Wildly Conflicted

The closer they edged toward the end of January, the more Pepper couldn't help but hope that this year they'd get through the month unscathed. She'd never been a superstitious woman, didn't put the flimsiest stock even in horoscopes, and she knew very firmly and very logically that the timing of past disasters had been coincidental. Hadn't there been other altercations in other months? There shouldn't have been anything inherently imposing about the first month of the year. She was born in January, for god's sake, and objectively she knew better. But even so, the feeling of anxiety was pervasive, and didn't seem likely to wane until they'd crossed into February.

Part of that feeling, she thought, could very well be due to Peter having moved out of the mansion. That he was fully capable of taking care of himself, Pepper had little doubt. It made her feel better, though, to keep an eye on him. Especially now, with the threat of something awful looming over the three of them. She turned up on his doorstep with frightening regularity these days, and about two weeks ago had stopped making excuses for why she was there. They both knew the truth of it.

Perhaps it's naive of her to think as much, but Pepper feels confident that Peter will show. Even with as erratic as his behavior has been since Mary Jane's disappearance, he'd seemed so thoroughly surprised to have her demand nothing more from him than his company over dinner. She thinks that, if nothing else, the novelty of that will bring him around at six o'clock.

The pizza she did not make herself, and thank god for that. There was a very sound reason why Pepper had always known every restaurant that delivered in Southern California, why she could be depended upon to locate the one place that could provide Indian take-out at 1 AM on a Wednesday morning, and surprisingly enough, it wasn't because Tony happened to be extremely picky or demanding. Letting her near a kitchen to do much more than make coffee or put together a cold sandwich has always been a very bad idea.

What matters, though, is that one way or another, Pepper can provide the Indian take-out, the Irish coffee, the pizza. She sets the table for three and stands there staring at the tabletop, wondering if this will work. Whether it will make a difference even if Peter does consent, which he very well may not.

Many things Spider-Man may be, but he isn't a stray, and this won't be smoothed over with three square meals a day and a little attention.

More than anything else right now, Pepper just feels stupid.

Pepper is and always has been one of those people who knows which way the wind is blowing. While she's certainly not a Stark-level genius, she pays close attention. She jealously hordes information, and being too close to this particular situation isn't an excuse for missing the obvious; if anything, she should have been more aware from the start.

God, how could she be such an idiot to think she and Tony could ever work?

It's been a couple of days since the nuclear reactor and discovery of the space station. It's been just as long since the last conversation she had with Tony wherein she said more than one word. He's been gone most of the time, the station a good excuse to focus on something other than the way she's freezing him out, but as always, Pepper can't escape the way Tony can. She lives in a home he designed, attended by the AI he programmed. The whole damned island is abuzz about his celestial discovery, and she can't leave the house without someone asking her about it. She wishes she weren't so damned bitter; with as difficult as it is to be objective, even she can acknowledge that discovering a space station is incredibly cool.

All of this is why she's going to see Peter, who doesn't know Tony the way she does but knows him well enough. Peter, who will pull no punches and give it to her straight when she can't sort through the tangle of her own emotions to see what the hell she should do. Sympathy would be nice, but more than anything she needs a sounding board, a confidant, and there isn't anyone else better qualified. Never mind that she's 38 today, forgotten again, and feels justified in having a good rant (or at least a good drink).