Fighting Fire with Fire – An IronMan FanFic

Fighting Fire with Fire – An Iron Man FanFic

Pairing: Tony/Pepper

Disclaimer: If I owned the Iron Man franchise, I wouldn't be posting on , now would I? Everything belongs to Mr. Stan Lee and the boys at Marvel; I'm just taking Pepper and Tony out for a spin.

This is a completely random TS/PP one-shot that is based somewhere in the confines of "Pre-Movie".

Reviews are highly appreciated! :)

Do enjoy:

Pepperony 100 Challenge Theme 41: Fire

There's something about tinkering with vintage engines that frees the soul and warms the heart … at least, that's how I choose to look at it. Today, Pepper seems to take one glance at me leaning over the open hood of my 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster as I'm replacing one of the caps and blow a fuse over the fact that I'm going to be traipsing upstairs in a short while with grease stains all over me.

Honestly, you'd think the woman has a Swiffer fetish or something. When she sees me wander back to my room in a shirt that was once white and is now, well, black, she gives me the dirtiest look (no pun intended) and I feel like I'm a six-year-old that just got caught playing in the mud puddle in his backyard.

Well, it really isn't my fault that I like to make sure Pepper never gets the upper hand in our confrontations, so I decide to take some proactive measures and one-up her on this one.

The next morning, I awake well over an hour before 8am (the time Pepper normally arrives) to begin my investigation.

"You're up awfully early this morning, sir." Jarvis' voice prods as I begin my trek halfway across my mansion.

"Trust me, Jarvis; this is far more worthwhile than sleep right now." I reply as I arrive at my destination.

"Coming from you, sir, that should be qualified as headline news." He responds, a slight smugness to his tone.

I choose to ignore him and instead focus on my target:

Her office is a rather quaint and, how shall we put this, organized space. Every leaf of paper is in a certain stack designated with its purpose and destination and every item on her desk is placed with feng shui perfection.

"Good Lord," I think to myself as I meticulously examine her office, "If I could stay this organized, I might actually be on time to meetings … yuck, I'd rather stay disorganized and let Pepper take care of that."

But, I know I need to stay focused and accomplish the mission if this tactical offensive is to succeed. So, I make a very detailed mental diagram of her office and swiftly retreat to the safety of my garage to begin work. Pepper won't arrive for another hour yet.

Finally, at five minutes to 8, my mission is complete. I am surprisingly clean and I actually have time to situate myself strategically behind my make-shift desk next to my auto collection.

I remove a pen from my shirt collar and place it meticulously next to the sheet of paper (a list of company profits, or some other nonsense), placed at a right angle to the edge of the desktop.

Then, the moment of truth. I hear the tell-tale clicks of my loyal assistant's heels moments before she arrives at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Mr. Stark, I need you to sign these release pap …" Her voice trails off as her gaze sweeps swiftly around the garage.

Everything, and I mean everything, is strategically positioned to create a perfect replica of her office.

Well, perfect is a matter of personal opinion. I thought I did a darn good job.

I look up from my "work" at my desk, a completely innocent look (at least what I think an innocent look resembles) crafted onto my features as I gaze at her over the rims of my rather expensive D&G reading glasses.

"What was it you wanted, Miss Potts?" I inquire, reveling in the shell-shocked look plastered across her lovely face.

If someone could literally spontaneously combust, I think Pepper would be a prime candidate right about now. A furious blush has made its way onto her cheeks and her eyes resemble Artic glaciers. She makes a single attempt to tell me off for being an insufferable jerk, but only makes it as far as an ear drum-rattling scream of frustration.

She clutches the clipboard of whatever it was she needed me to sign to her chest and stalks back up the stairs, proceeding to slam the door once she reached the top.

Oh yes, I was born to push every one of Virginia "Pepper" Potts' buttons.