Chapter One
Now and then, Pepper forgot that Tony wasn’t like other
people.
She understood his personality, and had dealt with his moods and
impulses for years; she even understood, vaguely, the science behind
his genius and the genius behind his science.
But every once in a while Pepper found herself caught up short by a
reminder that Tony Stark was to the average American what an atonal
symphony was to Disneyland. That is to say alien, and unconnected,
prone to receiving blank, disbelieving looks.
Like now.
He had his face up against the window of the limo, and his intense
stare had her feeling uneasy.
“You mean to tell me that people really do just haul their
old
stuff out onto their lawns and sell
it?” he asked in a low, disbelieving voice.
“Perfectly good
stuff?”
“None of it is perfectly good, Tony,” Pepper
fretted,
checking their itinerary on her BlackBerry yet again. They were already
late for the Exposition, and this little side stop wasn’t
helping.
Over in the driveway, Happy was forking over a twenty, and the woman
with the Kodak carousel slide projector was nodding and making change,
pushing a shoebox full of film bits his way. Happy took the projector
and the shoebox, making his way back to the limo with serene patience.
He opened the door and handed over the treasures, his voice low.
“Here you go Mr. Stark, one slide carousel complete with Mrs.
Duncan’s vacation shots for the last fifteen years. She says
it’s broken, so she only took two bucks for it. We need to
move,
sir—we’re blocking her driveway.”
“Good, Happy, thanks,” Tony murmured, his attention
now on
the brittle and yellowing plastic appliance in his lap. “Two
bucks, that’s it?”
“Tony!” Pepper yelped as he dropped the dusty
shoebox on
her lap and proceeded to examine the slide projector carefully.
“I don’t want these!”
“Broken spring on the loader,” Tony diagnosed,
fishing in
his pocket for a pen. He absently took it apart and used the long ink
shaft to prod at the tiny, rusting spring as the limo pulled out and
headed towards the on-ramp for the highway. “It would take
all of
ten minutes to replace, and I’m pretty sure I’ve
got one
that would fit.”
“That’s wonderful; you can do it LATER,”
Pepper told
him, setting the shoebox on the floor of the limo and trying to brush
the dust from her skirt. “And it will be the thrill of the
evening to see the vacation slides of perfect strangers, now
won’t it?”
“Could be,” he muttered, lost in the inner workings
of the
ancient machine. “So that was a garage sale?”
“That was,” Pepper sighed. “A collection
of old
clothes, broken, useless, worn-out or superfluous junk set out for
buyers to paw through. It combines housecleaning and free enterprise
and now
we need to put our
new toy away and get ready for the Expo, Mr. Stark.”
She gently took the slide projector from him and set it next to the
shoe box. Tony reluctantly let it go and reassembled the pen as Pepper
reached to adjust his tie. “Do they happen a lot?”
“What?”
“Garage sales,” Tony persisted.
“I’m out of the
loop, not really having neighbors, you know.”
“Um, yes, usually on Saturdays and Sundays,” Pepper
nodded.
“Why this big interest?”
“No particular reason,” Tony assured her, his gaze
still on
the slide projector.
Despite their initial tardiness, the Exposition went off without a
hitch and Pepper would have forgotten all about the little pit stop
except for two things.
The first was the projector and slides. Tony kept them in his hotel
room, and actually did
show
her several of them, projecting the images on a blank wall of the
suite. One of the nights, he’d ordered popcorn from Room
Service,
and she and Tony had spent a hilarious evening making up back stories
for the slides.
“This is Norma and me at the Wisconsin Butter Packing
Plant,” Tony drawled in his worst imitation of an old lady
while
an out-of-focus shot of two grandmothers standing in front of a blurry
building. “She hates me to tell the story, but when we got to
the
vats of whipped, ooohwwweee!”
“Tony, that’s mean!”
Pepper protested, even as giggles bubbled out of her. “I bet
that
Mrs. Duncan’s mother or something.”
“Probably,” he agreed, clicking on a shot of the
Grand
Canyon. “And here’s where your idiot Uncle Edgar
dug up the
yard, trying to find that sewer line . . .”
Pepper couldn’t remember the last time she’d
laughed so
hard, because it had
been a
fun evening—very nearly a date, if you looked at it sideways.
Still, once they’d gotten back from the Expo, she assumed the
slide projector would find a new home on some shelf down in the garage
and the whole incident would be forgotten.
She was right on the first count and wrong on the second.
The garage sale stayed in Tony’s thoughts all through the
Expo,
and long after he’d repaired the slide projector
he’d
pondered why such a seemingly ordinary pastime would intrigue him,
because on the surface of it, it didn’t seem that it should.
He’d never had to sell anything in his life—at
least not
because of a lack of space or need of quick cash. Tony Stark had given
away anything that was out of date or out of season simply because his
philanthropic mother had instilled in him a sense of social obligation
to do so. Pepper regularly weeded out his wardrobe and kept his shoes
up-to-date; Jarvis was authorized to purchase and update all household
appliances from cell phone to walk-in freezer.
Tony understood planned obsolescence; it was one of the fundamentals of
manufacturing. Everything on the planet that was created by man had an
end life. However, it was fascinating to realize that most people gave
up on things well before they needed to.
It created a little personal paradox for him, and by the time Saturday
rolled around, he called Pepper bright and early.
“Potts, throw on your shortest shorts and a baseball
cap—we’re going to make the rounds,” he
told her.
“Nothing in my employment dress code includes shorts, and the
rounds of what?”
came
the annoyed grumble. Tony could tell she was suspicious of any weekend
call that didn’t involve bail or Emergency rooms in the first
few
sentences.
“Garage sales. I’m going to take a look at a few,
and I know
you’re not about to
let
me go all by myself, so---”
“Tony—you’re kidding, right?”
“Wrong. I’ve got Jarvis plotting out a nice
leisurely route
through some nondescript neighborhoods, so hurry up.”
He hung up over her squawk, judging that Pepper would be at the mansion
within half an hour, and went to go find a disguise.
When she did show up, Tony was thrilled to see that she was indeed
wearing shorts, although they were khaki, and modest compared to the
ones of his imagination. She also had on a Lakers sweatshirt and her
hair was in a ponytail.
Pepper was also staring at him.
“Too much?” Tony asked, turning around to show off
his
choice for the day.
“Terrifying,” she admitted and giggled.
Tony sniffed. “Everyone’s a critic.”
He’d
chosen long black Rastafarian dreads and a rainbow colored knit cap,
along with aviator sunglasses. Those combined with jeans and a raggedy
Bob Marley tee-shirt effectively hid his familiar features fairly well,
Tony was sure. He held out a hand to Pepper. “Keys?”
“You’ve got cars,” Pepper protested, but
she was
still grinning.
“I have highly recognizable cars that would look very
conspicuous
at garage sales,” Tony pointed out.
“We’re taking your
car and I’m
driving. You’ve got
the Jarvis GPS in yours, right?”
“You installed it yourself,” Pepper reminded him,
still
clutching the keys. “And you drive like a maniac, Tony.
Another
ticket and you’ll be this
close to losing your license!” She held up a thumb and
forefinger
only fractionally apart.
Tony rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. I’ll drive
slowly.
Let’s go—my research says you’re supposed
to get to
these things early for the best bargains.”
“Your . . . research?” Pepper echoed, following her
employer down the front steps to her Audi. “You’re
telling
me you’ve done research on
garage sales, Tony?”
“Absolutely—the strategies, the psychology, the
history—”
“Why?” Pepper demanded, reluctantly handing over
her keys
and climbing into the passenger side door. “It’s
aberrant,
even for you,
Mr.
Stark.”
“Call it research into the American consumer
psyche,” Tony
cheerfully told her, climbing in and adjusting the steering wheel.
“By the way, you have cash, right? Lots of small
bills?”
He hated to put the pressure on her, but Tony regretfully knew he could
never write a check at a garage sale, much less one under his name, and
his wallet currently held nothing smaller than a hundred dollar bill.
Flamboyance and anonymity were incompatible in his lifestyle, alas.
Pepper didn’t want to be intrigued, but found herself
glancing at
Tony periodically during their drive. He took a southerly route,
heading into Santa Monica, through some middle-class neighborhoods. It
was still early, and she liked the peaceful feel of suburban life here;
the happy sprawl of community.
They pulled up to a cul-de-sac and there were several cars there
already; two sales in houses side by side were the big draw. Tony
looked through the window. “Ahhh, I see some electronics
faintly
calling my name. Anything you’re in the market for,
Pepper?”
“Books, possibly. We’ll see,” she
replied, not
willing to admit a sense of anticipation. It had been a long time since
she’d done something so free-spirited and mundane.
Something just for the fun of it.
Tony parked, fitting the Audi nicely between a camper and a Camry, then
climbed out, surveying the scene. Pepper moved to stand next him,
feeling as they were starring in some madcap sitcom.
“So.”
“So, so, suck my toe, all the way to Mexico,” Tony
chanted
under his breath and smirked at her before crossing the street to look
at the tables on the driveway. Pepper bit back a laugh at the
schoolyard taunt and followed him slowly.
There were three long folding tables lining the driveways, Pepper found
herself moving to the one with kitchenware on it, delighted to see
familiar tools. She already had several peelers and whisks at home, of
course, but the cunning little silver butter knife with the ceramic
snowman handle would be perfect for Christmas . . .
“How much is the butter knife?”
“Fifty cents,” came the absent reply from a woman
in jeans
who was bagging baby clothes and sticking labels on them. “I
used
to have two, but the other one got broken in the disposal.”
Pepper made a sound of empathy and dug in her pocket for change,
handing over two quarters. Tucking her prize away, Pepper scanned the
table for anything else, but nothing more appealed to her and she
wandered to the next table, where a few boxes of knickknacks sat. She
admired the fat green candles with impressed leaves and picked up a
crystal bud vase, admiring the etched rose on it.
Pretty, but not needed, she knew.
Carefully Pepper glanced around to see what Tony was up to, and blinked
when she couldn’t find him. Alarmed, she took a step and
realized
he was squatting down to look at a crate full of junked electronics,
and was pulling out what appeared to be a bread maker.
She couldn’t help herself and took a quick digital photo of
him
in full Rasta regalia before slowly making her way to his side. Tony
barely glanced her way as he looked at the underside of the appliance.
“Heard the snap; I’m going to have to confiscate
that,” he murmured under his breath. Pepper shot him a
challenging look but said nothing as he added, “So this thing
makes bread? I thought that was a hand job—a by
hand job, that is.”
It was fun to see him blush; Tony didn’t do that very often,
and
Pepper fought a rising giggle as she tapped the bread maker.
“Welcome to the twentieth century, Mr. Stark. You might be
surprised to know that technology has actually reached the average
kitchen,” she whispered as an elderly man came over and
nodded to
them.
“See you found Shirley’s bread thingie, young
fellah. Never
worked right after she made that caraway rye. I can let you have it for
five bucks.”
Tony was going to say something but Pepper flashed a sweet smile at the
man. “Ohhhh. Um, I have three, actually, sir. Would, um, that
be
okay?”
The man blinked at Pepper for a second, and smiled back. “Ah
shoot, I’m a sucker for a Lakers gal! Three it is, and
I’ll
throw in that old potpourri heater too, if you want it,
sweetheart.”
“Oh thank you, that’s so nice of you,”
Pepper
murmured, tilting her eyes down demurely. Tony watched in fascination
as she handed over the money and collected the two appliances before
following her back to the car.
“You . . . you schmoozed
him!” Tony blurted in admiration.
“Utterly!”
“I didn’t . . . schmooze. I just pointed out that I
had
three dollars.”
“--Along with several others,” Tony grinned.
“Oh
you’re gooood.”
“I’ve been to a few sales in my time,”
Pepper
admitted, “And haggling is a time-honored tradition, Mr.
Stark.”
“I sense I’m in the presence of a
master,” Tony
intoned. “I’ll keep my eyes open and see if I can
get the
hang of it.”
“It’s fun,” Pepper smirked.
“Although what
we’re going to do with a bread maker is beyond me.”
“I’ll fix it and give it to Platypus,”
Tony murmured.
“He’s the domestic type. So Jarvis, where to
next?”
“2887 Summerset Drive, sir, a mere three miles from
here,”
the AI intoned. “Loading directions now.”
This sale was more jumbled, with items strewn on blankets laid on the
lawn. Pepper winced at the naked, scalped Barbies and well-chewed
plastic blocks that lined the edges.
Tony’s eyes widened. “That’s some hard
use,” he
muttered.
“Loved. The kind term is
‘loved,’” Pepper
replied, although she wasn’t entirely convinced herself.
She turned instead to the shoeboxes of paperbacks and thumbed through
them, finding a worn hardback copy of Centerburg Tales
priced at
a dime. She set it aside and found Homer Price
a moment later,
fighting down a little frisson of happiness at her treasures.
Tony was focused on a model rocket kit, a dangerous gleam coming
through his sunglasses.
“How much?” Pepper heard him ask the man with the
toddler
in his arms.
“A buck.”
“I’ll give you two,” Tony replied.
Pepper shot him a disbelieving look as the man gave a chuckle.
“You can do that if you want, buddy, but I’d feel
bad
taking it. The cone’s crushed, and the cat peed on one corner
of
the box.”
“How’d the cone get crushed?” Tony asked,
and Pepper
came over, fishing in her pocket for the money.
The man shifted the baby boy on his hip before replying.
“Well .
. . Janine—that’s the wife—she put the
kid’s
Christmas presents under the tree before
I finished hanging the lights, and I sorta stepped on it while I was
trying to get the last string of flashers up.”
“Bummer,” Tony commiserated. “Can I look
at it?”
“Sure,” The man shrugged. “Go
ahead.”
Tony lifted the lid of the slightly squashed box, being careful to
avoid the yellowed corner and took out the flattened cone, examining it
carefully. He picked it up. “I could fix this.”
“Yeah? How?”
“Pry it open, get it wide enough to go over a baseball and
hit it
lightly with a rubber-headed mallet,” Tony replied absently.
“Or if you don’t have a baseball, the average
doorknob
would be about right dimension. This cone’s mostly aluminum,
so
it’s pretty malleable, as long as you’re gentle
with
it.”
The man looked interested. “No shit?”
“Got a mallet?”
Two minutes later, the nosecone of the rocket was in reasonable repair
and the man with the toddler was grinning. “Hell,
that’s
great! Hey Charlie!” he yelled.
A ten-year-old bounded out of the house, slamming the screen door.
“Yeah?”
This guy just fixed your rocket!”
“Yeah?” this was more enthusiastic, and Pepper
watched as
Tony carefully pushed the box back across towards the boy.
“Go for it,” Tony murmured. “And
don’t put your
eye out.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it,” the man with the
toddler
grinned.
Pepper paid for her books and moved to brush her shoulder against
Tony’s as they walked back to the car. They got in and she
turned
to him. “That was really sweet of you.”
He shrugged, grinning for a moment under his disguise. “Hey,
who
am
I to stand between a dad,
a kid and a rocket, right?”
