quigonejinn (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
quigonejinn) wrote2008-07-03 09:36 pm
quigonejinn) wrote2008-07-03 09:36 pm
Entry tags:
Celebration.
So. A couple of us were kicking around the idea of James Bond being in SHIELD and meeting Tony Stark and playing poker? And somehow, Bruce Wayne got involved? So. UH. HERE.
Three billionaires, James Bond, and a hyper-efficient personal assistant walk into a room. Who walks out?
...
Pepper deals, of course, and the room is actually the game salon on Harry Osborn's hundred-foot yacht, the Celebration. The décor is typical, understated Osborn, which means there is approximately an acre of mahogany on the walls, and a dowry's worth of bovines in the upholstery. Osborn himself comes in and watches for half an hour, then goes back to playing host; another table of players sets up in the same room, but they decide to move outdoors, and by ten-thirty, things have settled. Pepper is surprisingly good at dealing the cards. She takes them in hand, resting one edge on her fingertips and the other under her thumb, shuffles, strips from the bottom, shuffles again, strips again, shuffles a third time, and deals, smooth and easy as if they were on the floor of the Bellagio.
"Yes?" she says, her eyebrows lifted a little.
Bond looks appreciative; Obadiah seems amused. Bruce, as usual, looks like he's staring at a blank wall; Tony is a little put out that he never knew that Pepper was good at this, too.
...
After winning two hands in a row that add up to about the price of a very nice little sports car, Obadiah decides to light a celebratory cigar. Tony asks the steward to bring up one of the bottles of Laphroaig that he brought aboard, and in a gesture of solidarity, Bond drinks that instead of his usual.
"Water for your Scotch, Mr. Smith?" the steward asks. Mr. Smith is the name that Bond is using. A wealthy Irish industrialist, reaping the benefits of the Celtic Tiger and globalization. Slightly unsavory background, possible connection to the certain groups in South America with a tendency to kidnap and torture.
"No, just ice."
Tony, being Tony, keeps up a steady stream of banter. Obadiah answers; Bond-known-as-Smith stays quiet, offers a pleasant remark to the occasional sally, but remembers everything, and Bruce concentrates on playing even though Tony has known him since they were running around in miniature versions of their fathers' suits at society weddings. They both have distinct memories of the time that eight year old Tony managed to somehow program the champagne fountains to go berserk everybody somebody said the word "fabulous" within ten feet of them.
"You sure you won't have some, Bruce?"
Wayne looks over. Tony gives him a look in return. "I'm fine with water, thanks. Are you going to bet?"
When asked, point blank by his father, about the champagne fountains,, Bruce confessed to knowing that it would happen and giving Tony the pennies that he'd had in his pocket because Tony needed them to do something to finish the device he put under the third of the champagne fountains. Thomas grounded him for a month and a half with a 7:30 bedtime for the whole time. When Thomas told Howard, Howard laughed and eyed Tony trying to look innocent a few feet away.
"Well, I guess that means you're not getting those digital signal processors you wanted."
"But -- "
"You didn't soak Bunny Mathers, son. If you'd done your job properly, I would've handed you this year's Texas Instruments catalog." And Howard winked at Tony.
...
"Pepper, how did you get so good at this?"
"Practice, Tony. Lots of practice."
Bond has, in fact, been studying Pepper's hands, and he thinks, to himself, that she has nice hands for it, too. Not just the manicure, but they're nicely sized and shaped. She catches him studying them and blushes in the prettiest way.
Bond admires the blush, too.
...
"Christ, Bruce. I'm asking as a childhood friend here. Would you drink something besides water? It's positively unnatural to drink water when playing poker."
Bruce fixes Tony with a grim expression.
"No."
...
Water or not -- or perhaps because of the water -- Bruce is the first one out of the game. The pot regularly stands well into five digits, and he has the discipline to stop. The money doesn't even come vaguely close to being significant, and he's tired and a more than a little bored. Stane and Smith are both pretty good. Smith is better than Stane at bluffing, but Stane reads others well without giving too much away. Tony bluffs like a virgin in a whorehouse, but plays the numbers the numbers and odds impeccably. It annoys Bruce that anybody can drink that much and obviously be drunk, but still stay remember the odds of drawing a face diamond to bet correctly. And giggle like the aformentioned virgin when he hauls it in with both hands.
Pepper can't quite stop yawning, so Bruce takes over dealing for her. She curls up on one of the couches, and five minutes later, when Tony turns around to complain that Bruce is probably cheating at dealing cards, she's fast asleep. Her shoes are on the floor, and her feet are tucked underneath her.
Obadiah looks at Bruce; Bruce looks at Bond-known-as-Smith. Bond-known-as-Smith stands up, takes his jacket off, and tucks it over her shoulders. Tony is busy looking at Pepper, but everybody notices that when man-that-Bruce-knows-is-using-a-false-name sits back down, there's a neat little Walther PP9 hanging under his arm.
"Well?" he says.
Nobody says anything, so the game continues. While Bruce deals the flop, the guy guy rolls his sleeves up, and they see the marks and broken skin and on the right forearm, what looks like glass, still caught under the skin.
Bruce knows there's an ankle holster, too, but decides to say nothing about it.
...
"Shit, Tony, I bought those for you."
Tony, at this point, is so drunk that it takes him a second to register that Obadiah is talking to him. He looks over, squints in an obvious attempt to get his eyes to focus, and decides to do the next best thing of staring at the painting on the wall behind Obadiah. He can't tell what, exactly, it's a painting of, but it involves plenty of the color green. And maybe a horse. Tony squints again and decides he really can't tell. Those might be legs. Or they could be trees. Shit.
"Well, now you have a chance to get them back, Obie."
There's a moment of silence – there's no denying they're a handsome pair of cufflinks. Blue semi-precious gems, Bond guesses, carved across the front. There's just a little bit of a cat's eye effect when the light hits them. Bond leans back in his chair and looks at Tony, who's sitting directly across from him.
"You can take them back out again if you like."
Tony makes a drunken, waving kind of motion, and Obadiah looks at both Bond and Tony, then at the pot sitting messily in the middle, for a long moment. It's a mess of chips two inches deep with Tony's cufflinks sitting on top, bright blue, and Obadiah exhales and puts his cards face down on the table.
"No, I'm done. Goddamn you both. Tony, those spinels were carved in Persepolis with the face of Darius the Great, king of all Persia, two hundred years before Alexander was a gleam in his daddy's eye. I got them for you the Christmas that we sold the Seraphim tactical satellite."
On the couch, Pepper sighs and buries her face a little more against the silk lining on Bond's jacket.
...
"Fuck," Tony says, looking at the keys in his hand. "I've got your car."
"It's not really my car,. It belongs to -- " the guy says. He starts to say something, then stops. They're both so drunk that it's pretty much a miracle of genetics that they haven't passed out, vomited, died, or some combination there of. "Well, let's just say my life won't be worth living in about -- eight hours?"
Tony nods. The cuff links are sitting on the table across from him, almost winking, and Tony thinks he should wave goodbye to them or something. "Obadiah is going to be pretty pissed at me for, like, forever for losing those," he says.
They sit in silence for a while, and Bruce Wayne makes a noise of sheer disgust. "Why don't you guys trade?"
Simultaneously: "Oh."
...
Q: Three billionaires, James Bond, and a hyper-efficient personal assistant walk into a room. Who walks out?
A: Two billionaires, one of whom is very drunk and one of whom is very sober. Also, James Bond. Who happens to be somewhat drunk, but not as drunk as he pretends to be.
The third billionaire puts a hand on the shoulder of the personal assistant and gently nudges her awake.
...
"Pepper. Wake up."
She opens her eyes and Obadiah is standing in front of her. The room is empty. "Whose jacket is this?" she says, sounding more than a little dazed.
"Smith's. He put it over you when you fell asleep. Leave it here, and he'll get it tomorrow." Pepper, still sleepy, does what he tells her, and she takes his help in getting up off the couch and leans on his arm, again, to bend down and pick up her shoes. They walk out of the salon and go down the hall, but outside her door, Pepper turns and frowns.
"Where's Tony?"
"He went to go drink some more with Smith."
"More?" Pepper's entire face gets into frowning. "What time is it? He can't do that, Obadiah. He has to -- he has a meeting -- "
"Go to bed, Pepper." Obadiah takes the keycard from her hand, swipes it in the door for her, and hands it back. "I'll see you in a few hours."
Pepper thinks about arguing with him, but decides against it, and once she's staggered through the door, Obadiah shuts it behind her and shakes the handle a little to make sure it's really locked. When he's satisfied, he walks the rest of the way down the corridor, then takes a left and goes up the stairs to be on the deck in time to watch the sun rise over the water, to smoke a cigar and think about the problem of killing Alexander the Great.
All the good ideas came from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jamaillith, particularly Obadiah's involvement and especially the cufflinks being something that he bought Tony. And yes, the half-acre of mahogany line is from the NYT profile of Limbaugh.
Three billionaires, James Bond, and a hyper-efficient personal assistant walk into a room. Who walks out?
...
Pepper deals, of course, and the room is actually the game salon on Harry Osborn's hundred-foot yacht, the Celebration. The décor is typical, understated Osborn, which means there is approximately an acre of mahogany on the walls, and a dowry's worth of bovines in the upholstery. Osborn himself comes in and watches for half an hour, then goes back to playing host; another table of players sets up in the same room, but they decide to move outdoors, and by ten-thirty, things have settled. Pepper is surprisingly good at dealing the cards. She takes them in hand, resting one edge on her fingertips and the other under her thumb, shuffles, strips from the bottom, shuffles again, strips again, shuffles a third time, and deals, smooth and easy as if they were on the floor of the Bellagio.
"Yes?" she says, her eyebrows lifted a little.
Bond looks appreciative; Obadiah seems amused. Bruce, as usual, looks like he's staring at a blank wall; Tony is a little put out that he never knew that Pepper was good at this, too.
...
After winning two hands in a row that add up to about the price of a very nice little sports car, Obadiah decides to light a celebratory cigar. Tony asks the steward to bring up one of the bottles of Laphroaig that he brought aboard, and in a gesture of solidarity, Bond drinks that instead of his usual.
"Water for your Scotch, Mr. Smith?" the steward asks. Mr. Smith is the name that Bond is using. A wealthy Irish industrialist, reaping the benefits of the Celtic Tiger and globalization. Slightly unsavory background, possible connection to the certain groups in South America with a tendency to kidnap and torture.
"No, just ice."
Tony, being Tony, keeps up a steady stream of banter. Obadiah answers; Bond-known-as-Smith stays quiet, offers a pleasant remark to the occasional sally, but remembers everything, and Bruce concentrates on playing even though Tony has known him since they were running around in miniature versions of their fathers' suits at society weddings. They both have distinct memories of the time that eight year old Tony managed to somehow program the champagne fountains to go berserk everybody somebody said the word "fabulous" within ten feet of them.
"You sure you won't have some, Bruce?"
Wayne looks over. Tony gives him a look in return. "I'm fine with water, thanks. Are you going to bet?"
When asked, point blank by his father, about the champagne fountains,, Bruce confessed to knowing that it would happen and giving Tony the pennies that he'd had in his pocket because Tony needed them to do something to finish the device he put under the third of the champagne fountains. Thomas grounded him for a month and a half with a 7:30 bedtime for the whole time. When Thomas told Howard, Howard laughed and eyed Tony trying to look innocent a few feet away.
"Well, I guess that means you're not getting those digital signal processors you wanted."
"But -- "
"You didn't soak Bunny Mathers, son. If you'd done your job properly, I would've handed you this year's Texas Instruments catalog." And Howard winked at Tony.
...
"Pepper, how did you get so good at this?"
"Practice, Tony. Lots of practice."
Bond has, in fact, been studying Pepper's hands, and he thinks, to himself, that she has nice hands for it, too. Not just the manicure, but they're nicely sized and shaped. She catches him studying them and blushes in the prettiest way.
Bond admires the blush, too.
...
"Christ, Bruce. I'm asking as a childhood friend here. Would you drink something besides water? It's positively unnatural to drink water when playing poker."
Bruce fixes Tony with a grim expression.
"No."
...
Water or not -- or perhaps because of the water -- Bruce is the first one out of the game. The pot regularly stands well into five digits, and he has the discipline to stop. The money doesn't even come vaguely close to being significant, and he's tired and a more than a little bored. Stane and Smith are both pretty good. Smith is better than Stane at bluffing, but Stane reads others well without giving too much away. Tony bluffs like a virgin in a whorehouse, but plays the numbers the numbers and odds impeccably. It annoys Bruce that anybody can drink that much and obviously be drunk, but still stay remember the odds of drawing a face diamond to bet correctly. And giggle like the aformentioned virgin when he hauls it in with both hands.
Pepper can't quite stop yawning, so Bruce takes over dealing for her. She curls up on one of the couches, and five minutes later, when Tony turns around to complain that Bruce is probably cheating at dealing cards, she's fast asleep. Her shoes are on the floor, and her feet are tucked underneath her.
Obadiah looks at Bruce; Bruce looks at Bond-known-as-Smith. Bond-known-as-Smith stands up, takes his jacket off, and tucks it over her shoulders. Tony is busy looking at Pepper, but everybody notices that when man-that-Bruce-knows-is-using-a-false-name sits back down, there's a neat little Walther PP9 hanging under his arm.
"Well?" he says.
Nobody says anything, so the game continues. While Bruce deals the flop, the guy guy rolls his sleeves up, and they see the marks and broken skin and on the right forearm, what looks like glass, still caught under the skin.
Bruce knows there's an ankle holster, too, but decides to say nothing about it.
...
"Shit, Tony, I bought those for you."
Tony, at this point, is so drunk that it takes him a second to register that Obadiah is talking to him. He looks over, squints in an obvious attempt to get his eyes to focus, and decides to do the next best thing of staring at the painting on the wall behind Obadiah. He can't tell what, exactly, it's a painting of, but it involves plenty of the color green. And maybe a horse. Tony squints again and decides he really can't tell. Those might be legs. Or they could be trees. Shit.
"Well, now you have a chance to get them back, Obie."
There's a moment of silence – there's no denying they're a handsome pair of cufflinks. Blue semi-precious gems, Bond guesses, carved across the front. There's just a little bit of a cat's eye effect when the light hits them. Bond leans back in his chair and looks at Tony, who's sitting directly across from him.
"You can take them back out again if you like."
Tony makes a drunken, waving kind of motion, and Obadiah looks at both Bond and Tony, then at the pot sitting messily in the middle, for a long moment. It's a mess of chips two inches deep with Tony's cufflinks sitting on top, bright blue, and Obadiah exhales and puts his cards face down on the table.
"No, I'm done. Goddamn you both. Tony, those spinels were carved in Persepolis with the face of Darius the Great, king of all Persia, two hundred years before Alexander was a gleam in his daddy's eye. I got them for you the Christmas that we sold the Seraphim tactical satellite."
On the couch, Pepper sighs and buries her face a little more against the silk lining on Bond's jacket.
...
"Fuck," Tony says, looking at the keys in his hand. "I've got your car."
"It's not really my car,. It belongs to -- " the guy says. He starts to say something, then stops. They're both so drunk that it's pretty much a miracle of genetics that they haven't passed out, vomited, died, or some combination there of. "Well, let's just say my life won't be worth living in about -- eight hours?"
Tony nods. The cuff links are sitting on the table across from him, almost winking, and Tony thinks he should wave goodbye to them or something. "Obadiah is going to be pretty pissed at me for, like, forever for losing those," he says.
They sit in silence for a while, and Bruce Wayne makes a noise of sheer disgust. "Why don't you guys trade?"
Simultaneously: "Oh."
...
Q: Three billionaires, James Bond, and a hyper-efficient personal assistant walk into a room. Who walks out?
A: Two billionaires, one of whom is very drunk and one of whom is very sober. Also, James Bond. Who happens to be somewhat drunk, but not as drunk as he pretends to be.
The third billionaire puts a hand on the shoulder of the personal assistant and gently nudges her awake.
...
"Pepper. Wake up."
She opens her eyes and Obadiah is standing in front of her. The room is empty. "Whose jacket is this?" she says, sounding more than a little dazed.
"Smith's. He put it over you when you fell asleep. Leave it here, and he'll get it tomorrow." Pepper, still sleepy, does what he tells her, and she takes his help in getting up off the couch and leans on his arm, again, to bend down and pick up her shoes. They walk out of the salon and go down the hall, but outside her door, Pepper turns and frowns.
"Where's Tony?"
"He went to go drink some more with Smith."
"More?" Pepper's entire face gets into frowning. "What time is it? He can't do that, Obadiah. He has to -- he has a meeting -- "
"Go to bed, Pepper." Obadiah takes the keycard from her hand, swipes it in the door for her, and hands it back. "I'll see you in a few hours."
Pepper thinks about arguing with him, but decides against it, and once she's staggered through the door, Obadiah shuts it behind her and shakes the handle a little to make sure it's really locked. When he's satisfied, he walks the rest of the way down the corridor, then takes a left and goes up the stairs to be on the deck in time to watch the sun rise over the water, to smoke a cigar and think about the problem of killing Alexander the Great.
All the good ideas came from
jamaillith, particularly Obadiah's involvement and especially the cufflinks being something that he bought Tony. And yes, the half-acre of mahogany line is from the NYT profile of Limbaugh.
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(Which, I kinda wonder whether he'd still give? Or whether they nuked him and got somebody else? But if he does give it, I am utterly fascinated by what he'd say. And whether he'd just deliver it extemporaneously.)
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But yeah. Pepper/Bond is too awesome a thought for words.
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I feel rather like MIT totally went with somebody else about a month after he got captured, not to be mean or anything but hey, he's gone. And they need a speaker, they're on a deadline.
But Tony didn't think about that, and when he came back, he was like "Pepper, don't forget to put together a thing for MIT!" And completely rides roughshod over the fact that MIT has a speaker planned, he doesn't even notice. And since it's basically the only thing besides a) Iron Man, b) the Mission, c) ALCOHOL, and d) living in the shop for days and being totally fucked up about Obie while pretending he's not, that Tony's even paid attention to, so Pepper gets right on that and makes it happen.
At which point, yes, he completely abandons the cards and starts making shit up. And the faculty is vaguely despairing, but the kids love him. He gets 63 overt offers of sex in the first thirty minutes after his speech (split about 70-30 female-male; usually the ratio is closer, but... it is MIT. There are fewer sweet gay boys and more geeks, of the sad bad kind, which Tony thinks is a poor trade-off) and the number of mouth-quirks and flirty-eyes and cocked eyebrows is simply not worth keeping track of.
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Hah. I was thinking of your mini-fic very, very, very specifically when I was putting togethe the commencement speech thingy later. Oh, Tony. And I just love the idea of Pepper getting Tony the commencement speaker spot again because it's, like, the one thing not suit-related he's shown an interest in FOR A LONG TIME.