[fic] Opaque
Title: Opaque
Author:
odi_amo
Rating: R. Maybe. It’s Tony, after all.
Characters: Tony, Rhodes, Pepper, Jarvis
Notes: Completely disjointed. Maybe a little pointless. Five drabbles. Women, falling, War Machine, Pepper, and the weather.
It’s easy to find a woman. The seduction is easy too. Tony tugs her close, close enough to feel the press of her breasts against his chest. He whispers in her ear, feels her hands tighten around his hips as his hot breath flutters against her skin. The music of the club thunders in the background, a pulsing beat that throbs with gyrating bodies and sweeping lights.
He holds a tumbler delicately in one hand, the perspiring glass cool against his fingers. His other hand rests in the small of her back, with the ease of long experience. One delicately plucked eyebrow raises, her amber eyes glittering in the shaky light, and Tony traces the fall of her hair as it brushes against her collarbone. Her skin is smooth, fair, and glitters with tiny droplets of sweat in the heat.
He guides her over to a corner, still in the general view, but no one looks twice at them. He thinks, absently, that without all the pomp and circumstance of his usual arrival, all it took was quick duck through a back door and he’s blended in. He wonders if the discrepancy can be explained away by the fact that he must look as different as he feels, even as his fingers gently follow the hem of her low cut shirt. The nameless woman leans forward and presses her lips against his, sweeping her tongue into his mouth, and she tastes like margaritas. Tony pushes her against the wall, and thinks that he should be able to hear something of this encounter, but under the loud beat of the music, all he can hear is the tumult of a hundred people yelling and laughing and dancing. As she pulls away and he watches her red lips part as his fingers slide beneath her short skirt, he can’t hear the noise she makes. All he can see is the flush of her cheeks, and her eyelashes as they flutter closed.
She's the first woman he’s touched since he returned from Afghanistan, and he doesn’t bother to learn her name.
One of her hands palms the back of his neck, the other tugs at the beltline of his pants, and when he touches her, he feels nothing.
--
He orders Jarvis to remove the sensors from his display, and increase the visual range to 360 degrees. The helmet seems to disappear, replaced by an unobstructed view of the evening sky. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon in the west, delicate fingers of red and orange tracing the lower edges of the sky.
He evens out his upward ascent at 80,000 feet. Jarvis informs him primly that the icing in the joints of the suit is within nominal parameters.
He hovers there for a moment, hands delicately outstretched and maintaining his balance, and he absently orders Jarvis to increase the volume in the helmet to 150 percent.
The noise of the outside world intensifies. The steady drone of the repulsor emitters on the bottom of his boots drown out any other sound, other than the ambiance of his own breathing and his heart beating evenly in his ears.
“Kill repulsors.” He orders.
The ones in his hands putter out first, followed a split second later by the ones in his boots, and he hangs in the air for an immeasurably brief moment, his breath stilling in his chest, and there is a split second of utter, perfect silence, before gravity takes hold.
He falls. Faint at first, the noise of the wind rushing past him grows into an all out roar, and his heart starts hammering in his chest as he enters freefall. He tumbles down, back first, before gently twisting until his hands catch the wind and float next to his sides and he faces the earth spread out beneath him. The lights of the city glimmer, pinpoints in a canvas of grays and greens and browns, some reflecting off the shoreline of the blue ocean.
He should feel something. The seconds tick by as he picks up speed, the roaring wind finally overtaking even the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He feels something bubbling in his chest, something like fear. It feels tight, hovering around the almost intangible vibration where the suit feeds off of the arc reactor in his sternum. He breathes, deeply, watching the yawning world beneath him grow larger and larger, the dead weight of his suit pulling him down faster and faster, and beneath the fear an exhilaration begins to build.
“Ignite stabilizers.” He says, and the repulsors in his hands flare to life. The downward momentum immediately shifts into a downward arc, and Tony aims himself in line with the coast, picking up speed. He can start to feel its effects, the g forces pressing him into the back of the suit, and a grin start to tug at his lips.
Even if he can’t hear it over the roar of the wind, he can still feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, his breathing quick and heavy, and what starts off as an uncontrollable grin turns into a full blown laugh as the coastline rushes towards him and Jarvis stiffly warns him to decrease speed before he crashes into the ocean.
He cuts it so close he kicks up a spray of seawater that covers the suit with a fine mist, little droplets of water tracing the outline of his helmet before being flung away into the wind. His joyful whoops of laughter are loud in his ears.
--
He taps his fingernails against his glass. It makes a soft, plinking noise at the touch of each finger. A particularly hard tap causes the ice cubes to clink as they settle into a new position.
Rhodes raises his own glass to his lips, sliding the amber liquid across his tongue. His eyes trace the gutted portion of the Mark II suit that hangs from the ceiling by winch. Tony follows his gaze, and allows a knowing smile to tug at his lips.
“You want one?” he asks, trading tapping in favor of running the tip of a finger around the rim of his glass, too gently to make any resonance.
Rhodes sets his glass down on the workbench. He levels Tony with his best don’t-fuck-with-me gaze.
Tony runs his tongue across his front teeth. “I’m not kidding. Do you want one?”
“Don’t play around like that, Tony.” Rhodes says, firmly, lifting and draining the rest of his glass. He sets the empty tumbler off to the side, and runs his finger through the water mark that it left on the workbench.
Tony picks up his empty glass and holds it. He points with that hand, jabbing a finger at the hanging Mark II suit, his other hand resting idly against the arc reactor under his shirt. “I’m not playing around. That,” the finger traces a small circle in front of the Mark II, “is not playing around.”
“Do you know what I’m asking?” Rhodes presses. “I really don’t think you do.”
“Sure I do. You want to be the Robin to my Batman. I get it.”
Rhodes’ hand, the one that toys with the watermark, clenches into a fist. “Don’t turn this into a joke.”
Another tapping intrudes on the conversation as Tony begins to drum his fingers against the covering of the arc reactor. Rhodes’ eyes are drawn to the spot, dark with a held back anger.
“I’ll build you a suit, Rhodey.” Tony says. Just like that. Almost nonchalantly, like it was nothing of great import. Just a small favor for a friend.
Rhodes’ gaze slides away from Tony’s chest and settles on Tony’s face. “Why?”
Tony purses his lips. His fingers stop drumming and just rest against the light that shines through his shirt. After a long pause, he says carefully, “I wouldn’t have made it, alone.”
The words hang there, along with the things left unsaid, the things implied. Rhodes catches Tony's eyes, makes sure he has his attention when he says, gruffly, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Tony says, and Rhodes has the strangest impression that Tony isn't talking to him when he says it, even though he's looking right at him.
--
“You have a board meeting, Mr. Stark,” Pepper says, “In thirty minutes.” She clutches two file folders in her hands, and the expression on her face is at the same time exasperated and resigned.
Tony glances up at her, then looks down at himself. Pepper follows his gaze, ghosting over grease-smeared arms, the dirty, wrinkled shirt, the worn and torn jeans, and the messy, tangled hair.
“Errrm…” Tony hums, and Pepper sighs.
“It’s really rather important, Mr. Stark.” She admonishes.
Tony’s eyes dart to the workbench he’s leaning against, and Pepper catalogues the items spread out over it. She sees what might vaguely resemble the half assembled components of an arc reactor if she's not mistaken, and bits and pieces of what’s probably the armor.
But when her eyes focus back on Tony, she finds him staring at her with an oddly contemplative look on his face.
“Mr. Stark?” she inquires.
His gaze slides away, and he blinks, like he’s coming back to himself from somewhere far away. He waves a hand, says, “Yes, of course, it’s always something important. Just give me a minute to-” he trails off, gestures to the workbench.
Pepper raises one eyebrow and replies smoothly, “It’ll be here when you get back, Mr. Stark.”
Tony eyes her, shrewdly, and says, “You’re no fun.” It emerges as an accusation.
“Here are the items on today’s agenda. I suggest you look them over.” Pepper retorts, holding out the file folders.
Tony peers at them, noting the depressingly thick contents, and says, almost weakly, “That’s a lot to look over.”
Pepper just shrugs, a smooth rising of her shoulders, and her lips twitch in the faintest of smiles. “I’m sure Jarvis will be happy to read you some of them in the shower. I’ve uploaded them to his server.”
Tony tugs the file folders out of her grasp with a dour expression. “Thank you, Miss Potts.” He says flatly.
“Always a pleasure, Mr. Stark.” She replies, and Tony watches her leave, the steady click click of her heals echoing through the basement. He turns back to the workbench and gives it a thoughtful once-over, before tucking the file folders under his arm and heading to the shower, calling, "Jarvis, darling-"
--
He wakes up, heart pounding. His shirt sticks to his skin with sweat, and the windows of his bedroom are still opaque.
“Jarvis,” He whispers into the dark, voice hoarse.
“Good morning, sir.” Jarvis says, softly. “How may I be of assistance?”
Tony presses a shaky hand over his eyes, curling the other into the fabric of his bed sheets. “… Give me the weather.”
“Of course, sir. It is currently 68 degrees Fahrenheit in Malibu, scattered clouds, with a 40 percent chance of precipitation. The sun will rise today at 5:54 am.” Jarvis pauses, then adds, “It is currently 2:43 am.”
Tony uncurls his fingers from his bed sheets and rests them against his chest. “Keep going,” he orders.
“A 1025 millibar high was 1000 nautical miles north-west of Point Conception… while a 1009 millibar thermal low was located over southeastern California. A weak north-west flow is expected over the coastal waters through Monday. There will be a slight chance of thunderstorms over coastal waters through this evening... strongest over the inner waters south of Point Conception.”
Another pause, before the smooth British tones resume. “In Cambridge, Massachusetts, it is mostly cloudy with a 80 percent chance of precipitation. The temperature will reach a high of 81 degrees Fahrenheit, and a low of 63 degrees. In New York City, New York, it is 77 degrees Fahrenheit, and there is a 60 percent chance of precipitation, with a chance of thunderstorms later in the evening.”
Jarvis pauses again, longer this time. Tony lies on the sheets, his breathing slowly coming under control. He turns his head, gazing out towards the window. Without prompting, Jarvis dials back 80 percent of the opaqueness, giving Tony a view of the nighttime ocean.
Three months in a cave, without knowing when the sun was rising or falling. Without knowing what it might be like, at home. Or anywhere.
“In Banambra, Australia, it is raining for the first time in three years.” Jarvis offers.
Tony smiles absently. “Sentimental idiot.”
Author:
odi_amo
Rating: R. Maybe. It’s Tony, after all.
Characters: Tony, Rhodes, Pepper, Jarvis
Notes: Completely disjointed. Maybe a little pointless. Five drabbles. Women, falling, War Machine, Pepper, and the weather.
It’s easy to find a woman. The seduction is easy too. Tony tugs her close, close enough to feel the press of her breasts against his chest. He whispers in her ear, feels her hands tighten around his hips as his hot breath flutters against her skin. The music of the club thunders in the background, a pulsing beat that throbs with gyrating bodies and sweeping lights.
He holds a tumbler delicately in one hand, the perspiring glass cool against his fingers. His other hand rests in the small of her back, with the ease of long experience. One delicately plucked eyebrow raises, her amber eyes glittering in the shaky light, and Tony traces the fall of her hair as it brushes against her collarbone. Her skin is smooth, fair, and glitters with tiny droplets of sweat in the heat.
He guides her over to a corner, still in the general view, but no one looks twice at them. He thinks, absently, that without all the pomp and circumstance of his usual arrival, all it took was quick duck through a back door and he’s blended in. He wonders if the discrepancy can be explained away by the fact that he must look as different as he feels, even as his fingers gently follow the hem of her low cut shirt. The nameless woman leans forward and presses her lips against his, sweeping her tongue into his mouth, and she tastes like margaritas. Tony pushes her against the wall, and thinks that he should be able to hear something of this encounter, but under the loud beat of the music, all he can hear is the tumult of a hundred people yelling and laughing and dancing. As she pulls away and he watches her red lips part as his fingers slide beneath her short skirt, he can’t hear the noise she makes. All he can see is the flush of her cheeks, and her eyelashes as they flutter closed.
She's the first woman he’s touched since he returned from Afghanistan, and he doesn’t bother to learn her name.
One of her hands palms the back of his neck, the other tugs at the beltline of his pants, and when he touches her, he feels nothing.
--
He orders Jarvis to remove the sensors from his display, and increase the visual range to 360 degrees. The helmet seems to disappear, replaced by an unobstructed view of the evening sky. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon in the west, delicate fingers of red and orange tracing the lower edges of the sky.
He evens out his upward ascent at 80,000 feet. Jarvis informs him primly that the icing in the joints of the suit is within nominal parameters.
He hovers there for a moment, hands delicately outstretched and maintaining his balance, and he absently orders Jarvis to increase the volume in the helmet to 150 percent.
The noise of the outside world intensifies. The steady drone of the repulsor emitters on the bottom of his boots drown out any other sound, other than the ambiance of his own breathing and his heart beating evenly in his ears.
“Kill repulsors.” He orders.
The ones in his hands putter out first, followed a split second later by the ones in his boots, and he hangs in the air for an immeasurably brief moment, his breath stilling in his chest, and there is a split second of utter, perfect silence, before gravity takes hold.
He falls. Faint at first, the noise of the wind rushing past him grows into an all out roar, and his heart starts hammering in his chest as he enters freefall. He tumbles down, back first, before gently twisting until his hands catch the wind and float next to his sides and he faces the earth spread out beneath him. The lights of the city glimmer, pinpoints in a canvas of grays and greens and browns, some reflecting off the shoreline of the blue ocean.
He should feel something. The seconds tick by as he picks up speed, the roaring wind finally overtaking even the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. He feels something bubbling in his chest, something like fear. It feels tight, hovering around the almost intangible vibration where the suit feeds off of the arc reactor in his sternum. He breathes, deeply, watching the yawning world beneath him grow larger and larger, the dead weight of his suit pulling him down faster and faster, and beneath the fear an exhilaration begins to build.
“Ignite stabilizers.” He says, and the repulsors in his hands flare to life. The downward momentum immediately shifts into a downward arc, and Tony aims himself in line with the coast, picking up speed. He can start to feel its effects, the g forces pressing him into the back of the suit, and a grin start to tug at his lips.
Even if he can’t hear it over the roar of the wind, he can still feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, his breathing quick and heavy, and what starts off as an uncontrollable grin turns into a full blown laugh as the coastline rushes towards him and Jarvis stiffly warns him to decrease speed before he crashes into the ocean.
He cuts it so close he kicks up a spray of seawater that covers the suit with a fine mist, little droplets of water tracing the outline of his helmet before being flung away into the wind. His joyful whoops of laughter are loud in his ears.
--
He taps his fingernails against his glass. It makes a soft, plinking noise at the touch of each finger. A particularly hard tap causes the ice cubes to clink as they settle into a new position.
Rhodes raises his own glass to his lips, sliding the amber liquid across his tongue. His eyes trace the gutted portion of the Mark II suit that hangs from the ceiling by winch. Tony follows his gaze, and allows a knowing smile to tug at his lips.
“You want one?” he asks, trading tapping in favor of running the tip of a finger around the rim of his glass, too gently to make any resonance.
Rhodes sets his glass down on the workbench. He levels Tony with his best don’t-fuck-with-me gaze.
Tony runs his tongue across his front teeth. “I’m not kidding. Do you want one?”
“Don’t play around like that, Tony.” Rhodes says, firmly, lifting and draining the rest of his glass. He sets the empty tumbler off to the side, and runs his finger through the water mark that it left on the workbench.
Tony picks up his empty glass and holds it. He points with that hand, jabbing a finger at the hanging Mark II suit, his other hand resting idly against the arc reactor under his shirt. “I’m not playing around. That,” the finger traces a small circle in front of the Mark II, “is not playing around.”
“Do you know what I’m asking?” Rhodes presses. “I really don’t think you do.”
“Sure I do. You want to be the Robin to my Batman. I get it.”
Rhodes’ hand, the one that toys with the watermark, clenches into a fist. “Don’t turn this into a joke.”
Another tapping intrudes on the conversation as Tony begins to drum his fingers against the covering of the arc reactor. Rhodes’ eyes are drawn to the spot, dark with a held back anger.
“I’ll build you a suit, Rhodey.” Tony says. Just like that. Almost nonchalantly, like it was nothing of great import. Just a small favor for a friend.
Rhodes’ gaze slides away from Tony’s chest and settles on Tony’s face. “Why?”
Tony purses his lips. His fingers stop drumming and just rest against the light that shines through his shirt. After a long pause, he says carefully, “I wouldn’t have made it, alone.”
The words hang there, along with the things left unsaid, the things implied. Rhodes catches Tony's eyes, makes sure he has his attention when he says, gruffly, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Tony says, and Rhodes has the strangest impression that Tony isn't talking to him when he says it, even though he's looking right at him.
--
“You have a board meeting, Mr. Stark,” Pepper says, “In thirty minutes.” She clutches two file folders in her hands, and the expression on her face is at the same time exasperated and resigned.
Tony glances up at her, then looks down at himself. Pepper follows his gaze, ghosting over grease-smeared arms, the dirty, wrinkled shirt, the worn and torn jeans, and the messy, tangled hair.
“Errrm…” Tony hums, and Pepper sighs.
“It’s really rather important, Mr. Stark.” She admonishes.
Tony’s eyes dart to the workbench he’s leaning against, and Pepper catalogues the items spread out over it. She sees what might vaguely resemble the half assembled components of an arc reactor if she's not mistaken, and bits and pieces of what’s probably the armor.
But when her eyes focus back on Tony, she finds him staring at her with an oddly contemplative look on his face.
“Mr. Stark?” she inquires.
His gaze slides away, and he blinks, like he’s coming back to himself from somewhere far away. He waves a hand, says, “Yes, of course, it’s always something important. Just give me a minute to-” he trails off, gestures to the workbench.
Pepper raises one eyebrow and replies smoothly, “It’ll be here when you get back, Mr. Stark.”
Tony eyes her, shrewdly, and says, “You’re no fun.” It emerges as an accusation.
“Here are the items on today’s agenda. I suggest you look them over.” Pepper retorts, holding out the file folders.
Tony peers at them, noting the depressingly thick contents, and says, almost weakly, “That’s a lot to look over.”
Pepper just shrugs, a smooth rising of her shoulders, and her lips twitch in the faintest of smiles. “I’m sure Jarvis will be happy to read you some of them in the shower. I’ve uploaded them to his server.”
Tony tugs the file folders out of her grasp with a dour expression. “Thank you, Miss Potts.” He says flatly.
“Always a pleasure, Mr. Stark.” She replies, and Tony watches her leave, the steady click click of her heals echoing through the basement. He turns back to the workbench and gives it a thoughtful once-over, before tucking the file folders under his arm and heading to the shower, calling, "Jarvis, darling-"
--
He wakes up, heart pounding. His shirt sticks to his skin with sweat, and the windows of his bedroom are still opaque.
“Jarvis,” He whispers into the dark, voice hoarse.
“Good morning, sir.” Jarvis says, softly. “How may I be of assistance?”
Tony presses a shaky hand over his eyes, curling the other into the fabric of his bed sheets. “… Give me the weather.”
“Of course, sir. It is currently 68 degrees Fahrenheit in Malibu, scattered clouds, with a 40 percent chance of precipitation. The sun will rise today at 5:54 am.” Jarvis pauses, then adds, “It is currently 2:43 am.”
Tony uncurls his fingers from his bed sheets and rests them against his chest. “Keep going,” he orders.
“A 1025 millibar high was 1000 nautical miles north-west of Point Conception… while a 1009 millibar thermal low was located over southeastern California. A weak north-west flow is expected over the coastal waters through Monday. There will be a slight chance of thunderstorms over coastal waters through this evening... strongest over the inner waters south of Point Conception.”
Another pause, before the smooth British tones resume. “In Cambridge, Massachusetts, it is mostly cloudy with a 80 percent chance of precipitation. The temperature will reach a high of 81 degrees Fahrenheit, and a low of 63 degrees. In New York City, New York, it is 77 degrees Fahrenheit, and there is a 60 percent chance of precipitation, with a chance of thunderstorms later in the evening.”
Jarvis pauses again, longer this time. Tony lies on the sheets, his breathing slowly coming under control. He turns his head, gazing out towards the window. Without prompting, Jarvis dials back 80 percent of the opaqueness, giving Tony a view of the nighttime ocean.
Three months in a cave, without knowing when the sun was rising or falling. Without knowing what it might be like, at home. Or anywhere.
“In Banambra, Australia, it is raining for the first time in three years.” Jarvis offers.
Tony smiles absently. “Sentimental idiot.”