I love you, Pepper.
Tony says it often. Pepper wonders if she’ll ever get used to
it, but she hasn’t yet. Every time he says it, she feels the
pang within her, rising up to meet those words, making her answer them
back to him.
I love you too, Tony.
He says it when he sees her in the morning, and sometimes, looking up
from his worktable, or when they’re in the car by themselves
and most often late at night. Sometimes it slips so easily from him
that it seems no more than a fleeting thought; a leftover jump of
synapses, vocalized.
A reflex, Pepper despairs. As light and easy as his That will be all, Miss Potts
used to be.
But sometimes; lately more often, he looks up when he says it, dark
eyes locking with hers. Watching for a few seconds before he returns to
whatever is going on in his head these days.
And Pepper knows it means something.
Still.
Tony is never still, not when he’s awake. Humming, fingers
tapping, busily bent over little pieces of wire or over an old
keyboard. He moves in his workshop from one thing to another, hands
long familiar with the work, moving instinctively to do small jobs
they’ve done for years. Pepper used to tease him that he
could change the oil in his cars, or repair Dummy in his sleep.
She keeps lots of new filters and quart bottles in stock now. Dummy
rolls patiently to have his lifting arm replaced again.
And again.
He’s eating better this year. Pepper shares most breakfasts
with him, and while Tony still balks at eggs, he’s gotten to
like oatmeal, and loves French toast. He tells her again about how his
mother used to put vanilla in the batter. Pepper nods; vanilla is good.
I love you, Pepper.
I love you too, Tony.
Tony sits in on the meetings, listening, or at least looking like
he’s listening. Pepper is amused at how she can see the
restlessness in his hands, in the bounce in his feet. He
really is
like a child; trying to be good, waiting for the boring parts to be
over so he can get back to having fun.
He signs his name on the papers she puts in front of him, and tells her
that her shoes look pretty.
Pepper redirects his attention, and works with her BlackBerry while
Tony works on equations, his stubby pencil racing over the paper, the
eraser still new, and unused. Humming, he fills up the page, and she
knows everything on it is accurate, down to the last cosign, minus sign
and decimal.
Tony has always been able to do the math in his head, but he likes to
show off his numbers to her.
Jim stops by every week, and takes him off her hands for the afternoon.
Pepper’s grateful, and tries to run all the errands that have
piled up during that time. Even with the best of organization,
it’s not easy though, and there’s the added
complication of guilt gnawing away at her for feeling so relieved to be out
with people who aren’t Tony Stark.
People who don’t look at her with soft brown eyes and so much
behind them, wounded and sweet. Unreachable.
I love you, Pepper.
I love you too, Tony.
And after the sun has set, after dinner and a movie, she makes him
shower. When he’s still a little damp but warm and
they’re under the covers, she lets him slide his arms around
her, his breath along her cheek, heating her ear.
Tony has always had good hands; hands that know her so well. Pepper
doesn’t think of this part as right or wrong; it just is.
Tony going on instinct and something more. Something she needs in order
to keep going through tomorrow and then next day and the next.
She slides her hands to cup his head, fingers touching the tiny scar
hidden in his hairline; the one that made him what he is today.
His mouth finds hers; his body moves with hers.
I love you, Pepper.
I love you too, Tony.
end
