Some day, Tony thinks as he delicately applies his fake lashes, the ones with the subtle rhinestones, he's going to buy himself a dress that's not red.
Tony has been telling himself this since he bought his first dress, which was a horrible off-the-rack thing from J. C. Penney or somewhere that he bought when his father wasn't looking- not hard. He thought he was going to look like Jessica Rabbit, and he ended up looking like Jack Lemmon; he cut it up to make gloves a long, long time ago, and he has no regrets whatsoever on that score.
The one for tonight is, yep, still red, a cherry shade he wasn't sure about but works perfectly with his favorite wig. He had this one made; this is the only thing in his life that makes him glad he's short, because it's so easy to pass off his measurements as those of some secret kept woman of his, something that people are so eager to believe about him that it doesn't even occur to them that the truth is something entirely different.
The whole thing is about illusion, after all.
The dress isn't too over-the-top, though, not like some of the stuff he owns, short enough to be revealing but long enough to hide the goods, not a sequin in sight. He's looking to make heads turn, but he's not looking to steal the spotlight, not entirely. Pepper's away and it's a free-pass weekend, so he knows exactly what he's going to do: he's going to go out, he's going to see a show, he's going to get fucked, and he's going to come back home. A simple plan, but a pretty satisfying one.
He takes a final look in the mirror, adjusting his curls just so, checking his lip gloss. Maybe he should stick with the red; maybe that should just be his thing, instead. He hates more than anything to be predictable, but he just looks too goddamn good in it.
The fully-automated limo isn't exactly street legal, but Tony doesn't particularly care, not when it's so perfect for this particular situation. He has himself dropped off a block or two away, because it's not particularly subtle to roll up to a drag club in a limousine, and when he walks in, the place is already starting to fill up. Tony picks out a table near the stage; it's a different, not having anything reserved for him, not buying up the bar. He's never been particularly good at low-profile, and it really just says too much about him that the closest that he gets is going out in a ten-pound wig and enough makeup to open his own MAC counter.
The show's going to be a good one, with any luck; Shifty LaRue is new on the scene, but she's making a name for herself. Tony flags down a waiter who's wearing little more than underwear and a slightly snotty expression and orders a martini. "Dirty, sweetheart," he adds, not his most creative pick-up effort, and the waiter is predictably nonreceptive. That's fine; that was just opportunism, not anything serious. He's not going to strike out, not tonight, bitchy waitstaff or no.
Tony's barely gotten his drink before the show starts. It's pretty entertaining, not as campy as he expected, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. There's one thing that keeps distracting him, though. Shifty LaRue apparently doesn't work alone; she's got this drag king who's playing the straight man, so to speak.
And it is definitely Natasha Romanov.
She's tossing easy barbs back and forth with Shifty, smirking and swaggering, and she's damn good at it. Tony gets the distinct sense that she doesn't do anything that she's not damn good at; that gives them something in common.
Tony finds it hard to concentrate on anything but Natasha, but at least he isn't bored, which is extraordinary considering his incredible propensity for boredom. Afterwards, Natasha and Shifty are canvassing the tables, accepting tips and air kisses, and it doesn't escape his notice that Natasha seems to be saving him for last. He contemplates briefly making a run out the back, even though he doesn't know what he's afraid of- mutually assured destruction is the order of the day here, and Natasha already has so much on him that it matters not one bit if she gets anything more.
Shifty makes her way backstage, and Tony thinks for a second that he's off the hook; that's a stupid thing to think, because then Natasha is headed to his table, giving him a look that says the jig is up.
When she gets closer, he can see how amazing her whole ensemble is; her makeup is stage-heavy, but impeccably executed. She's got her curves locked down tight, to the point where she's just a slip of a thing, poured into an immaculately cut three-piece suit. He knows he only recognized her because she doesn't care if she gets recognized; if this were a disguise, there's no way on Earth he'd have been able to pick her out.
She turns the chair next to him around, swinging a leg over it and sitting in it backwards. "I don't think I've had the pleasure," she says, voice husky and seductive.
"Evening, Nicolai," he says, his heart beating fast at the thought that she's recognized him so easily. He extends a gloved hand. "Chaine."
Tony tosses his head, brushing his hair away from his shoulder. "The one and only Miss Chaine Reaction, at your service."
"I'm going to hold you to that," she says, and Tony raises an eyebrow. "Tony."
He very much appreciates the way she lowers her voice, but that doesn't mean he's going to let her see him sweat. "I don't think I know a Tony," he says innocently. "Except maybe once or twice in the Biblical sense. I'm not a stickler for names."
She smiles. "How long did it take you to cover your beard?"
"I left her at home," Tony returns. "Must be nice not to have to cover yours."
Natasha gives him a mock-scandalized look. "Oooh, harsh."
"What can I say," he says, opening his hands. "The library is always open."
"I already knew you gave it out for free," she says.
"You have no idea, honey," Tony tells her. He looks her up and down, not that he hasn't been doing that all along. "Are you packing hard?"
"Never leave home without it," Natasha says, without batting an eyelash. "You're going to say something like 'Do you want to get out of here?'."
"You obviously don't know me very well," Tony says, trailing a finger along her knee despite the fact that there's a distinct possibility she'll snap it off. "I was going to say 'Come back to my limo and fuck me.'"
She makes a face. "Is Happy driving?"
Tony just gives her a look.
Natasha picks up Tony's drink and knocks the rest of it back in one gulp. "Let's go, then." Tony doesn't respond, temporarily awestruck, and Natasha smirks. "You weren't expecting that to work."
"Oh, I knew it would work on somebody before the night was through," Tony says. "Just not on you."
She stands up, offering him a hand, and he takes it, lifting himself gracefully out of his chair. He's still kind of dumbfounded, but he's not going to let it show for an instant. And anyway, it makes a weird kind of sense: here, in this place, he's not him and she's not her. They're different people entirely, and all bets are entirely off.
Ten minutes later, the carpet in the floor of the limo is digging into his knees as she fucks him. His wig has been tossed off somewhere unseen, probably not to be found until some unfortunate moment, and she has a hand fisted in the back of his hair. He's really glad he took his gaff off, because she's got her other hand around his cock, stroking him just slowly enough that it's too slow. It's so hot and so maddening, and that just seems so appropriate for this entire situation.
She pulls him back towards her, her cock sliding deeper inside of him. "Tell me what you want," she says into his ear.
He doesn't know what to say, because what he wants is this, just this. "Give it to me harder," he says anyway, because that sounds like a great idea too; Natasha takes him at his word, driving into him hard enough that he almost runs into the seat in front of him, catching himself at the last second, before he can do anything so undignified.
Getting fucked while dressed as a woman in the back of a limo is not undignified. He is a classy fucking lady who knows what she wants, and there is nothing undignified about that.
Getting come all over the carpet of his limo, maybe that's not the most dignified thing he's ever done, but his orgasm hits him all at once, moving all the way through his body. Natasha just keeps on fucking him, right through it and past it, until she finally groans, sinking her fingernails into his shoulder as she gives it up.
Tony's not the only one who came out with a purpose in mind; Natasha's got stuff to clean up with, and Tony lets her have at it- clearly he shouldn't need to help, that just seems like common courtesy.
"Liked your show," Tony says, turning over and ignoring the twinge in his ass as he sits up.
"Don't get used to it," Natasha tells him, adjusting her package before zipping her pants back up. She picks up her fedora from the seat, smoothing down her wig before popping it back on her head, setting it at a rakish angle. "Shifty wants to go on tour."
"That's a shame," Tony says, and he even sort of means it. "On the other hand, I don't imagine having an international super spy in the act was going to work in the end, anyway."
Natasha snorts. "She thinks I work at Sears Automotive."
"I'm not even sure I can make a joke out of that," Tony tells her. "It's already too funny on its own."
Natasha snorts, not answering. Instead, she leans over and kisses him, just once, hard and demanding. "See you around," she says, tipping her hat as she climbs out of the limo.
When she's gone, Tony lifts himself onto the seat, crossing his legs. "Jarvis?"
"Ma'am," the AI responds.
Tony retrieves his wig from the top of the bar, pulling it back on; it only looks a little worse for wear, probably good enough that he could go back to the club, but the moment's over. "Take me home, baby."