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Ladies man. Earned that moniker longer after the “prodigy” label had grown stale and unused somewhere around his first growth of wispy beard. No longer the fresh-faced Doogie, he'd had too many years tossing back shots with the big boys. Too many years working his charm to finesse invites to the best keg parties his alma meter had to offer. Not given to hanging out with the woefully skinny, underage kid, no matter that they shared the same background of snobbery and privilege. But charm – a natural talent that never made the papers (at least, not in those days). He never had to think about it. It became habit. Like sarcasm and being generally awesome. Well, there's that whole thing they say about habits.
Della Lewis. He'd met her, the first time, in '98. Conference or... something. Lotta glamour and low cut dresses. Lot of stuffy old men drinking wine and wanting to shake his hand. Lot of pleading with Rhodes to please, for the love of God, set something on fire so they could shut that thing down. Funny – words barely formed when something else caught fire instead. Glittery dress, pink and white with a neckline diving nearly to her navel. Hair... he could live in that hair. Actually, those had been his first words to her.
So they'd spent the night. It had been nice. More than nice – spectacular, in fact. Mind-blowing? Yeah, he could put his stamp on that.
She'd left early – before the cleaning crew, a newly hired and bracingly naïve intern, could make her rounds. Little cliché, the note with the lipstick stamp. Still made him smile and he'd had it between his teeth while pouring a coffee later that morning. Never been a fan of similar mementos but that one... Even so, he'd lost track of the little slip of card stock. Crammed in a desk or pitched – he hadn't really thought about it after the second cup of caffeine.
Three years before he saw her again. Another conference, younger group this time. He'd felt at home among that crowd – movers and shakers. And she had been there. Red, this time. Like wine. He wasn't a fan of sequels but something... There was something.
Twice more after that, and then, Afghanistan. Months later, at parties, if he scanned crowds he didn't acknowledge it. Searching.
Then that night, shaking hands with a smallish man… face a forgettable, generic atmosphere... he'd seen a goddess in daring sapphire and red gold curls. Mouth dry shock when she'd turned and...
So, yeah, sure, lots of history and whatever. The fact remained, he'd had something nice. But now he had something better. And sex was great but, wow, it wasn't even the sex. It was... her shrugs and her eye rolls when he was a complete and utter turd, so he saw those a lot. It was waking up with gasping and pounding heart and having her limbs wrap around him. It was knowing he could show his grief. Knowing he could show his anger. Knowing he didn't have to charm because it was so much deeper than the glamour. It was knowing that she didn't need him... but she stayed anyway. And not because he was dependent (though, fuck yeah, he was) and not because he was broken (still with the dreams - nightmares) and not because he was great in the sack (please). It was...
He loved her. He, oh God, he loved her! Pounding heart that wasn't terror but also, kind of, was. The honesty he willingly expressed without the mask he wore for everyone else. Sex... that was a climax that tore open his soul and filled him with panic that he'd lose this. Lose her.
Once, he had lost her. Falling three inches from his fingertips.
She'd come back; but there were new nightmares, now, that shuddered him awake in the dark – her limbs around him to remind him it was all just a dream. Or the past.
One month after his penthouse became a new reef, he attended a summit detailing the environmental impact of the New York invasion. Lots of old men with deep but tight pockets. The presentations were detailed – wordy. Most of the crowd was nodding off by the third hour when they broke for refreshments. The findings made up graph after statistic after 5, 10, and 20 year projections. Stale, crammed with prepositions, not remotely triggering. Tony had dodged the cold sweats but was grateful for the coffee and donuts hiatus. He wanted this, though. Wanted... wanted a chance to fix. He fixed things. That was who he was. Mister Fix-it. The Mechanic. That suave character... that was the mask. Charm was great for greasing palms and... other things. But the charm was a bubble – a suit he put on for special occasions. Funny... how he found himself reaching for it less and less. Not so much for suits these days.
So when long fingers slid across his backside at the refreshments table, his coffee nearly painted the only suit he was actually wearing that afternoon. Armani was the only barrier between himself and that tickling touch – his full body jump reduced to an aborted flinch through pure will.
“You...” Not his best delivery – though not as bad as burnt eggs or massive stuffed bunnies. Unlocking the dry throat for attempt two, “Della.” He finally pulled a grin. “Brunette. Good look for you. Studious.”
Della shrugged a sideways tilt of her head and smiled widely. “Needed something new; which is funny because I'm feeling the need for something old.” Hands, demure as they clasped before her, managed to brush knuckles across his fly.
Accustomed to all manner of touching, brushing, clasping, and gripping, still Tony took a small step back. Things were different and not just his relationships. Space was a commodity he'd never valued so much, before. Before he'd been surrounded by it with a doorway spiraling closed at his back.
“Something battered, something bruised...” Barely whispered – broken up with the intellectual conversations around him.
“I'm sorry, what was that?”
Long hair covered her eyes as she bowed her head through another smile. “I like your suit.”
This old thing? Words that never would have made it to the back of his tongue nearly tumbled from his lips – idea of being off his game to a spectacular degree and noting her advances had never put him on edge before unless it was the edge of a mattress.
“Lot of years, Tony. I actually tried to see you a year ago but you were... occupied.”
“Hostile takeover. So you're still with that... thing?”
Slip of white teeth, improbably even, between the rounds of her lips. Pearls in a bed of roses – God was he sinking that far that cliche's were bubbling into his repertoire?
“That 'thing'? You mean, am I still working for the DoD? Yes, you could say I still dabble with defense.”
She always had preferred vague over specific. But then, they'd never been much for talkers. Funny, Tony would prefer the strict sense of “conversation” now. Granted, his last run-in with an old flame had been... well... really shitty. Guilt and betrayal tasted just as cloying and sickly now as it had then.
Movement around them was gravitating upstream – random stragglers pecking at the table of fussy meats and cheeses. Small enough to tuck in the cheek while still keeping that dapper charm and sophistication. Tony could play that game even if his cravings hedged towards greasy and fast.
Della brushed the backs of her nails down his tie. Tony smiled while slicing an incisor through his tongue to control the tremble in his fingertips.
Sexual invitations were old and trite. Part and parcel to being HIM and nothing he'd shied from no matter how much alcohol he'd consumed nor how many business meeting required his late arrival in the morning. He liked it, they liked it, and everyone went home happy. It had never been a big deal because it had never mattered. Had... never. Before he'd changed his Facebook status to “In a relationship”. Okay, not he personally – changed it. Of all people, Rogers had insisted on the public fan page and had gleefully, yes, gleefully decided be the Captain of the internet in the name of truth, justice, and spangly underwear. Between him and Romanoff giggling over Snapchat and Barton and the God of Thunderdome exploring the finer points of Twitter, the only sane and stable-ish member of the group was Bruce.
Fingertips walking up to his cheek brought him out of the mind wandering and back to the group as they were filing together back into the auditorium.
“Nice seeing you again, Del.” He caught her hand and pulled it against his lips. There was never meant to be anything permanent in their arrangement. Hell, going beyond that first night had been outside the norm anyhow. During the four years she'd been married, he'd kept their single encounter completely above board as well as above the waist. They'd had what they'd had. They'd never attempted to make more of it. And now, it was done.
Her smile back was warm. “You too, Tony.”
She was gone, then – black suit weaving in with the crowd of likewise dressed. The conference resumed and it was nothing but pollution control and ozone layers for the final four hours.