"Reaping the Benefits of Destruction" Title: "Reaping the Benefits of Destruction"
Author: monimala
Fandom: Iron Man/Days of our Lives
Word Count: 900
Disclaimer: Philip belongs to NBC and Corday Productions, Tony belongs to Marvel.
Summary: Not for the first time since he took over Kiriakis Industries for his father, Philip notes that doing business is a lot like having an affair. Mild sexual content.
Notes: Yes, this is a comic book and soap opera crossover. Blame Gracie… and, okay, RDJ and JKJ, who are so sexy separately that putting them together is probably a sick bit of genius.

Their first handshake, two feet from the conference table, is firm and noncompetitive. Neither of them is so pedestrian that they resort to squeezing the shit out of each other and seeing who wins. They just shake, trade polite greetings, and adjourn to separate sides so the lawyers don't get nervous that they're going to toss contracts in the air and declare some kind of merger.

Not for the first time since he took over Kiriakis Industries for his father, Philip notes that doing business is a lot like having an affair: You're always getting into bed with somebody and Legal just wants you to screw, no emotions, no promises.

Later, as he shakes Tony Stark's hand a second time, loose and limp and sealing a bet, he thinks screwing his partner might not be so bad.

"Thirty seconds," he reasserts, sprawling back in the booth and appreciating the fact that the VIP lounge is blissfully far from the grinding noise of the rest of the club. "I can land that girl in thirty seconds or less."

"Cocky." Stark arches an eyebrow, saluting him with his glass. "I've been at this a lot longer than you, Kid, and the wooing of women takes finesse."

"Please. War hero," he says, tilting his head towards his leg beneath the table.

"Super hero," Stark retorts, dark eyes twinkling with challenge.

"I didn't need a suit to defend my country." Philip knows it's a low blow, but as he levers himself up, grasping the edge of the banquette for balance, he knows he's got to press his advantage where he can. Stark is older, richer, smarter… and if he really intends to "urge" Kiriakis Shipping to stop transporting illegal arms to North Korea with this deal for upgraded navigational tech, then Philip wants to make him work for it.

"How can you go from defending your country to justifying weapons trading with a nuclear power?" Stark counters, the blonde by the bar forgotten. He leans forward, reaches for Philip's wrist and, this time, he does squeeze. "I've been where you are, Kid… and it takes a lot longer than thirty seconds to get over the denial."

He glances down at the tanned fingers against his skin. At the fine dark hairs across Tony's knuckles. Veins, blood, connective tissue… it's all still there. A gift compared to the nothingness below his knee, the reinforced steel and plastic that passes for a foot in his specially made Italian leather loafer. "Being a good man lost me my leg and my face, Stark. Now I'm just a businessman. Someone else can save the world," he assures, before shaking off Stark's grip and reaching for his drink.

Philip takes a long swallow of gin, and it's time for *his* eyebrows to arch with speculation, because Stark starts to unbutton the crisp white shirt that's already gotten to the unknotted tie and loosened collar stage. Before he can make some kind of quip about this being too public a venue for private negotiation, Tony spreads the edges of his shirt wide, revealing the bone white wifebeater underneath. It doesn’t lay flat. There is a circular protrusion several inches above his sternum. "This is what being a businessman got *me*, Philip."

He can't help it. It's as if his hand moves of its own accord. He traces the edge of what feels like a metal disc, the rim of some kind of device, and Tony doesn't even bother to hide a shudder. Pain? Self-loathing? Arousal? Does it even matter? Philip's tongue is thick, liquored, and he tastes all of those things when he slowly licks his lip. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he whispers.

Their third handshake is an awkward tangle as they crash into the wide seat in the back of Stark's limo, mouths locked in combat. The barrier goes up, not that it matters because the car is self-guided by a Stark Industries computer, and they're speeding towards the coast as the rest of Tony's shirt comes off and Philip's expensive loafers get lodged between bottles in the mini bar.

Philip knows he's got to press his advantage where he can. He's younger, hungrier, and and a thousand times more desperate for validation. So as Tony's hand slides down his thigh, traces the ugly network of scars on his kneecap, and hovers in the dead space beneath, he lowers his head and licks a trail around the glowing, blue thing in Tony's chest. Maybe it's just his imagination, but it flickers and he can feel Tony's heartbeat against his cheek.

Their hands slip and slide over battle scars, they trade torture and captivity stories with every less than finessed kiss --the wooing of men, unlike blondes at the bar, doesn't need delicacy or grace-- and when Philip is off-balance above him, Stark wastes no time flipping them so his back is flat against the warm leather seat and all he has to do is enjoy the fingers wrapping around his cock, the rhythmic strokes and the dirty way Tony whispers, "Kid, come on, Kid," in his ear.

He was wrong, he thinks, when his brain goes numb and he comes harder than he has in his life… and Tony undoubtedly, unequivocally, wins. Business isn't like having an affair at all.

Because he does make an emotional promise. Several promises.

Stark made him work for it.

--end--

May 17, 2008

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