "Get a hold of yourself, Virginia," again just so she's not smiling like a complete idiot when Tony looks up from the Mark IV.
As usual, it takes him a moment to register that she's even there. Then, he frowns at her feet, speculatively. "You weren't wearing those this morning." It's more than she'd usually give him credit for. Besides the time she wore the Ridiculous Dress (yes, she thinks of it like that), he's never given much thought to her wardrobe.
"They were a gift," she shrugs, handing over a file folder with the Worthington invite and other various bits of paperwork.
"From me?"
"No. Most definitely not from you."
Tony's frown only deepens.
She knows better than to think that it's jealousy. Global awareness and hero complex aside, he's still the same Tony he's always been.
**
When he picks her up from her apartment in an unmarked, sleek black car that doesn't scream "discreet" so much as it whispers it, he holds the door for her and tells her it's okay to call him Phil. His gaze flits down to her feet with tacit approval and a slight smile before returning to her face. It's nice to have a man not stop at her chest… what there is of it showing in the simple red sweater dress she chose to pair with Coulson's creative invitation. She says he can call her either 'Pepper' or 'Virginia,' but, somehow, when they end up sitting down at the intimate table in a quiet corner at Campanile, they still maintain the 'Agent Coulson,' and 'Miss Potts.'
He orders her a dry martini with three olives without her having to ask, and she counters the intelligence gathering by pegging him absolutely correctly as a man who drinks gin and tonic… heavy on the tonic, light on the gin. It's one of the things she's picked up while working for a man who has more alcohol in his veins than blood.
"Touché, Miss Potts," he murmurs, as the waiter walks away with the untouched wine list.
She smiles, unselfconsciously. She's good at her job… no, *brilliant* at her job. Reading people is a huge part of it… and it's an ability that has only failed her once, a *big* once. Pepper winces and looks down at her shoes. Her truly, truly, awesome shoes. "It takes a secure man to voluntarily let a woman tower over him," she observes.
Agent Coulson smiles. "I've never had a problem with my security."
Over their drinks and salads, she learns exactly why. He regales her with stories of missions run, of crimes solved, of places he's visited like Wakanda and Genosha and Madripoor. He doesn't have a starring role in any of the tales, but that's all right. Everything he's not telling her tells her everything she needs to know. He's the kind of man who gets things done without fanfare, the kind of man who is effective because no one would expect him to be dangerous.
He tries a bite of her salmon and she a morsel of his lamb. They linger over coffee and an absolutely divine chocolate mousse as he tells her played football in college and she admits she was a basketball cheerleader for exactly one season before she nearly expired from the frivolity of it.
"Are you saying you're not frivolous?"
"I allow myself six inches of frivolity, Agent," she chuckles, wiggling her toes under the tablecloth. "That's really all I have time for while working for Tony."
"Only six inches?" His eyebrow quirks, and that is the only indication (because his even tone definitely doesn't give him away) that he means anything remotely risqué. She laughs before she can stifle it or look properly scandalized.
He drives her home via a leisurely route, and walks her to the door of her apartment complex. Neither one of them are the type to kiss on the first date, which is probably precisely why they do. He tastes like chocolate and a hint of gin and though he doesn't press her at all for a second kiss, she gives it freely. A third, too. Then, she leads him inside and into the elevator, where they don't touch at all because Mrs. Seponsky is taking Muffin, her Chihuahua, upstairs from his late night walk.
They get off at 5 and her place is roughly fifteen steps from the elevator door. On the sixteenth step, as she swings her door open and pockets the key, he smoothly slides his hands into her hair and undoes the demure knot she tied it into. She pushes his jacket from his shoulders and unknots his jaunty, very-un-agent-like Jerry Garcia tie and they never actually make it into her bedroom.
It's at least an hour before Agent Coulson lets her do anything to *him*, which is positively maddening and completely fantastic at the same time, and when he's finally sliding into her, deep and sure and safe, she's come so many times that she's lost count.
He lets her keep the shoes on the whole time.
**
Three days later, Pepper finds another package waiting for her on her desk.
All she has to do is look at the chicken scratch on the paper to know it's from Tony.
She sits down, sets her purse in the bottom drawer, boots up her computer, and checks to see if there are any paper memos in her Inbox (no, there aren't). After looking through five new corporate invoices, reading one brief note from the Colbert campaign about a fundraising gala in Chicago, and admiring a photo of baby Seth dumping last night's spaghetti on his head, Pepper still doesn't open the box.
She sends e-mail instead.
Dear Phil,
I had a lovely time this past weekend. I'd love to see you again as soon as your schedule permits.
Thinking of you,
Pepper
--end--
June 8, 2008