Irresponsible Mergers

July 25, 2017:

In need of distraction, Emma Frost and Tony Stark go yachting. …sorta.

Off the Coast of Marbella, Spain


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Obadiah Stane


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…


The ancient city is a beautiful summer hangout for Europe's aristocracy, and home to all of the playthings thereof, particularly along the vein of fancy yachts and cars. And it's high vacation season.

Many of the ships in the water are larger things meant for touring the world in effortless luxury, but not all. Some of those vessels are smaller things meant for touring the harbor in effortless luxury. One of the latter is the vessel presently docked, with its skeleton staff. Presently aboard the ship meant for no more than a dozen people are two men to operate the yacht, and the caterer. Also aboard is one Emma Frost, in a tasteful wrap cape dress in a slinky white knit. The neckline plunges to a point just shy of immodest, but her arms are certainly covered to the elbow. Hair pulled up into a meticulous chignon, her face is mostly obscured by the enormous sunglasses that sit upon her nose as she watches the dock in the late afternoon sun. The sun catches the gold collar about her neck, and the watch on her wrist, as well as the subtle glitter of her peachy lipstick.

Her shoes are white leather ballet flats, leaving her at her most natural height. With her arms threaded, she watches as the crew make the last of the preparations to get them into the water with a very vague interest. …She really looks mostly bored.


"If there is one thing that always spelled trouble," comes a voice from off to one side. A familiar voice. Known the world over for many things. Most of those things include being rich, and a genius, and almost impossible to live with for any length of time.

Tony Stark is proud of all of those.

"It's a beautiful woman with a bored look on her face."

The man himself? He's gone a bit of a white outfit as well, but mostly because he really likes undyed linen in this kind of heat. Light t-shirt, linen slacks, linen overshirt unbuttoned in the Spanish breeze.

He was invited.

Did the crew know he arrived? Did the caterer? It's hard to say, but possibly the answer is no considering the surprised looks on their faces.

How did he get there? Oh, that's much easier to tell. As behind him, easily visible is an Iron Man suit. Sleekly styled, and in blues and greens instead of the typical red and gold.

It’s also wet.

Which means he totally snuck up on them all.

Because he's Tony Stark.


"Tony." Half-admonishment, half-pleasure, the name rolls off of Emma's tongue comfortably. If she's as surprised as the two men running the diagnostics, it's hidden well by the gold-framed, coal-black Bvlgari lenses obscuring her face. Her smile, however, is on full display as she turns and crosses the deck to close the distance between them. "You're absolutely right. And you are just the man to cure me of it."

As she gets near enough, her right hand stretches up with familiarity to cup his jaw. "I'm so glad you could make it, darling. Especially on such dreadfully short notice. I'm the worst."


Raising his hand to cup across hers as he pulls it away to kiss her fingers easily the mechanic smirks slightly. "Come on, Emma. You bored? You usually have more irons in the fire than I have projects going. And I'm totally not going to argue with if you're the worst or the best. But…you're just lucky I was in the Pond testing out my new suit here." He thumps said suit with a fist. "…that's what Brits call it, right? The Pond? I mean I've never understood why but I keep hearing it on TV."


As easily as Stark breezes past her self-assessment, Frost breezes past the matter of her irons. She simply tucks her chin a mischievous degree. She chooses instead to engage on the matter of the vast Atlantic. "More and more appropriate in the ever-shrinking global market," Emma says with a shrug, although she is nothing but outward pleasure at those lips on her fingers. She then slips that right arm into a comfortable hold on his. "New suit and source of good fortunes" she teases, her glasses pulled down juuuust enough for her to look at him without the dark of them in the way. Her voice drops, then, to a conspiratorial whisper. "I suddenly feel woefully underdressed."

Then, at the rear of the ship, there's a call to alert them that the ship's ready to break away from the dock. Emma simply turns and half-lifts her left arm so she can wiggle her fingers to mark her comprehension of the Spanish being leveled in her direction before turning back to her guest. She even offers her Spanish words of gratitude back before pushing her sunglasses back up into place. "So. Sunset, then dinner? I've got wine chilling."


"I always have a new suit, keeps my hands from being idle. And no one likes idle hands." A pause from Stark as he thinks a moment. "Well, no, it made a pretty great movie." A flash of a grin at that before he glances back at the calls from the back of the ship. "Oh, kidnaping is it, then? Sounds fun. Or, since this is a ship, am I being shanghaied?" A pause. "That’s a little bit racist, isn't it. Totally racist. Let’s skip it! So…dinner!"


Laughing merrily at the antics, Emma doesn't agree or disagree with the assessment allowed. Instead, she simply chooses to assure. "I'll bring you back, I promise. Wouldn't want an international incident." She then gives a quick squeeze of Tony's arm. "I'll tell Ella to start getting everything ready downstairs. If you go up there," she continues, pointing to the chairs and table set out under a sun canopy with a pair of glasses and a bottle in a chilling sleeve. "Pour the wine, and we can chat while she gets set up?"

She doesn't really wait for an answer. Already off at a saunter with her hand on the rail as they start out across the wake-ridden harbor, Emma disappears momentarily below deck and leaves Stark to his own devices for a couple of minutes.

The tanned men taking care of the technical aspects of this expedition chatter back and forth to each other amicably, quieting a little once the blonde businesswoman pushes back onto the deck.

Wherever Tony ends up, that is where she'll go. "It won't be long," she explains. "And you'll just die when you try her ceviche."


"Your wish and all that," Tony replies with a wave of his hand as he moves over to the wine. "And for the record, I like you underdressed." He adds with a wicked grin of his, eyebrows waggling for a moment in teasing as he reaches for the bottle opener.

…well. No. He just sort of pulls a little gadget out of his pocket and starts to just pull the cork out with a laser.

Because he can't do anything normal.

"So just why did you bring me out here anyway? You can't tell me you were that bored."


Tony's parting quip does earn him a glance over Emma's shoulder, as she snaps her teeth in his direction playfully.

But then she's gone and, minutes later, back again.

As she settles herself down in one of the seats, she stretches her legs out in the dying sunlight and extends a hand to collect her wine from Tony the Wine Boy.

"Because, my dear, I want you to tell me about Mister Stane." Two fingers move to push her sunglasses on top of her head, so he can see her pale, kohl-rimmed eyes more clearly. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I appreciate all that he's done for the upcoming charity gala—and you, too, I feel inclined to mention again. But…" Her eyes roll upwards towards the canopy as she sinks more deeply into the seat's cushion. "I like a very thorough view of my associates." And then, her head tilts to one side, her expression nearly contrite. "Is that alright? Can we talk about him?"


He hands her the glass, liquid sparkling in the rays of the dying sun as he turns to watch the sunset. The question though causes him to pause and cant his head to one side. There is a flicker of surprise on his face for but a moment before he covers it well enough with a sip of his drink.

"Obi?" The inventor asks. "What do you want to know about him? I mean he was one of my dad's friends, been with the Stark company forever. I thought I was going to give him a heart attack when I decided to start going a different direction for the company. I'm pretty sure I did give a half-dozen of my shareholders heart attacks…"


"I think you'd be delighted if you could find a way to give half the planet a heart attack for the right stunt." There's a feigned look of disapproval, but it doesn't even bother corrupting the upward curve of her lips. "But, as for Mister Stane? Oh, I don't know," Emma lies, and her tone is pretty plain about the fact that it's a statement born of politeness rather than truth. She closes her eyes and savors the lightness of the vintage, the chill of it against the very warm sea breeze.

"Anything that might be worth the knowing, I suppose. Aside from the cigars and ice cream that he's supposed to avoid. How would you describe him?" Crossing her feet languidly at the ankles, the curvy blonde continues. "Is he—oh, say—the sort you can trust with a secret, for example?"


"Oh, if only," Tony replies with a light air of nonchalance as he leans back against the rail of the ship to watch the woman with the telepathic power to rip whatever she wanted right out of his skull. Really, when she has that kind of power, it's kinda nice that she goes to the trouble of asking.

"Oh, now that's a loaded question. And…I think it depends on the secret. Something that could hurt the company or something he cares about? I wouldn't quite trust him with that, most other things then, yes. I mean, he is head of Stark security for a reason."

A pause again as he thinks a moment. "He's driven, and can be ruthless, but I think you like that in a business partner." A smirk at that angled at the blonde. "But he was one of my father's closest friends. I mean, I think he's kinda a big teddy bear, but I'm biased."


As that brilliant, inventive mind—an awe-inspiring thing in its own right—begins the exercise of encapsulating a human being into words, Emma drinks in her companion's assessment dutifully and slips off her shoes. She can hardly argue with it for anything she's observed herself, and she half-heartedly feigns a sheepishness with a shrug to confirm her love of a ruthless spirit.

Guilty, says the shrug, as charged.

Her amusement fades after that, and she pushes herself back up onto her bare feet. She slips up once more into a close proximity, looking out across the expanse of open water that they're approaching. "I made a mistake, Tony," she murmurs. "And now he knows what I am. Please, please, tell me that this is not going to be a problem."


"You made a mistake? Now that is fairly unlikely. But…I guess it could happen." Tony replies with a smirk as she approaches. The woman doesn't have any sense of personal space does she? Not that it really seems to bother him. He doesn't even back off either as he watches her walk.

She does have a good walk.

Though now his mind is processing. "But…I don't think it'll be a problem for you. Obi isn't one to go and blow the lid off other people’s secrets."


A last bounce of the ship sees them over the enormous wake of an ocean liner coming into port, and they move into the glorious open sea. The waves are more even here, and the sway of the yacht changes atop them. The engine, at the operator’s behest, cuts back from its roar and returns to a civil rumble.

Meanwhile, it would seem that Emma Frost continues to delight in invading Stark’s personal bubble, and it's worth noting the lack of resistance when she does. Tony’s reassurances prompts a slow and deep exhale. "Good," she allows, on the matter of Obadiah. “Perhaps mistake is the wrong word… Perhaps it's more the best choice, among several very bad ones.” There’s an untold story there, and she doesn’t bother making a secret of it. “Either way, it's not what I’d prefer. I suppose I should just be grateful that my choices in fashion, art, and wine remain…" She lifts her cup demonstratively. "Consistently. Flawless."

For a brief moment after that, as the woman is silent as she spends it drinking. Appreciating the sunset and the vintage in her hand and the smell of the sea and the billionaire playboy just within breathing distance beside her. Thinking. The wind whips about them, rippling fabric and sending fine hairs floating about Emma’s face as they begin to free themselves from the tyrannical control of her hairpins.

It's probably best for all involved that Tony is not the mind-reader when her expression darkens briefly as a thought flits through. Emma then turns her gaze away from the horizon—now a striking contrast of navy sky and glowing orange clouds as the sun’s mass dips at last beneath it—to fix her gaze keenly on him.

She switches her wine glass from her right to her left as she breaks her own dark reverie with a stunning resurgence of her smile. If allowed, she then lifts her newly-emptied, manicured hand to set soft fingertips upon the bare skin along his collarbone—well clear of the precious, life-saving tech inches below—with a feather-lightness. She watches her own hand for a moment, and then lifts her eyes back up to look for his and have a very rare moment of sincerity, feigned or otherwise. She is a woman who knows very well the art of what she does. Who revels in it.

"Thank you. For keeping all of this between us? For not telling Stane about me. For coming. For all of it." She chuckles. "Honestly? There aren't many people who—after three months of radio silence—would get an invitation from me in the afternoon to come in the evening to Spain of all places, and… actually… You know. Come."

Assuming she’d been permitted to touch him at all, the blonde moves to pull her hand back and return to Tony some pretense of personal space. If not, the words keep coming all the same.

“I suppose there aren’t too many who can do that in the first place, but I don’t have a very long list of…”

The words trail off, the thought left unfinished as she gives another small, seemingly helpless shrug of her slender shoulders.

“We should grab the bottle and go below,” she continues quietly. “Dinner should be ready.”


Personal space? What’s that? Not something that Tony Stark seems to mind being invaded it seems. Even as Emma slides towards him, the inventor doesn’t even flinch. Instead he just graces the blonde with a smirk of his. “Well you called me for company, that’s pretty much a flawless choice. So I say you give yourself a break.”

“Though you’ll have to tell me just what you and Obi were talking about that swung the conversation in that direction. I mean, I don’t think that's something that comes up in the normal talking about the weather.” The man smirks as he pauses a moment to glance towards her, eyes glittering as those perfect smile of his appears for a second. “And yes, you called me so you get to deal with me being nosy. It's all part of my charm.” His eyes though miss little as he takes a sip of his own drink, one eyebrow creeping up.

“And for the record I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that look you just gave.”

Then the smile is back, so fast and sure that Stark isn’t sure it was gone to begin with. The man laughs, shrugs slightly. Then, because it’s Stark, reaches up to touch her hand and pull it up just enough to kiss the tips of her fingers before letting it go again.

“Well you’re lucky in two counts, first one is I seldom refuse the request of beautiful women. Which, if you hadn’t figured it out, you are. And two, like I said, I wanted to test out my underwater suit. So, worked out for the both of us. But you’re welcome. I’m supposed to say that, aren't I, because it's polite, right?” The man rattles off as she steps back and he can’t help but smirk.

“List of brilliant, billionaire, playboy, philanthropists on call?” He says helpfully. Because feelings are hard and humor is good at covering it most days.

“But yes, food sounds like an excellent idea. Testing things always makes me work up an appetite and with everything else I pack into the things I havn’t figured a way to fit a snack bar in.”

The second kiss set upon her hand earns Tony an entirely different sort of look, the blonde wielding her boudoir eyes in an open dare, a playful distraction from that fleeting dark cloud he’d glimpsed. But, in the end, she pulls back in the same dance that plays beneath their feet in the waters deep below. Pushing back, pulling in.

“You’re of a rare breed, Tony,” she tells him quietly, returning praise for praise. “You know it. I know it. And I think I’m something of an expert in them. I’m just fortunate to have your number.” It’s a play on words that’s probably disconcerting in the hands of a telepath, but Emma makes it all the same. “And now I know that I should be asking things from you more often. Tsk, tsk. I know you are better at cards than that.

Turning at last, she goes to slip her flats back on and collect the bottle by its neck with a casual ease, letting it hang loosely at her side after gesturing towards the doors leading inside the cabin. “But let’s get you fed. I’d hardly want to get a reputation for kidnapping handsome bachelors just to let them starve while in my care. Although, I’m sure my PR team would love a new challenge.”

Because that’s what PR specialists love. Challenges.


“Eh, next time maybe I won’t show up, I gotta keep ya guessing. Else you’ll just get bored with me and wander off with the next handsome, brilliant, amazing, awesome, billionaire that comes along.” The inventor replies as he lets her direct him towards the interior doors. “But food does sound like a good idea. And I hate the idea of starving. Tried it once, wasn’t a fan.”

He didn’t really have any control over it that time, of course.

“Besides, I think your PR team has enough to do just with us meeting every so often.” The man adds with a smirk. “I mean the last few pictures of the two of us together put them into high gear didn’t it?”

Not come? The blonde is swift to feign woundedness, her head lolling back as her right arm lifts to drape dramatically over her forehead in the classic talkie damsel’s mime of ‘Woe is me. Whatever will I do?’ “You’d be the death of me, Stark.” But when Emma turns to look at Tony Stark over her shoulder, her chin tucked just so, her downright wicked smile is only just barely visible.

“Oh, they were furious,” she says with full sultry theatrics, voice dropping into a lower register as she pushes open the double doors to let them into the boat’s gallery. By contrast against the darkening sky, it’s practically a-glow with the light emitted by a glittering, round glass chandelier and recessed lighting hidden in the ceiling behind warm glass trimmed with ornate medallions.“Board, this. Stockholders, that. You would have thought we’d gone Dutch on a skywritten advertisement to foretell the final doom of the Dow Jones.” Her glass bearing hand lifts as Emma passes through the doors with that unnatural awareness for aesthetics of hers, as she imagines that plane scrawling in the sky. “Of all their chiding, however, citing stockholders’ ‘dire concerns about an irresponsible merger,’ I think, was my personal favorite.” Another flirty glance over her shoulder. “But I don’t think they appreciated the double entendre nearly as much as I did.” A shrug. “Everyone’s a critic.”

The interior’s cabin is dominated by burlwood, dark and warm; the upholstery is all white leather with a plethora of throw cushions in dark blue and gold. On the far end, up several steps, is a small galley and an intimate dining table perfect for viewing the coastal city as it begins to flare to life in the early evening dark.

The smell betrays some of the selections, citrus and seafood, spice, and the sweet of fruit. And, while they may be dining on the water, the table setting with its sparkling azure glass plates and breathtaking fresh floral arrangement doesn’t suffer for it.

“Ella!” comes the praise. And then there are several quick strings of Catalan as the resident mind witch works her magic, effortlessly accessing the language centers of the brain, translating, and offering it back. ‘Tony Stark’ bubbles up from Emma’s lips somewhere near the end as she sets the bottle she carries on the small table.

There’s the ceviche, as promised, and paella, and also lobster in some sort of butter sauce. It’s not as elaborate as their last meal in London, perhaps, but it’s still a far cry from simple dining. As soon as the two pass through the doors, the chef is quickly and expertly plating it all. It should be noted that there’s plenty, and another set of plates being prepared on one of the small marble counters. By count, it hints at plates for Ella and the men operating the yacht above them.

“Mister Stark,” the dark haired woman says, her accent thick as she sets one of the plates down and arranges it just so. “I am very pleased that you come this evening. Not everyone has the opportunity to say they have cooked for you.”

Emma looks pleased with herself. “This is Ella Olivas, and she runs a divine little place here. One of my board members highly recommended her.” She looks towards her guest and then smiles blithely as her mind stretches out, speaking in a sharp and overt reminder of what, precisely, she is. «She’ll be going outside as soon as she’s done here, and we’ll practically have the place to ourselves.»


"Oh I'm pretty sure you'd overcome." Tony smirks right back at her as he strolls along after. The man looking like nothing more interesting is happening than afternoon tea. Not like he flew out into the middle of nowhere to have dinner with one of the most powerful telepaths on the planet. His head whips around though as she shares her amusement.

"They actually said that? And you didn't Instagram or Facebook that? I mean you could have at least sent me a copy of the meeting notes! That's just classic. I hope you had a laugh track of some kind that played." The man smirks as he steps in, one last glance of the city before he ducks into the interior.

"I've noticed though that most financial and lawyery types don't have much in the way of senses of humor. Pretty sure that's beaten out of them in school. I'm sure I read that as part of the curriculum when I hacked into the database to change my grades." A pause as he turns towards her. "Do people say hacked anymore? It's such a good word."

Then he's being introduced. And there is food. And distractions abound.

The woman gets a smile as he waits for just the right pause in her plating before taking her hands to kiss one with a grin. "If they taste as good as you look I'm sure I'll remember them!" He lets the horrible compliments roll off his lips without even a beatpause before stepping back and reaching over smoothly to pull Emma's chair out for her.

"Good." He answers outloud to that message in his mind.

Just to further confuse things.


Did they really say it? The blonde dramatically drags a finger over her breast in a cross before lifting the hand aloft in a juvenile mark of her oath. But then they're inside.

As for Ella, the slender Spanish woman—somewhere in early forties, perhaps—is absolutely tickled when her hands are taken up. The kiss is the coup de grace, however, and she descends into girlish glee. There is a blush and giggles, her chin tucking coyly. "I think more people can say they've been charmed by you," she tells him, her finger wagging at him. Then she leans in to whisper, "My sister will be so jealous when I tell her I'm one of them."

Emma just looks on, amused at the exchange with an arm crossed at her waist, and the other hand lifting to obscure the smile on her lips. She slips effortlessly into the chair that's pulled out for her; her lips set a ginger light kiss to his cheek.

But then there's an orphaned word in the air, a Stark utterance with no seeming origin. Ella looks up, confused, from where she's setting out a barra of bread. "Hm?" Did she miss something?

Emma covers without missing a beat as she puts down the bottle of wine she'd brought with them. "Mister Stark is right. All of this looks just divine. Thank you."


"The food, it looks so good." Stark just blathers on as he slips around the table and grins towards Ella. "Make your sister jealous of not being here. Totally jealous. I support this. Since I've heard you always have to make fun of your siblings." The inventor adds as he slips into his own chair with practiced ease.

That was a good cover wasn't it? Yes. Yes. Totally a good cover.

Perfect even.

At least that’s what he'll tell himself.


It's good enough for Ella who checks everything one more time, and then is back to the other dishes still on the counter. People miss things in conversation all the time, and clearly she must have done just that in the excitement. Just lost a word under the roar of the engine. The woman with the dark bun resumes loading an extra few portions of everything onto a tray, as well as silverware, and then she's hefting that tray up without another thought about it. "It most certainly is," she confirms. "But I will let you two be, yes? If you need anything else, I will be right up there." She lifts her eyes upwards and indicates above them. Then they settle back on Tony. "I'll come running, just for you."

Emma just pours more wine. And smirks. Because far be it from her to interrupt.

Tony just laughs as he watches the woman leave, smirking to himself as he glances over at all the food laid out before them. "Well, I'll give you this, Emma. You don't do things by halves. But that's just not the kind of person you are. Is it?" He asks as he turns his eyes back towards his host for the evening.

And accepting a glass of wine before he quirks one eyebrow. "…and now that we are alone…bored? That's the only reason you asked me to come visit?"


"Living by halves is for lesser creatures," Emma replies as she smoothes a napkin over the white of her lap, as the chef leaves. "Besides, if I earned a reputation for halves, you probably really would stand me up." The look that she levels at him is a mix of tease and dare to try.

"No, 'tis best to continue to make it worth the trip. Then I can continue to cut out the distractions for both of us." A pause, and then the blonde continues as she picks up her fork and begins trying to decide where to start on her meal. "Although my delightful company should be more than enough." It's the lobster that ultimately gets her attention first. She pauses to savor it, eyes closing and head lolling back as she purrs the expression of her delight.

When she allows herself to move beyond that bite, she takes a sip of wine. "But I've always thought it rude to gossip about a man in his own home, as it were. So, where else could I ask you about your security man, hm?"


"I'm not complaining about it. Since I get this amazing meal. And this amazing view. All at once." Stark replies with a flash of a wicked grin. Since he's not talking about the city at night that’s outside the window.

He's looking at Emma instead.

Of course.

"I suppose you're right on that. Besides, I'm sure he has the whole building bugged." He adds with a wave of his hand that makes it hard if the inventor is trying to be funny or not.

"And your company is definitely more than enough."


“I’m just very glad you came.” Tony offers the praise, and she devours it more readily than the gourmet offerings that sit between them. Of course. The female of the pair indulges—nay, encourages—that shot of wickedness with the resurgence of her vixen's smile. Because she’s a shameless enabler. That’s what friends do, right? Enable each other’s vices?

Also, she's taking that whole bugged comment as Gospel truth unless there’s something screaming in the telepathic resonance of it, and filing it away. That is definitely worth a note to the mental file.

"So," she asks between small samplings of the other dishes, "when are you due back to New York? Tonight? Do you have to eat and… fly? Or is the new suit just for sneaking up underwater to try to startle unsuspecting hostesses?” Painted lips tug into an uneven smile as one blue eye gently winks. “You nearly had me, by the way. Well done."


"One day, I'll manage to perfect a telepathic proof armor, but not this week." Tony replies breezily as he grins readily towards her. "Besides, I have other uses for my time and if I tried I'd either have people knocking down my door to either steal it, buy it, or kill me for it."

A beatpause.

"Which is about my standard Tuesday." He adds after a thought. "Though no, I don't have to eat and fly. I have a few things I need to finish up on this side of the pond. New medical scanner. I heard there is some new tech at one of the European branches I wanted to have a looksee at and I need to retune the armor before I head back. So…looks like you’re stuck with me at least till tomorrow."


Telepath-proof armor? There's a snort at that and she looks away with a good-natured roll of her eyes. As if anything could be her-proof. One way or another…

But then there is the talk of… of tomorrows. "Oh, really?" she asks as though suddenly drawn back into the conversation, even though she clearly never really left it.

Long fingers weave overtop her picked-over plate, creating the shelf upon which Emma Frost can rest her chin. "And here I am, caught entirely without any evening entertainment planned. Shame on me. What a very bad hostess I am. I thought for sure that you'd be racing off."

Her slender form heaves with a melodramatic sigh, and eyes lifting upwards. "Well, I suppose it is a very good thing that I have room enough for you to stay. And a chef who - I am given to understand - has brought enough supplies for a very delightful breakfast." Her gaze turns to look out the window as she lifts her chin back up and reclaims her wine glass to sip."You can hardly go on to your Euro branch on an empty stomach after all. Horrible for the brain."

Then her eyes turn back towards Tony, her brow crinkling with an affected seriousness. "Don't you agree?"


"Eh, I'm a horrible guest. Always showing up unexpectedly with armor and all sorts of other things. So don't be too hard on yourself, Emma." The man replies with a flash of a grin. He knows exactly what he is, and what he is is a pain in the ass.

He'll be the first to admit it.

"Besides, I have faith you'll figure something interesting out for entertainment." A smirk. "And if you don't I'll just judge you horribly. That's what I do after all. Judge people." It really isn't.

A pause then a nod. "You know, I do remember hearing something about that. How breakfast is the most important meal of the day. And if it's anywhere near as good as dinner I'm pretty sure I'll be more than set enough for a visit."


No, Emma's the one that judges people. All day. Every day. Judge, judge, judge. She knows herself a bit, too, and she's no intention of apologizing for it. At least, she does most days.

"Wonderful!" Pushing herself onto her feet and picking up the wine bottle, the blonde pours more for herself and perches on the edge of the table by Tony's chair. And then she twists just so to pour the last of the wine into his cup without asking whether he even wants it.

"Now, all I have to do is figure out how to fill the time between dinner and breakfast. Well, you'll need to sleep, too, I suppose. So that's-" Pulling the empty wine bottle to hug it to herself, the mind witch turns her gaze towards the ceiling in thought. Then there's a glance down to Tony from her 'deep' contemplation on the schedule, as she asks him to confirm a point: "-what, eight? Eight hours spoken for, right there…?"


Well Tony isn't going to call her on that. Mostly because it would be hypocritical and he doesn't really care. Like really, he doesn't. She can judge all day long and it doesn't really matter much to him. Especially if she gives him plenty of amazing food.

He's easy to please in most instances.

He doesn't comment or complain about the wine, instead he just pulls the now full glass to his lips as he smirks up towards her. Those intelligent eyes of his lazily travel up the curve of her leg, dangling so close to him off the edge of the table before settling on her face with a flash of a smile.

"I usually only need six, eight is a luxury. But! I'm sure we can find some way to occupy the intervening time. I mean we are both intelligent adults." A beatpause. "I'm totally not moral or respectable, but intelligent. I can go with that."


"Six? Oh, goodness, that puts me in a bit of a bind." Emma's lips purse, and her tongue clicks as she thinks. At some point, she stretches behind herself to set the empty bottle down. Then she sips from her glass some more, and pretends to think some more.

"Two hours to fill is a bit," she decides, looking back again to her guest and shrugging. "Maybe we could split the difference? Lights off and—" a hand slices through the air demonstratively, "—absolutely no talking for the two hours, but sleep not required. Oh, but… that's a compromise. I mean, I know we're two intelligent adults, but we've horrible reputations to maintain and boards who like to worry over silly things. Wouldn't want to be irresponsible."


"That’s me, always throwing a wrench in carefully made plans." Tony admits as he sips the wine once again with the air of a man that has not a care in the world. He's a terrible person and he knows it. But he seems to be in the company of a terrible person, so that works out well.

Her proposal is given and he gives it the gravity it deserves. Contemplating the delivery and the words with a slight frown of concentration before he leans forwards just slightly to put the glass down on the table.

"Well, Miss Frost. I think there is only one possible reply to that."

And with that he reaches out to pull Emma right into his lap. Because he is Tony Stark and has no shame at all.

"When do we start?"


The wine in Emma's hand splashes against the wall of her glass as she comes slipping off the table and lands precisely where Tony Stark intends for her to land. Some of the wine spills onto the floor. She doesn't really care.

Her pale eyes meet his darker ones even as she tucks her chin; her smile is downright wicked. Fingertips stretch out, a thumb moving to trace along the line of his jaw.

"Is now too soon for you?"


"No," Tony replies with what Emma would know with her powers is complete honesty. "No, it is not."

And there better not be any interruptions, because Tony Stark is intending to be completely focused on not talking anymore for the next good long while.

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