Chapter Text
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“And this is our youngest.”
Looking up from picking a hoof, Maria squinted up at the shadow standing next to her mother. Tall, dark and handsome, she grumbled quietly in her mind once she finished her once over, feeling a little better when she spotted a few strands of grey at the man’s temples. All in all, he seemed to be the type of man her sisters would go for, not her, which was probably why her mother was introducing him to her. She obviously didn't want any of the older girls seeing him and falling helplessly in love, only to be heartbroken when he left.
Teenagers were so weird.
“Maria, say hello to Mr. Stark. He helped your father in the war.”
“Hello,” Maria mumbled, standing up straight as taught and feeling more unpolished than usual next to her mother, who was wearing a light blue shirtwaist dress while Maria had stolen one of her brother’s old sweaters this morning and paired the woolen mess with her fraying, too-tight breeches. She stepped a little closer to Roux, an older buckskin quarter horse cross-tied in the middle of the aisle. She wasn't that good with strangers, talking to new people left her a stuttering mess, and this man who hid his eyes behind sunglasses while inside a dark barn didn't seem that friendly.
She hated being introduced to da’s old friends because they usually commented on her looking just like her father when he was young (never her stunning mother), so it was better for everyone if Maria hid in the barn instead of enduring the backhanded compliments.
Generally, if she had to be introduced to her father’s old war friends, and her mother was in one of her moods to make her obey, it was always done in the parlor after Maria had been prettied up, with the mud and manure scrubbed away with a harsh bristle brush. Her mother said it wouldn't be such a trial if Maria just stayed out of the barn with the animals, following up with a comment on Maria’s short cropped curls and how she should start letting it grow out, and Maria’d be so pretty if her face was only framed correctly, and stop complaining Maria it was only a dress not a straitjacket!
Maria knew she didn't look like her older sisters, or the beautiful women in the ads, but it had never bothered her until her mother started dressing like Jackie Kennedy and commenting on her youngest daughter’s lack of cheekbones.
“Maria, I need you to talk to Mr. Stark for a while.” Her mother, perfectly coiffed, turned and smiled at the handsome stranger. Straight off the boat from Ireland, her striking looks always seemed out of place next to her ruddy French father and the quiet farm on the north fork of Long Island.
“She’s usually never this quiet. We usually have to tell her shush and save words for everyone else, my little duckling,” her mother said jokingly to the well-dressed man, who looked bored and slightly annoyed at the idle chitchat.
"That's wonderful, Caitlin, but Bob made this sound urgent. I didn't expect to be kept waiting in a barn with your chatty fifth girl."
Maria saw her mother's red lips tighten and wondered if the man was going to be whooped. Caitlin Mary Collins Carbonell might sharply criticize all her children, but she was the only one allowed to do so and she ripped people to shreds if they said her brood was less than perfect. When a moment passed and her mother reigned in her temper, because obviously this man was important, Maria's mother exhaled sharply through her nose and allowed a sickeningly sweet smile stretch her features.
Maria knew da was going to get words after this man left.
“I’ll go see if I can find Robert. He’s probably in the vineyard with Joseph," Caitlin said coolly through her paper-thin smile, all polished manners gone and without saying goodbye, or looking back, her mother turned and strode gracefully out of the barn, leaving the girl and man alone in an awkward silence.
Roux snorted at the whiff of lilac perfume left in the woman’s wake, bumping his hind end into Maria’s shoulder, which seemed to be enough of a conversation starter for the much older man.
“So, do you, uh...like horses?” He plowed through the silence with a manner that suggested he was used to the awkwardness his presence resulted in, filling it with babble and questions. Maria had a feeling the man wasn't quiet for long periods of time, and probably didn't go outside a lot if his lack of tan was anything to go by. His olive-toned skin looked glamorous and expensive next to her patchy farmer’s tan.
Maria shrugged in response, wanting to tack up and knowing her mother would kill her if she did so and left this man unattended. She would never hear the end of it being bad manners to leave a guest unaccompanied on family land, even a now unwanted one. “I've been riding my whole life, Mr. Stark. I figure if I didn't like horses, I’d have stopped a while ago.”
The man smiled again, “And how long have you been riding?” He stepped further into the barn, mindful of the hay bales, and leaned against an empty stall’s door.
“A gentleman should never ask a lady’s age,” she sniffed the rehearsed answer her sister Maggie gave to older men who asked the same question, turning to toss the hoof pick into the bucket with a clang. The deep laugh in response to her crudely thrown barb, instead of the frustrated sigh she usually got from her family members, surprised Maria.
It was sort of a nice laugh, if you liked that type of thing, which she didn't.
“I highly doubt you’re over ten. Not even a full-grown girl, much less a lady.”
Maria couldn't prevent her cheeks puffing up in irritation, something her older brother Toni always teased her about, and stomped over to grab the bridle hanging on a nail next to the man. “I’m twelve,” she announced, looking up at the man and glimpsing a pair of dark eyes behind the glasses looking at her in amusement.
Marie frowned deeper when her response generated an even louder burst of laughter. The man barely knew her and he was making fun of her! This was worse than when the aunts traveled across the ocean to visit so they could pinch her cheeks and called her “mon petit cochon” while in the next breath praising her oldest sister on how fashionably thin she was after returning from her tour of Europe.
“I bet you’re sixty-five,” she grumbled, taking off Roux’s halter and shoving her thumb into his mouth in one fluid movement so he’d take the bit without a fuss. “You’re old, and mean, and crazy,” she continued while wiping her green-tinged thumb on her breeches to remove the staining, ignoring the man’s disgusted look at the action. His clothes looked too expensive to be shoved into the barn to wait and Maria wondered what this “Mr. Stark” did to annoy her mother to show her more country-manners.
“Hey now, I don’t think I deserve that.” The man walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder, the other patting hesitantly at Roux’s buckskin hide as if expecting the horse to bite. “I’m only forty-three, younger than your dad. And I’m not mean. I’ll have you know I’m an eccentric, millionaire, philanthropist.”
She pushed a random curry comb into his hand so he’d stop touching her horse. “You didn't deny being crazy. I bet you’re a hobo that da helped after the war,” Maria commented, trying not to grin at his scandalized expression while busying herself with adjusting the snaffle and tightening a loose cheek strap.
Mr. Stark sputtered for a moment, patting at his tailored outfit like a bird reorganizing its feathers when startled. “I am not a hobo. I make a lot more money than a hobo.”
Maria shrugged off Mr. Stark’s hand when it tried to reach out for her shoulder again, tugging at the reins so her horse wouldn't try to steal any of the sweet feed as they walked past the storage room. “Having more than nothing is not that great of an achievement,” she said, biting her tongue to stop the usual streak of swearing when Roux easily pulled her a stumbling couple steps in the opposite direction so he could grab a mouthful of hay.
“I’m happy that you’re happy about my financial future,” Mr. Stark said sarcastically while grabbing both reins in one hand and giving a sharp tug to help, causing Roux to finally step away from gorging himself with bits of hay sticking out from around his bit and Maria to jolt into Mr. Stark’s chest. “And I’ll have you know my company is finally in the black after that whole mess of the war.”
Maria scowled up at the man who was now openly grinning down at her with his glasses pushed rakishly on top of his head. The twins, Kathy and Bobbi, would have easily handled the older man, flirting while making an easy escape out the side door. Even Patti, the oldest who was a little too up in the clouds, was well practiced in flicking her long, dark hair away from her shoulder to distract men from asking too many boring questions.
All skills the older Carbonell girls had learned easily from their mother while Maria was learning how to stick like glue to the back of a horse over a jump.
She was so stupid, and spending more time with this polished millionaire just highlighted it to the twelve year old girl with knots in her hair. Best to make her escape before she offended him and caused mother to have a heart attack.
“Hey, hey, kid, you’re not actually leaving are you?” Mr. Stark sounded sad when Maria pushed away with a huff to stomp into the yard, as if he wanted them to snipe back and forth even more. “Where’s your saddle? You can’t go riding without a saddle, even I know that,” he drawled while pushing his glasses back down to cover his eyes.
“I don’t have a saddle. Da doesn't want me riding the horses. Says I’ll get hurt and girls shouldn't do it.” She squinted out at the yard and the approaching figures that stepped out from the last row of grapevines. One was definitely moving in the swaying strides that were characteristic of her father while the other had the quick, but quiet, steps of her second brother following closely behind. “He’s coming now, I've got to run. I guess it was nice meeting you, Mr. Stark.”
“You too, kid. You too.” He leaned against the barn entryway, hands in his pockets and grinning even wider at her fruitlessly pulling Roux in an attempt to leave faster, “Do you need help in your getaway or-
She scowled and quickly scrambled onto the horse before the man could complete his question by using the side gate, kicking Roux in the direction away from her perpetually frowning patriarch.
“Oh, hey, what was your name again?”
“Maria, Mr. Stark. My name is Maria.” She couldn't resist it when the man made himself such an easy target. ”Maybe you are getting old. Memory loss is the first sign.”
His laughter followed her around the barn corner and across most of the field she cantered bareback over, echoing in her head long after it had stopped.
When a mystery saddle arrived for her by express courier next week, Maria thought nothing of it, but she dutifully wrote a ‘thank you’ letter to Mr. Stark in secret away from the prying eyes of her family. She couldn't help but be pleased that none of her siblings ever received such a gift in the past, and a saddle is much better than the combs Patti once received from an admirer (no matter what her sister said about the combs being much better than a heap of leather that goes on a horse’s back).
Her father didn't dare to take the saddle away, though he did sigh while chewing on his pipe when he found out where it came from and who sent it. Her mother, who had now finally realized her last daughter might not be as hopeless as she thought, fluttered about the house with a beatific smile on her face; making sure to tell Maria to “think of Mr. Stark” whenever she saw her walking out to the barn while in breeches. Maria liked the saddle because it meant that it was easier for her to try different horses besides the well-trained Roux.
Other than that, and remembering his laugh every once in a while when she’s left alone, Maria doesn't really think of Mr. Stark.
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“Why are we here again,” Steve whispered to Natasha while tugging at his shirt collar, avoiding the predatory glances thrown his way by society matrons nearby. Being dressed up in a sports jacket and button-down was not uncomfortable, per se, he’d just rather being doing it anywhere else but here: Randomly on Long Island, at least two hours from New York City, mingling with rich folk who had nothing better to do than take pictures of him with their cell phones.
Natasha shrugged, artfully balancing a glass of wine in her hand. “The same thing we always do during the weekend: go to charity events and pray that New York City doesn't sue us for damages.” She smirked from underneath her large hat and took a sip of the Riesling, nudging Steve in the side, “I think you’re just sore Mr. Rich-and-Obnoxious isn't here.”
Steve was not angry; he didn't even care that Stark had somehow skipped out on the team convoy that headed out east this morning. He was just a little put out that Stark seemed to be around less than he expected when he moved into the newly renovated Stark/Avengers Tower. Mrs. Hogan nee Potts assured Steve that Tony was fine and that she’d see if she could use her powers as CEO to get him to go on more ‘team based activities’ if it became a problem.
Granted, he didn’t expect the man to be at the Tower 24/7, that would have been strange for the only Avenger who had a “real” job, but Steve would have been lying if he denied mentioning Stark’s absence to Natasha every once in a while. The red-haired spy had shrugged in response and said something about Stark always being busy, more so than when she was his assistant. Something about it being cost efficient to make sure he wasn't distracted while working in the office, though Stark always had at least two days per week blocked off as free where he disappeared and only came when there was an ‘Assemble!’ call.
When Steve asked Natasha about the 'personal days'’, figuring she would know since she had to schedule them in the past, Natasha snorted and cryptically muttered something about stallions and Tony dancing with a broken back as a response.
Before Steve was allowed to ask about Tony again (he wasn’t obsessed, he was concerned), he was interrupted by a fairly stout man walking onto the huge field of grass adjacent to the tent most of the people were sitting under.
There was the screech of feedback and the man held up a microphone in apology. “Welcome, welcome. Sorry about the noise, can’t be helped with these outside venues. I just wanted to thank everyone for coming and to-”
And Steve started to tune out the announcer because even though his mother taught him to show respect to those talking, when you've heard a rich MC announce empty thanks a couple dozen times you grew tired of the same false words. When the man finished and handed off the microphone to another, if possible, shorter man, all while making sure to remind people to bid on the items in the silent auction nearby, Steve sat down heavily on one of the wooden chairs set up at the 'Avengers' reserved table and reached for his beer with a sigh.
"You don't seem to be enjoying this, Captain," Pepper mused from one seat over, nursing her sparkling grape juice and rubbing her hand absentmindedly across her straining abdomen. Due in only a few weeks, this was Pepper's 'last hurrah' as coined by Tony. "I thought you would have liked to get out of the city to avoid the heat."
Steve shrugged while sipping at something that tasted too sweet to really have been classified as a beer, wondering if it was one of the new ciders Clint had turned him onto, “Don’t mind the summers. Got used to the humidity,” he said as he watched the man speaking on the empty grass plain start gesturing off to the side, “Mostly worried about how the city's going to be with just Thor and Bruce remaining behind."
Steve was not jealous that the two had an excuse to not get carted off to the countryside.
Pepper nodded thoughtfully, clapping politely when the other man finished his spiel only for the microphone to be handed off a third time, now to a woman. "That’s true, but I’m sure Thor would have loved to see the horses. They might have reminded him of home”
“Horses?”
As if they had been waiting for Steve to ask, ten horses suddenly thundered across the field from the left and the cheers of the people nearby drowned out what the announcer was saying in the microphone. Two of the riders had the distinct black and white pattern of the referee and the remaining eight were split: half of the riders wearing light blue and black and the other half dressed in red and white. Even with the helmets and mallets and safety padding, one of the riders sorta looked like-
“Oh my god, is that Stark?” Clint asked abruptly as he dropped into the chair on Steve’s other side, taking a huge swig of his beer and gesturing with the bottle after finishing, his other hand occupied with loosening his tie. Steve did a double-take and had to admit the man in blue and grey riding the matching grey horse at the far end of the field did look like Tony from afar. When he looked over at Rhodey, who had finally escaped from a three-star general to flee back to their table, the black man gave a one shouldered shrug and nod in agreement to Clint's question as he flagged down a waiter carrying a huge platter of pigs-in-a-blanket.
As the horses turned the corner, making their way back towards the tents at a more sedate pace, Steve heard the announcer briefly over the applause, “Stark Industries vs. Coca Cola, riding for the Championship Match, but first we’re going to have our-” and stood in respect as a lovely woman began to sing the national anthem. Natasha gently hip bumped Steve into his chair as she returned triumphantly from the open bar with a two glasses of wine so she and Rhodey could complain about the vintage like the closet wine snobs they were.
“So is that really Tony?” Steve found himself asking, now easily spotting what could have been the goatee'd man among the other riders due to the semi-familiar hand flapping. “I mean, riding doesn't…”
Rhodey snorted into his drink, finally seeing the billionaire, and almost sprayed a ten-year old Merlot onto Clint, “Oh god, of course that’s Tony. The idiot probably didn't think we’d actually show up to his little match.”
“I think he has been talking about this starter for the past couple of weeks before she was shipped over from Argentina,” Pepper mused, popping a delicately crafted...thing made of bread into her mouth. “In fact, I think the past month has been a 50-50 split between the new armor and this new mare.”
"He is very passionate about his ponies," agreed Rhodes, nodding seriously until he made eye contact with the pregnant redhead, his frown turning into a goofy grin followed by a cackling laugh.
"I've never heard him talk about ponies or horses," groused Clint, slouching in his chair to avoid his picture being taken by a teenager at an adjacent table. "If they're so important, why keep it a secret?"
Pepper looked Natasha's shrimp cocktail mournfully, the doctor said no shellfish due to her pregnancy, before leaning back in her chair with a sigh at her aching back. “Tony wouldn't talk about the horses with you. He’s Iron Man first, Tony Stark CEO second, and his hobbies always came far behind those two titles.” She waved off Steve’s frown, “Of course you would have heard about the barn eventually where the press started talking about his ass."
Steve abruptly found his eyes drawn to Tony’s white-clad legs hugging the horse's sides.
"Surprisingly, not that ass," Rhodey said, side-eyeing Steve while slurping his wine until the blond blushed and started to examine an older lady’s intricate hat.
The woman at the front had been introducing the various riders as the group talked about Tony, starting with the Coca Cola team, and when she reached, “Stark Industries rider number 3, owner Tony Stark,” Steve was having trouble matching the man who appeared to be laughing and swinging a mallet in a carefree manner with the insomniac who sometimes stumbled past the kitchen at five in the morning from a business trip. In fact, Tony seemed almost ecstatic as he moved his horse sideways to bump into another rider’s mount, leaning over to whisper something in the wiry, older man’s ear.
As a group, the three Avengers and James stood to walk over to the short barricade that marked out the pitch where the horses were crossing after the announcer left the field. The other attendees watching the match were crowded close to the edge but parted when they saw the superheroes moving towards the milling players. The brightly dressed women and men in sports coats seemed more nervous about the four people approaching them than the highly trained horseflesh only a few feet away.
Clint laughed out loud when Tony rode over after spotting them, the horse snorting and tossing its head as it was reined in to a stop. “Stark, you are every stereotypical idea of a rich person,” Clint said, reaching out to pat the grey horse on its white nose with the ease of someone who had done so often in the past. Obviously a throwback from his circus days. “I should have known you’d be well versed in polo, the game of rich biddies everywhere.”
Tony grinned, holding the reins of the horse with one hand while the other twirled the mallet so the bamboo pole rested on his shoulder. “From you, Barton? I’ll take that as a compliment.” He leaned over and slapped a hand fondly against the horse’s muscular, arched neck, “Of course, if being a rich biddie means I get the lovely Miss Sofia to lead my string, you can drag my name through the mud.” Clint cackled at Tony’s response while dragging Natasha back to the table so they could keep Pepper company.
"I have to admit, she is a beaut," Rhodey said, rubbing his hand over the horse's shortly cropped mane. "I can understand why you were sweating bullets when other people started bidding against you at Sydney.” He stepped over the small barrier so he could rest a hand on Tony’s gleaming heeled boot. “Of course, you had to buy ten other horses so nobody would know she was the one you wanted, but, ah, the life of a globe-trotting billionaire!”
"She is beautiful and is worth every cent, thank you, Gumdrop." Tony sniffed before preening slightly at the mare that was shifting impatiently beneath his seat, taking his foot out of the stirrup so he could nudge Rhodey softly in the chest. “Plus she has the added bonus of not being mouthy and listening to me when I ask her to do something.”
“I get the hint, no need to bludgeon me between the eyes. I’ll talk to you later, and I’ll try to be less ‘mouthy’ when you stop suggesting idiotic scenarios,” Rhodey replied in a well-practiced simper, clapping his hand briefly on Tony’s calf before returning to the table.
“How about you, Steve?” Tony turned to the soldier standing nearby after cracking a smile at Rhodey’s wine-slurping technique, dropping the reins on the horse's neck so he could wave over the last member of the Avengers team present, "What do you think of my pretty Sofia?"
Steve shuffled a little as he stepped up, unaware of where to put his hands or if he was allowed to give Sofia a pat as easily as Clint. "I didn't know that you rode?" He gestured to how comfortable Tony looked astride the shifting animal, "You don't seem the type?"
Tony barked out a laugh, causing the mare to take a quick sidestep and Tony to rest a hand on her shoulder but not to pick up the reins. "Steve, I am exactly the type to ride horses. I'm rich, I grew up on Long Island and my mother was obsessed. Mom made sure I knew how to ride before I knew how to walk.”
“How did your mother-”, Steve coughed, wishing he had brought his drink with him for pseudo-courage, “I mean, I never imagined her to-” There was faint yelling from the field that made Steve pause in his question and Tony to gather his reins in one hand.
“Listen, I’d love to chat more, Cap, but they’re about to start the chukker. We can catch up during halftime when you stomp the divots. It’ll be fun! I'll let you have a pony ride. Gotta get going before they begin without me!” Tony said quickly while neatly wheeling Sofia on her powerful hind legs to canter off without a backward glance to where the rest of the riders were now gathering in the middle of the pitch.
Within a moment the group of eight horses began galloping across the field, slamming into each other in an attempt to get closer to the small white ball bouncing across the ground.
Steve didn't know why, but he couldn't stop thinking about Tony’s breeches-clad thighs for the rest of the polo game.
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