Chapter Two

They went out every other weekend after that; it was an easy arrangement for both of them, and Tony enjoyed the adventure of it all, from arguing about directions and goods and prices to simply watching Pepper browse over the offerings yard by yard. It was a quiet joy to see her in a setting that didn’t involve mega-mergers or deadlines or impossible requests; after the first few times she relaxed and smiled more.

Tony liked watching her. Pepper had grace and charm; she talked with children and listened to long-winded stories about old Christmas ornaments and unused crystal picture frames. Out of the office, she wore jeans and denim skirts and flat sandals that showed off her pale pink toenail polish. She looked less like an executive and more like a Bohemian artist, or soccer mom with her cup of Waffle World coffee and sunglasses in her hands.

It had always been easy to flirt with Pepper, rather than go for real and meaningful conversation, yet it was coming easier with each Saturday, and Tony realized that after they spent a morning arguing about breakfast.

“Fast food is not breakfast, not a real breakfast, anyway,” Pepper told him. “It’s greasy, and full of empty calories and low on protein.”

“But tasty, and efficient for those of us with a lifestyle that puts a premium on time,” Tony protested, after swallowing a mouthful of egg McMuffin. “It’s a compromise—not always a great one, but seriously, Pepper, it’s not like we resort to this all the time.”

“No, only on Saturdays,” she pointed out, sipping her orange juice, “and that’s still too often. How do you feel about muffins?”

“Is that a hint for me to pick up the next Easy Bake oven we find?”

“No, but I might make some for next time, if you can pass up your grease-laden bomb there . . .” Pepper offered, and Tony paused.

Every once in a while Pepper cooked for him—not much, a sandwich here and a scrambled egg there—but this was different. This was something personal, and shared, and he sensed the offer wouldn’t come again.

“Done. But no bran,” he warned. “My internal plumbing is just fine.”

“Banana,” Pepper countered sweetly. “Maybe blueberry or cranberry if I find a deal.”

“With nuts?”

“Sure, if you like them.”

“Yeah,” he replied, and pulled up to the last space along the neighborhood of duplexes.

Tony pushed his baseball cap down tighter and checked his reflection in the side mirror; today he had a pair of thick sideburns pasted on with spirit gum and a Willy Nelson braid that hung down halfway down his back. Pepper had pulled it twice, playfully and he kept it out of her reach now.

“Ohh, they’ve got tools,” she pointed out. “And electronics. Guess I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Depends,” Tony replied, but he was already focusing on the boxes stacked along the top of the driveway. He’d learned to take his time and not rush towards anything that interested him too quickly. Moving along carefully, he eyed the ten-speeds, the old prom dresses and finally made his way to the stacks.

Someone had loved cars, and Tony felt a rush of camaraderie at the sight of the wrench sets. The scent of motor oil and wiper fluid hung faintly in the air, legacy of someone who had put in quality time with his hands.

A thin woman in a faded Raiders’ jersey sat in a lawn chair, a cigar box of change and bills in her lap. “Mornin’.”

“Hey,” Tony replied easily, his focus still on the tools. There were boxes of spark plugs in various sizes along with unopened cartons of headlights and wiper blades, and a few specialized socket wrenches Tony recognized as part of a set used by classic car restoration engineers.

“That’s Danny’s stuff. I probably shoulda put prices on it, but Gawd, I don’t know what to ask for his things,” the woman sighed. “Man up and dies on me after twenty-seven and a half years, and here I am without a clue about his shit.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony murmured, reaching to heft an oil filter clamp. “Was he a mechanic?”

“Best one west of Vegas,” the woman nodded, lighting up a cigarette. “He could watch a car pass him on the street and tell you what was wrong with it, from a wheel shimmy to a stuck valve. Hated making trips with him ‘cause he would tell me about every damn car we passed on the highway.” The woman smiled though, and blew a puff of smoke as she did so. “And he was right nearly all the time, too. Might not a been able to fix all of um, but he knew cars.”

Tony made a small sound of support and continued to look through the boxes. There were a few gauges he wouldn’t mind picking up, and possibly one or two of the spare electrical---he looked up.

The woman was still smoking, but he suddenly noted the wetness on her eyelashes, the paleness of her face and a pang echoed through his chest at the lonely image she made.

Tony drew in a breath.

“Anything with a handle, ask at least ten, and don’t give it up for under five. The boxes of parts should be from three to one dollar, depending. And don’t let any of the sets go for under ten, period. Tires should be at least three, and any big parts—engine blocks, full tool boxes, dolleys, drills—go high and let them haggle you to half.”

The woman looked up at him, slightly startled. Tony laid a hand on one of the gauges and spoke again. “From the look of it, your husband was good about his craft, so you want his stuff to go to people who will appreciate it.”

She nodded. “Yeah. Could you, um say all that again? Let me get a pen—”

Tony carefully repeated his suggestions while she scribbled them on the lid of the cigar box along the edges. When she was done, she gave him a tremulous smile. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

“No problem. I’d like to pick up these—” Tony laid a few gauges out.

“Ten bucks,” the woman grinned, “But since you helped me out—take ‘em. From Danny and me, okay?”

Tony smiled and shook his head. He’d seen enough of the house and yard to know that money had to be an issue for the family. He set down the ten against her protests.

“So--did Danny have anything else?” he asked, feeling an intuition. So far it was all tools, but for a mechanic—a good one-- it never stopped there.

The woman blinked, and a slow smile crossed her face. She eyed Tony from head to foot, and seemed to come to some internal decision.

“You any good with insane cars, Mister?”

Pepper looked up as Tony whistled. He waved to her, and in a mix of annoyance and curiosity, she left the copy of The Waffle World Cookbook to come over to him. He flashed her a quick smile. “Ever see an insane car?”

“Any car you drive qualifies.”

“Har de har har. We’re going around the side of the house,” Tony grumbled. The woman had called over someone to take over the cigar box and was stubbing out her cigarette as she beckoned Tony forward.

“I was going to get it towed—I wouldn’t dare donate it to some charity in case 
it . . . eh, you’ll see,” she sighed. “Come on this way.”

Warily, Pepper followed Tony who followed the woman around the side of the house through a chain link gate into a yard that had no grass and a lot of gravel. There was a dog; a long low hound with droopy ears and a lot of slobber. The woman ordered him off—“go lie down Butch”—and he did, reluctantly returning to the back cement porch, draping his skinny frame on it with a small ‘wuf’ before settling down.

Tony’s attention was on the green plastic tarp that stood out, draped over something in the yard. Something vaguely car-shaped.

The woman picked up one edge and gave the plastic sheet a flip, revealing the low, heavy and battered hulk. The three of them looked at it in silence, and Tony was about to say something when Pepper spoke up, her tone soft and reverent.

“Oh . . . my . . . God . . . that is a genuine nineteen seventy Plymouth Hemi ‘Cuda!”

Tony blinked. He turned to the woman. “We’lltakeit.”

Pepper walked around the car, looking at it critically. She circled once, then reached out to touch the broad hood, passing a gentle hand over it, reaching under to find the hood latch. It popped open after a gentle tug, and carefully she lifted it, propping the support rod in place.

Tony fought an erection.

He knew he liked cars and he knew he liked Pepper; the combination of the two, however, was sheer brain Cialis; visual Viagra that was going to have him in dire straits before very long.

Pepper bent over to examine the engine.

Tony gritted his teeth to fight the whine rising up in his throat and the ridge rising in his jeans. Ooooh, that pert little backside, right over the front grille clicked into first place on the Fantasy file in his head.

Exhibit One: Pepper Potts in a white thong bikini, luscious ass gleaming as she leans over the engine block. Note her perfect legs, showcased in platform Lucite stilettos; the exquisite muscle definition along her calves and the lean biteable curve of her—

“Corrosion,” Pepper sighed, bringing him back to reality with a jolt. “I can see where he was starting to clean—mostly on the battery contact points and some of the valves, but there’s a lot of work here if you’re going to rebuild this one, you should probably haul it out.”

“Seven going on eight years, and only now you’re admitting you know something about cars, Miss Potts?”

“Seven going on eight years I’ve been watching you work on cars, Mr. Stark. I have paid attention once in a while,” she replied serenely.

Tony eyed her uncertainly, not sure if she was being truthful or not. Pepper had the ability to say exactly what a person wanted to hear—usually—and he couldn’t tell if that was the case at this moment or not.

“Why this car, Pepper?”

She looked wary. “You have to admit the price was right.”

Danny’s widow had given it to them; thrust the keys into Tony’s hand and waved away his stunned offers with a shake of her head.

“This car can’t be sold, Mister. Only given. Take it, and maybe you can get out of it what my man couldn’t. Good luck and thanks.”

“True. But there’s more to it, Miss Potts,” he accused, watching her gently lower the hood and let it drop to latch shut again. She dusted her hands off and moved around to the passenger side, sandals clicking on the cement floor.

“I’ll start getting parts catalogs and dealers rounded up for you,” she murmured, peeking into the window. “I know Jarvis can do it, but for stuff like this, a personal call can make the difference.”

“Yeah,” Tony nodded impatiently. “But you’re avoiding the question, Pepper, and you know that’s only going to make me much more persistent in finding the answer.”

She turned, and her expression sent a pang through him, because Tony could see the mix of emotions behind it. Pepper’s smile was slightly crooked, but her eyes were bright; she shifted her weight from one hip to the other.

“Because this is a good car, Tony. And if anyone can get it back on the road, it’s you.”

The compliment stunned him for a moment, and Tony blinked, not sure what to say. Pepper wasn’t the sort to hand out praise very often, and he was far more used to her jibes about his preoccupation with engines and wheels.

“It’s going to be . . . a challenge,” he acknowledged, heavily. “Going to need to be redone from the wheels up, Miss Potts—rims to antenna, hood to tail lights.”

“You have the technology,” Pepper teased, moving towards him. “You have the capacity---”

“—To rebuild the world’s best muscle car. Diablo will BE that car. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster,” Tony finished the Six Million Dollar man quote, grinning. “I’ll need help though. Someone who will you know, cheer me on.”

Pepper tipped her head. “Let me see—you built a miniature arc reactor and a prototype Suit in a cave without . . . cheerleaders.”

“That was survival,” Tony pointed out, his tone still light, but his expression slightly bland. Pepper flushed a bit, but Tony continued. “And anyway, this is going to be more complicated. I’m no expert when it comes to Plymouths, and since you seem to know more about this particular model than I do--”

“I’m not an expert,” Pepper broke in quietly. “But if you want my . . . help, then all right. But only after I’ve finished up with anything else I need to get done first.”

Tony perked up. In all the years Pepper had been working for him, she’d rarely if ever expressed an interest in assisting down here in the workshop, preferring to stay clean and uninvolved. He didn’t want to overplay his delight, so he gave a small nod feigning disinterest. “Sure, I understand.”

“And you can’t boss me around then,” Pepper continued serenely, “because I am not your PA when we do this.”

“So what are you at those times?” It slipped out before he could think, and Tony froze, unsure of what Pepper would say.

She shot him a shy look. “A . . . friend, I suppose.”

“A friend.” Tony toyed with that idea, finding a lot of appeal in it. He hadn’t actually labeled Pepper as a friend before. She was so much more integral to his day-to-day functioning; a part of him like a limb or an organ.

Vital, and needed.

Taken for granted, he acknowledged guiltily.

“I know you’re not used to women as friends,” Pepper teased gently. “It may take some time to get used to the concept.”

“I have women friends,” Tony protested, and paused, trying to dredge up a name to back up his claim. Nothing was forthcoming, so he made a show of changing the subject. “And anyway, you’ll need something a little less designer if you’re going to be crawling under the belly of Diablo here. I could probably outfit you with a jumpsuit.”

“I’ve got overalls,” Pepper replied nonchalantly. “And my own can of Goop.”

Tony pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’ve been holding out on me, Potts. You know cars.”

Pepper shook her head. “Not to your degree. And if you think I’ll get in the way---”

Tony shot her an affectionate look. “Are you going to hose me down with CO2 without provocation?”

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Pepper murmured, slightly startled.

“Okay then—you’re not in the way.” Tony assured her with a nod.