penistower | He made some bad investments.

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He made some bad investments.

After working with her at the Battle of New York, Tony had come to respect Rescue -- and the woman behind the suit, of course. But to say they were friends was a gross overshot. Pepper and he could get along. They both had tough shells and were ready equipped with all sorts of sarcasm and wit to deflect any unwanted attention. Because they were essentially Iron Man and Iron Woman, however, the press had their own ideas about the relationship between the pair.

Nick had phoned earlier to tell them about a recent threat, and words came out of his mouth that Tony was pretty sure he misheard. So he made the other man repeat them like, three times. But they didn't change. SHIELD wanted Rescue and Iron Man to shack up, publically. "Officially" so that when the bad guys came they'd have two heroes to contend with, but also so they'd think they were each other's weakness. Since they were only teammates, what could be the harm?

Before he knew it, a press release was set for the morning and Pepper Potts was on her way over to the Tower to move in. He had about a thousand rooms in the place, but if Dr. Doom did find his way inside they should be together just in case. It's all very -- sudden for a man who's never even had a girlfriend. And he still doesn't, but he has to convince the world he does. #Awkward.

"Welcome to Stark Tower, Ms. Potts. And please..."

"Wipe your feet," Tony interrupts JARVIS and his big, sweeping introduction, lifting his eyebrows as he watches her arrival. Should he help her with her stuff...? Probably. After a beat's hesitation, he moves to grab the larger of her two bags.

"Enjoy your stay," JARVIS corrects steadfastly, much to Tony's chagrin. But he offers up a meek little smile for her all the same.

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"Something like that," she responds with a slight blush of her own at the implications, focusing her gaze on anything that isn't his backside or... shoulders. Why does he have such nice shoulders, too? Why is she even noticing? The ping of the microwave snaps her out of it guiltily, and she lift a hand up to discreetly feel if her cheeks are flushed before he turns around.

"Oh my god," she chuckles when he presents her with her loaded sundae, picking off a gummibear to munch on before touching the ice cream. "This is amazing. Keep this up and I won't fit into my suit," she cracks, right before spooning up some of the goodness with a happy sigh. Self-restraint is for wussies. At least when it comes to ice cream.

His gaze follows her lips before he forces himself to tear away -- reminding himself of his rapidly cooling chocolate. In his own creation, there's much more chocolate -- brownie ice cream and fudge both, sprinkles, marshmallows, and about the same amount of cookie dough covered in too much whipped cream and cherries. He laughs heartily at that, finding it hard to picture her as anything but her slim, lean self. Not that he's picturing her... any way.

Tony drops down across from her, figuring it's a cool enough night that he won't have to worry about the ice cream melting all over his kitchen before they finish. "You'll have to take the Hulkbuster," he threatens, but he can't even hold it together for a second before losing it with an evil cackle as he crosses his ankles and starts in on his own ice cream mountain.

She squeaks indignantly though her eyes are alight with mirth, reaching her free hand across the space between them to thwap his shoulder lightly as she battles a grin. "Oh yeah? You'll have to make another one of those for yourself, then," she jabs, nodding at his own bounty.

He's still laughing even while he swallows, shaking his head as his eyes glaze over with a mirthful sheen. He looks at his shoulder and then back over at her without moving at all, as if afraid to jostle her even for a joke. "I'd be down with that. Will you still go out with me if I'm fat and sloppy though?" He purses his lips in between bites, tone serious even if they both know better.

"Will you? We'll both be fat and sloppy, remember," she points out with a smirk and an ached brow, fondly amused, bringing a spoonful of fudge-laden ice cream to her lips is if in punctuation.

"Oh, so it's only okay if we're both gross. I can work with that." He shrugs, licking some vanilla off his mustache. He doesn't get it all unsurprisingly. "Have you ever dated a fat guy?" It would probably be an insensitive question coming from anyone else, but from Tony Stark it doesn't even scratch the iceburg of fucked up shit he says on the daily so he really doesn't stop to wonder why he's asking, or even why he wants to know.

"Um." If she was a little taken aback by his summary -- that wasn't exactly what she'd been going for -- his question completely throws her off. Who even asks that? Tony, apparently. Why is she even surprised? "I... can't say that I have, actually," she finally says, focusing on spooning up some ice cream.

It's only after she tries to answer that he realizes that wasn't socially sound. And this is why he never has girls at his apartment. He frowns briefly, continuing to eat in silence for a few more seconds. "I've never actually... dated anyone. I mean. Not really. Like in the movies or whatever." He flushes again, wondering how that's even possible while shoveling frozen cream into his mouth at forty degrees. "But you probably knew that already." Like he knew the gummy bears thing. This is normal partner stuff... isn't it?

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, dating really is rarely anything like the movies make it seem," she says a bit gently when she recovers after a moment, giving a small smile. "Sometimes, I don't know how people manage it, to be honest. But yes, I knew that."

"Yeah, right. Of course you do." Everyone knows about his... past with the ladies. He flashes a meek smile and flickers his gaze to her then back down again. "Can you tell me... what it is like? So I can fake it," he tacks on, like that wasn't his primary reason for asking. But of course it was. Wasn't it? He begins to scrap up the last of what's fallen to the bottom of his bowl, cookie dough and brownie pieces, sprinkles and hot fudge. Even without ice cream it's all good in a way you know it shouldn't be. ...Kind of like this, now. He's having a good time. He wasn't expecting that.

"You don't ask easy questions, do you?" She breathes a slight laugh, shaking her head as she eats the last of her ice cream distractedly, thinking. What is it like? It's not a simple question to answer.

"It's more compromises and work than movies make it seem, but with the right person it doesn't feel quite so much like work. It's... companionship, and partnership in all things. Taking care of one another. When it's good, it's kind of like this ice cream. But when it's with the right person, it's the ice cream and all your favorite fixings besides."

She's sure Tony is looking for something more concrete and less inexact and flowery, but she doesn't have anything else. "At least I like to think so. I've never actually had it that good," she tacks on with a slightly self-deprecating quirk of her lips. "Which is another thing the movies get wrong. Simple math alone says the odds are inevitably against you, aren't they."

It's only after her explanation starts up that he processes her earlier comment. If she doesn't know how people 'manage' it then she'd never actually been successful in it herself, had she? And here he is grilling her.

"I don't really..." Know what that means. Any of it, in terms of real life. He bites down on the inside of his mouth, watching her. He doesn't feel right asking her anything else. "Yeah," he says, changing tacks. "I guess it is. We're used to that though, right. Slim odds." To put it lightly. He quirks half a smile at her and sets his bowl down, still licking his lips.

Pepper glances up from her bowl when he speaks up, waiting for the rest. When it becomes evident that's all he has, she gives a small smile, a little sad but understanding. She thinks she knows where he was going with that.

"Yeah," she agrees. "That we are." She pauses a little over the context, but determines not to overthink it. Or read anything into it. Or... anything. "Well, we don't have to worry about all that." She smirks playfully, a bit desperate to steer the focus away from where it is now. "Just do as I tell you and everything will be fine."

For whatever reason, when Pepper tells him not to worry he's always listened. It was part of what made them so good out in the field together. She was the only true stabilizing force in his life, and so her assurance brings him real comfort when anyone else saying that might be met with defensiveness or at the very least uncertainty.

"Yes, dear." He tilts his head and lets that wash over him. It felt right. He looks over the mess they've made and realizes he really doesn't want to deal with it. And his ice cream is probably melting on the counter by now. "I'm just gonna--" Reluctantly, he gets up, arm brushing hers again when he goes to take her bowl. He gets everything into the sink okay. This is so... domestic. Of course it is, right? That's the mission. He just hadn't expected it to feel good. It's weird.

A small but warm smile tugs at her lips at the endearment, even though she knows it's just for show. It's stupid of her to feel that flicker of... well, warmth, somewhere behind her breastbone, but she can't quite deny it either. Shaken out of such musings, she murmurs a thanks when he goes to take away her empty bowl, tingles creeping up her arm where it brushed his. Swallowing, she struggles a bit to refocus, starting to push to her feet. "Let me help you clean up."

"...Thanks." He knows he should probably tell her he's got this, but she's not a guest right? She has just as much claim over cleaning up as he does. He covers the rapidly melting ice cream and pops it into the freezer in the bottom of the refrigerator rather than going back into the pantry. He gets back into her space shortly after, transfixed by her hands for a moment before going to grab a towel to help her. "You wash I'll dry?" That's what they do on TV right? Pepper said real relationships weren't like the movies, but they had to have some basis in fact.

Exactly why she'd offered. She's already running some warm water into the sink and adding soap while Tony stows the ice cream away. She glances at him with a smile when he returns, nodding. She's never actually heard of anyone doing this outside of movies, but she notices soon that there's something oddly charming about it. Her arm and shoulder bump his gently as she scrubs every piece carefully, falling into easy rhythm of rinsing before handing each item over to Tony; and maybe she's deliberately taking her time, considering a few plates and bowls and a couple of spoons really do not take that long to wash.

"Next time, you get the dirtier job," she says teasingly, their fingers brushing as she hands a bowl over.

His breath catches as he dries the bowl she hands him, finding it impossible to explain the tingles that arise from each inadvertent touch. "Deal," he manages, swallowing past the dryness that's arisen in his throat. Tony's gaze flickers down to her mouth though he can't explain the impulse. Have they ever been this close before, physically? He can't recall, as though her proximity makes it damn near impossible to think of anything else.

As if feeling his eyes on her face, Pepper glances at him sideways, smiling a bit bashfully as she notes his gaze, some color rising to her cheeks unbidden as she looks back down at her task. God, she's never hated her tendency to blush so easily more than now. Desperately, she tries to think of something to say to distract from this sudden... awareness.

"So," she starts, mostly steadily. "What do you usually do with your evenings?"

"What do I usually do with my evenings," he repeats, voice even. It should be an easy question, he thinks. Or it would be for any normal person. "Oh, you know... the usual evening... stuff."

Which is what? He has no idea. "I usually miss the evening altogether," he realizes aloud, glancing towards the staircase that leads down to his lab. "Maybe a little Netflix, a newspaper, before bed." At 3 am. He shrugs one shoulder.

"Stuff," she echoes with a slightly amused smile, handing him the second bowl to dry. She's not entirely sure whether he meant to say that follow-up statement out loud, glancing at him just in time to catch the look he throws toward the stairs. She wonders if he just gets so caught up in tinkering, or whether he actively seeks to lose track of time in his work so as not to notice any feelings of loneliness. She knows she does that, sometimes.

"Newspaper, huh? On a tablet or something?" He can't possibly mean an actual paper newspaper. She'd be very (pleasantly) surprised if he did. A stubborn lock of hair keeps getting in her eye and she lifts one wet hand, pushing it back with her wrist.

He senses that she's having a laugh at his expense, but that's okay. Really, it is. Tony dries the second bowl and sets it aside, watching her fidget with her hair. Reflexively, he leans in, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. "Some things they got right the first time." Like newspapers. He knows there's a technical term for it, not that he can think of it now. The sensation of paper, reading from the source instead of from a screen. It's the one, silly antiquated indulgence he allows himself.

She freezes for a beat at the gesture that feels ridiculously intimate, her mouth going a little dry. Giving herself a mental shake, she murmurs a soft thanks, smiling as she washes the spoons quickly.

"Yeah," she agrees a bit belatedly. "I think so, too. I like the feel of the paper in my hands and the smell and sound of it. Same with books. You can't get all that off a screen." She breathes a small laugh, at her own expense this time. "I like to do that on Sunday mornings. Make coffee and just take my time reading newspapers. Well, barring any crises."

"...Yeah." He clears his throat softly, jerking his hand away once he realizes he stepped over a line. "We haven't had a Sunday off in a while." Dr. Doom and his merry band of fools had kept them busy. This feels like the most time off they've had in a while, truly. He can't remember the last time he hadn't worried about anything for even an hour at a time.

"No," she acknowledges, her expression sobering. "A lot of newspapers to catch up on." It's a sad state of things, all in all. Dishes done, she pulls the stopper of the sink and rinses the soap suds off her hands, fingertips a little pruney. "May I...?" Borrow the dish towel.

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