
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3137939.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Marvel_Cinematic_Universe, The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies)
  Relationship:
      Bruce_Banner/Tony_Stark
  Character:
      Bruce_Banner, Tony_Stark, Howard_Stark, Pepper_Potts, Clint_Barton,
      Natasha_Romanov, Steve_Rogers, Obadiah_Stane
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon, Alternate_Timelines, Age_Difference, Slow
      Build, Howard_Stark's_A+_Parenting, What-If, Press_and_Tabloids, Platonic
      Cuddling, Fast_Cars, Relationship_Negotiation, Queer_Themes, Teenage_Tony
      Stark, Bruce's_Sad_Backstory
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-07 Updated: 2017-07-12 Chapters: 24/35 Words: 99552
****** This Is Your Heart (Beating Off the Atrophy) ******
by oppisum
Summary
     Tony Stark is five when Bruce moves into Stark Mansion. He’s fourteen
     when Bruce realizes they have a problem. Nineteen when Bruce sits in
     the workshop watching him build a metal suit.
     Or, in which Bruce enters Tony’s life much earlier, plays buffer to
     Howard’s not-so-hot parenting, and realizes that his best friend is a
     mouthy boy twenty-three years younger than him.
Notes
     This all started out with the question, “What if someone else was
     around during Tony’s upbringing?”
     Soundtrack: HERE
     Thank you to the fantastic meatball42 for betaing. This wouldn't have
     happened without her.
     Extended author's notes and miscellaneous posts about the 'verse are
     kept on_tumblr (may contain spoilers for later chapters).
***** Chapter 1 *****
Prologue
~*~
“Mr. Stark!”
“Dr. Banner!”
“Tony Stark!”
“Mr. Banner!”
Bruce blinks hard against the camera flashes as he shoulders past the reporters
circling the tower.
“Dr. Banner, how do you feel about dating a man twenty-three years younger than
you?”
“Did you know about the Iron Man suit before Mr. Stark’s admission?”
“Mr. Stark, what do you have to say to reports that Mr. Banner lived in Stark
mansion for ten years?” one reporter calls out.
“It was thirteen, not ten,” Tony corrects, looping his arm around Bruce’s
shoulder. He guides Bruce through the swell of paparazzi, letting him bury his
face against wool of his suit jacket. Bruce sucks in a breath and forces
himself to stay calm-- this is nothing they haven't dealt with before.
“Dr. Banner, are the allegations that you and Mr. Stark were romantically
involved before he turned seventeen true?”
Tony ushers Bruce into a nondescript black sedan, and the muffled silence once
the door shuts makes Bruce slump against the seat in relief.
“Happy, update,” Tony calls out. “Who leaked what, and why didn’t I know about
it before we stepped into the circus?”
“It’s SHIELD, sir,” Happy says. The lines around his eyes are tight in the
rearview mirror.  “SHIELD has been compromised, and your file was among those
leaked.”
“Fuck.”
~*~
Chapter 1
~*~
5
Tony Stark is five when Bruce Banner moves into the Stark’s Fifth Avenue
mansion.
Bruce is twenty-eight, old beyond his years, and tired of running.
He stands in the Starks’ decadent foyer with his duffle bag of earthly
belonging and wonders what the hell he’s doing here. His tattered suit is more
patches than original material, and his last haircut was seven months ago in
front of a cracked bathroom mirror in Kolkata. Bruce hunches his shoulders as
he faces his godparents, the instinct to make himself as small as possible
overwhelming his urge to look presentable.
Maria Stark sweeps him into a wordless hug, and he presses his face into the
crook of her neck, breathing in lavender and ink and the closest thing to home
he’s smelled in three years. “We’re so glad you’re safe,” she says.
Her fingers catch in his unruly curls as he nods.
Bruce’s neck prickles, and he looks up from her embrace on instinct. A little
boy is perched on the first landing of the oak stairs, tiny hands wrapped
around the spindles and face pressed between them to get a better view of the
proceedings.
Anthony, Bruce remembers. Last time he saw the kid, he was only an infant in
his mother’s arms and Bruce’s world was a much simpler place. That was over
four years ago, and he can still remember how quiet Anthony had been, grinning
toothlessly as he grabbed for Bruce’s glasses.
Now, however, Anthony's old enough for his resemblance to Howard to be
striking. He has the same unruly dark hair of Howard’s youth, but the most
striking resemblance is in the fierce intelligence that sparkles in his brown
eyes. It startles Bruce to see eyes that sharp set into a face so young and
otherwise devoid of expression.
Then the boy catches his gaze and smiles, open and wide but equally sharp. A
look of childish mischief replaces his bored expression as he holds one finger
up to his lips in a shushing gesture. Bruce can’t help quirking a small smile
back, the first smile in months he hasn’t had to force.
“You’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future, then?”
Howard’s words startle Bruce back to the present. He disengages from Maria’s
hold and takes a steadying breath. “I- No, I have no intention of imposing on
your hospitality for longer than necessary. I just need a few days to sort out
things and plan my next move.”
Bruce knows they could afford it, but that isn’t the issue. He’s not going to
become a freeloader, rich godparents or not. More than that, though, seeing
Anthony drives home the facts: Bruce is dangerous, and a family home is no
place for a thing like him.
Howard claps him on the shoulder bracingly. “I have enough contacts at SHIELD
to be able to help out with your… situation,and Stark Industries’ resources are
invaluable.I wish you’d come to me sooner.”
“You know why I couldn’t.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Howard says, turning pointedly. He strolls
through the ornate study doors without looking back, leaving them ajarin what
could either be invitation or just a lack of concern. Bruce stifles another
sigh and hesitates, but Maria’s hand at the small of his back urges him
forward.
“And Tony?” Howard calls from the doorway, “Go to bed.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce sees Anthony pull a face before scampering
up the stairs.
“He’ll be listening through the vents in three minutes,” Maria murmurs as she
ushers Bruce into the study. “We haven’t found a nanny yet who can keep him in
bed.”
A sudden series of coughs wrack her slender frame. Bruce reaches towards her
automatically, but stops short of making contact, hand hovering just off her
shoulder. “I’m fine,” she says from behind her hand. “I’m just getting over a
bout of the flu.”
Bruce perches awkwardly on a red leather sofa as Howard pours three glasses of
bourbon. He pauses, glancing at the amount in each before adding an extra
measure to the third. Apparently satisfied, he claims that one as his own and
takes a sip as Maria passes one to Bruce.
Howard cocks his hip against the mahogany desk. “When you wrote we honestly
didn’t know what to expect. After three years of radio silence, I had to, ah,
acquire a few SHIELD reports to even find out that you were still alive.”
Bruce stared down at his bourbon, and Howard continued, “I must admit, you look
in much better health than I’d expected. Aside from a dire need for a new suit
and a good meal, there doesn’t appear to be any physical deterioration. The way
you spoke in your letters, I rather expected you to be a permanent shade of
grass green.”
“It’s, better than it used to be,” Bruce says delicately. “I’ve figured out how
to keep it locked down. Mostly. That’s the only reason I even considered coming
back to the States.”
“Stark Industries R&D could always use a mind like yours. Open access to
anything that could help you research a cure.”
“Howard, you know my situation. It’s not that simple. Even commuting in New
York to get to the labs is dangerous for me.”
Too much stimuli. Too much noise. Too much stupid.
“Which is exactly why we’d like you to stay here with us. Maria and I have
already discussed it. The basement level of the mansion houses labs that should
be more than adequate for your work for SI and your own research.”
Bruce feels his pulse jump at the words and hurriedly takes a gulp of his
drink. Howard says it like it’s so sure, like it’s a done deal that he’ll live
here and work for SI, like Howard has actually even considered all the ways
this could go wrong.
Dangerous. Killer. Monster. Out of control.
The words echo through his head, but instead of saying any of them, Bruce
forces a smile. “I’m not going to be a freeloader. You probably get enough of
that as is, and you’ve done more than enough for me. You took me in after my
father-- after he--” Bruce chokes on the words, the memories too strong.
His father, yelling. His mother, dead. Him, helpless. The blood, the blood, the
blood.
“It’s hardly freeloading when my company gets access to one of the greatest
scientific minds of a generation,” Howard interrupts, calling him back to
reality. Howard eyes him curiously but with none of the wariness Bruce knows
should be there. ‘Science mode’ is practically written across his face. Maria,
on the other hand, has her glass in a white-knuckled grip.
Bruce quirks a sad smile at her. “It’s the eyes, right? They’re damn creepy.”
He’s seen them in the mirror before, electric green just before he blacks out
with the transformation. “Like I said, I’m not safe to be around. You two have
a kid now, a family you need to protect, and taking me in like a rabid stray
isn’t the way to do that. I’m not thirteen and helpless with one parent dead
and the other in an asylum. I’m an adult, and it was my own hubris that got me
into this situation.”
“And it’s a situation in which I feel I can offer some assistance. The sub-
levels are structurally engineered to withstand a direct nuclear strike on
Manhattan. I think they can take you.” Howard straightens, moving into Bruce’s
space. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? A place where you can withdraw, cut
yourself off from humanity but still research how to save it, pessimistic
futurist that you are?”
“I broke Harlem!” Bruce says, louder than he’d intended, and sucks in several
calming breaths-- a touchstone of sorts he’d developed over the last three
years.
Maria shifts, setting her glass aside and folding onto the sofa next to him. A
gentle hand runs over his cheek, and Bruce can’t help leaning into it. It’s
been so long since he’s felt even the most basic human contact, and her touch
reminds him so much of being thirteen and safe for the first time in a long
time.
“Stay,” she says softly, and he doesn’t resist when she pulls his head down to
her chest.
“Okay.”
~*~
5
Tony is also five when Bruce speaks to him for the first time.
Bruce has seen Anthony lurking around corners or being shuffled about by the
nanny of the week, but he’s never spoken to him. The house staff have told
Bruce about him, “genius” and “menace” being the most common adjectives used.
Quite frankly, Bruce goes out of his way to avoid Anthony. Even after a month
and a half of living at Stark Mansion, he is still adamant that he shouldn’t be
here, especially not around a child.
So it’s a surprise when Bruce walks into the basement lab to find the young boy
perched on a tall stool at one of the worktables, soldering iron in hand. The
Whoplay softly in the background, and Anthony hums along slightly off-key.
Bruce stops just inside the doorway. “Hello,” he says, warily drawing out the
word. His voice sounds rusty from disuse, even to his own ears.
Anthony looks up from the circuit board only briefly before dismissing Bruce’s
presence. “Hey.”
“What’re you doing here, Anthony?” Bruce asks carefully. “Isn’t it a little
late?”
“It’s only eleven-fifteen,” Anthony says dismissively. “And the nannies aren’t
allowed down here.”
Bruce cautiously steps further into the lab. He’s read the articles that Maria
secretly saves, but it’s an entirely different thing to see it up-close.
Against his will, his feet carry him closer so he can peer over the boy’s small
shoulder.
He watches, jaw slack, as Anthony weaves a gridwork of connections, tiny
fingers masterfully manipulating metal and silicon.
Anthony is the first to break the silence. “You don’t like me,” he says, not
looking away from his work. He doesn’t sound upset about it, just a bit miffed,
like Bruce is an anomaly he can’t account for.
“I- I’m sorry, what?” Bruce fumbles.
“You. You don’t like me, which is dumb. I haven’t even done anything to piss
you off yet.”
Reflexively, Bruce chides, “Language,” because that’s the easiest part of that
statement to deal with.
Anthony does turn then, setting the soldering iron aside and looking up at
Bruce in irritation. “What, ‘piss’? Not you, too. If I’m old enough to be left
alone with power tools and molten metal, I’m old enough to swear.”
Bruce can’t help the concerned face he makes. “Yeah, well, just don’t say it in
front of your parents.”
“Who do you think I learned it from, the maid?” Anthony rolls his eyes
theatrically. “She swears in Spanish.”
Bruce stares, gobsmacked, at this boy with his young face, old eyes, and a
smart mouth. Somehow, when everyone said ‘genius,’ he had heard ‘savant.’
Instead, Anthony’s speech and social skills seem almost as rapidly developed as
his mind. He speaks more clearly than most other five-year-olds, and while
Bruce suspects elocution lessons are part of it, there’s something innately off
about his speech pattern.
Anthony stares back, unblinking.  “People find me disconcerting. I mean, it’s
okay. I’m used to it.”
“That could be because you just used the word ‘disconcerting’.”
“Look, if it bothers you that much, don’t talk to me. Sometimes monastic
silence is the unwilling lab partners’ best friend,” Anthony says with an
exasperated huff that does, in fact, befit a five year old.
Bruce can’t help it-- he starts laughing, howling with it the way he hasn’t for
years. It’s a ragged laugh, almost like he’s forgotten how, but it shakes his
entire body and forces him to clutch the lab table for support. The young boy
stares at him like he’s lost his mind, but that only makes Bruce laugh harder.
“Monastic s-silence,” is all the he manages to wheeze out between bouts of
laughter. It’s not even something that would normally earn more than a chuckle
from him, but from a five-year-old it’s just too ridiculous. Not only is
Anthony being sarcastic, he’s utilizing it for humor, by all accounts is
something he should be at least three years too young for, and Bruce can’t help
cataloging the information for later perusal.
After a moment, a suppressed giggle escapes Anthony, and then he’s laughing,
too, high and boyish. “You think-- think I’m funny,” he giggles. “No one ever
thinks I’m funny.”
“Yes, Anthony, I think you’re funny. And I’m not surprised no one does if
you’re talking to people your own age.” Bruce says, straightening his glasses
and running a hand back through his bangs. “And it’s not that I don’t like
you.”
“Then why won’t you come near me?” Anthony wines, like Bruce is a shiny new toy
being kept just out of reach. “And why do you keep calling me Anthony? It’s
Tony. ‘Anthony’ is my great uncle.”
“Okay then. Tony, if you prefer.” Bruce drums his fingers against his leg and
considers his next words, unsure how honest to be with a five-year-old. “It’s
not safe for you to be around me,” he says at last.
“Mom wouldn’t let you stay here if that was true.”
“I’m dangerous,” Bruce confesses. “I’m not exactly good for anyone who values
self-preservation.”
Tony looks dubious as he goes back to his circuits. “You don’t look dangerous.”
Bruce hesitates before saying slowly, “No, I suppose I don’t. But a lot of
dangerous people don’t look dangerous.”
“That’s what Dad meant by your ‘situation,' right?” Tony asks, and then more
intently: “Are you really one of the greatest scientific minds of your
generation?”
Huh, Maria was right; he had been listening. Bruce scratches the side of his
head. “Uh, I mean, it’s been said.”
“But is it true?”
“Yes,” he says honestly. Of course, there’ve been some bumps, but modesty
aside, Bruce is well aware of just how capable his mind is.
“And you’ll be doing your research here? What on?”
“Gamma radiation, mostly, but there are also some things for the company your
dad wants me to take a look at.”
Civilian applications only, he’d been promised. Working for a company with
military funding still doesn’t sit entirely right with him, but Bruce can’t
deny the good Stark Industries does in the humanitarian sector. Howard want him
to look into remote clean water technology, and if his research is also used to
get water to troops and not just orphans in Africa? Well, at least it’s not
guns.
“I can still work down here, too, right? Every time I try to go somewhere else,
I get in trouble for scratching the tables or singeing the carpet.”
Bruce hesitates. That… wasn’t part of his arrangement with Howard. Trying to
worry about a kid while running tests hardly seems like a good idea. But then,
this is Tony’s home first.
“I won’t get in the way, and I know proper lab safety and procedure,” Tony
pleads.
And Bruce knows he can say no, knows that that’s probably what Howard expects
him to do, but instead he says, “Okay. Yeah.”
“Good. Would you pleasetell the nanny that. She keeps saying I’m too young to
be down here.”
“One thing, okay Tony?” Bruce waits until Tony meets his eyes and then points
to the door. “If I tell you to run, you run. Got it? No standing around to
watch what happens.”
Tony’s brown eyes are serious as he says, “Okay.”
~*~
5
Tony is still five when he convinces Bruce to leave the lab for the first time.
But then, “convince” might not be the right word.
“Come on!” Tony says, springing up from his chair, cereal forgotten.
Bruce looks from the New York Times spread out over the kitchen table and
raises his eyebrows. “It’s seven AM, and I’m only on my first cup of coffee.
It’s going to take a lot more than that to make me move.”
Tony points at the half of the newspaper he’d commandeered for himself. “The
Museum of Modern Art has an exhibit on the art of the elements. It opened last
week. Let’s go!”
Bruce takes a long drink of his coffee. “The MoMA? I thought you were more the
Museum of Natural History type.”
“And I thought you were the tea type,” Tony says, snagging the mug from Bruce’s
hand. He takes a sip and makes a face. “That’s really gross. What is that?”
“Decaf,” Bruce deadpans and tries to ignore how incongruent that gesture and
joke are for a five-year-old. “Why don’t you ask Jennet?”
Tony scoffs. “Jennet quit last week. It’s Susan now, and she’s even more
boring. Even if she would take me-- which she won’t-- she’d be impatient and
wouldn’t enjoy it like you. She can’t even name all the elements; I checked.”
In the six months he’s lived at Stark Mansion, Bruce has found that one of the
constants of life is that no nanny stays for more than three weeks. Ever.
Before he’d gotten to know Tony, he assumed this was because the child was the
stereotypical rich brat. “A terror” is what he was told, but now Bruce realizes
that Tony is less a terror in the sense that he’s a spoiled brat and more in
that things tend to explode around him.
A lot of things.
Sharing a lab with Tony has been far more eventful than Bruce ever anticipated.
He’s taken to keeping a fire extinguisher within arm’s reach at all times, a
fact that says way too much about his new normal.  And that right there is the
crux of it: Despite the fact that their lab sounds like an ammunitions test
site half the time, it never disturbs his equilibrium. There’s never any risk
of Tony bringing out the Other Guy.
If there had been, Bruce would’ve disengaged from the situation, but it's
almost impossible to get angry when he sees Tony’s chagrined smile and singed
bangs through a cloud of smoke. He wishes too much that he’d had the
opportunity to blow things up until he got it right when he was a kid, to
experiment without consequence.
Bruce is rarely a fan of the women hired to care for Tony. It’s not personal,
not really. He can sympathize with the women’s frayed nerves, he really can,
but they way they act around Tony never sits right with him. Most of them treat
him like a normal five year old, and worse still, some of them act like Tony’s
higher intelligence means he must have lower social skills. It’s no wonder Tony
gets bored enough to start blowing things up.
Bruce learned early on that Tony neither needed nor wanted to be talked to like
a child. A quick way to make Tony storm out of the lab in a huff, Bruce found,
is to dumb down his speech the way he would with other children.
Few of the nannies even try to understand how Tony’s mind works, which is even
more the pity. Tony Stark has the most amazing mind Bruce has ever seen. Even
at only five years old, Tony can challenge him intellectually and give him a
new perspective on experiments.
The lack of stability bothers him most, though. In some bout of cosmic humor,
Bruce has become the most stable fixture in Tony’s life. And Bruce knowsit’s
not his place to say anything against the revolving door of nannies, but
sometimes he has difficulty holding his tongue.
That’s what perplexes him, if he’s honest. He understands Howard-- Howard was
the hands-off type even when Bruce lived with the Starks nearly a decade and a
half ago, but Maria always took time out of her schedule for Bruce. Bruce
wasn’t her son, and she never tried to act as a replacement for his mom, but
she still loved him and taught him how to trust again, how to channel his anger
at life into his innovations.
That she’s so rarely around for her own son confuses Bruce, especially when
Tony clearly cares so much for her. That much is evident by the way he talks
about her. But Bruce is a guest in this house, hardly more than a temporary
interloper, so he says nothing.
“Come on, Bruce,” Tony pleads, dragging the older man back to the present.
“You’re going to wilt without fresh air.”
“I’m not a houseplant. And there’s nothing fresh about Manhattan air,” Bruce
protests, but a smile tugs at the edge of his lips. Maria used to always say
that to him when he spent too many days in a row curled in a corner of the
library lost in his own head.
“Fine then. We’ll go to Central Park after.” Tony tugs on his wrist. “Please?”
“And how, exactly, do you plan on us getting there?” Bruce covers his smile
with a disapproving shake of his head. “I can’t ride the subway.”
“I’ve got money for a cab.”
“Of course you do,” Bruce says with a sigh and stands. “Well, that’s all I’ve
got for token protests. You’re sure your parents won’t mind?”
“Dad won’t notice, and Momma’s out today.”
That’s not what he asked, but Bruce figures it’s the best he’s going to get.
Realistically, they could be gone all day, and everyone would probably just
assume they’re in the lab. Still, he scribbles a note on some scrap paper and
leaves it on the counter. Because really, the nanny-- Janet? He’s forgotten
already-- should at least know where her charge has disappeared to.
He changes into the only pairs of slacks he owns without frayed hems and makes
a mental note to go shopping. As much as he hates the press of crowds, he has a
stable income working for a Fortune 500 company, and he might as well dress
like it when he’s in public.
Sometime and one slightly too eventful cab ride later, Bruce staggers out onto
the curb of 53rd Street. “Do not ever say ‘step on it’ to the cabbie when I’ve
got to ride with you, got it? Jesus, we’re walking back. I haven’t come this
far to die in a cab on 5th Av,” he says as he tries to regain his sea legs.
Tony drags him by the hand up two flights of stairs, barely sparing a glance
for anything else.
“Aren’t we at least going to look at the Warhols?” Bruce asks as Tony pulls him
around a corner.
“After,” Tony says, intent on his target.
He leads them into a smaller partitioned area, and Bruce looks around in
surprise. A different piece represents each element. Carbon is a glass box,
barely larger than Bruce’s thumbprint, with a tiny “6” printed in the top
center. A perfectly cut diamond shines inside at its heart. Argon is a set of
purple neon lights reading “18”. Closest to them, a red balloon floats in front
of a cream background, a neat black “2” printed on its face.
Bruce watches as Tony leans forward slightly, toes barely touching the black
line on the floor. His brown eyes shine bright with excitement, and warmth
blooms in Bruce’s chest. This was worth the cab ride from hell.
As they make their way through the rest of the gallery, Bruce tells Tony what
little he knows of the pieces and their stories. Art history was never one of
his strong points, but he’s had an elective or two on the subject. Once in a
while Tony interjects with his own stories about the artists themselves at
Maria’s fundraisers. The storytelling distracts Bruce from the crowd and the
push of unfamiliar bodies against his.
When the honey-slow movement of tourists becomes too much and his chest starts
to tighten with the feeling of being caged in, he steers them into a dark, cool
room. The noise from outside is muted, and a projector cycles through a series
of seemingly random black and white photographs. The click of the slide change
is the only noise apart from the distant rumble of people.
The exhibit is empty apart from them, and for once Tony doesn’t rush him,
apparently sensing Bruce’s distress. “Are you okay?” Tony whispers.
“Fine,” Bruce manages as he tries to get his breathing back under control. “Too
many people.”
“Are you claustrophobic?”
“Something like that,” he says.”You ready to go?”
Bruce decides to make good on his threat to walk back to the Mansion despite
Tony’s very vocal insistence that they hail a cab. They make it to 61st before
he ends up on Bruce’s shoulders, tiny fists clenched in his hair like reins.
The dark humor of a child riding on the back of a latent rage monster doesn’t
escape Bruce. Maybe that should worry him, but despite his earlier bout of
claustrophobia, he knows he’s got a lid on the Other Guy.
“You can’t actually steer me like a pony, you know that, right?” Bruce says
resignedly when Tony gives a particularly sharp tug on his curls.
Tony doesn’t dignify that with a response. “Where’re we going?” he asks when
Bruce veers off 5th.
“You said we could go to Central Park, and if I put up with Midtown for three
hours, I’m getting my park.”
Rather than protesting, Tony clambers off his perch, managing to knee Bruce in
the side on the way down.
He walks backwards down the path and motions for Bruce to follow. “Come on!” he
calls as he trots ahead. “I know a spot.”
Bruce follows at a leisurely stroll, hands in his pockets and suit jacket
folded over the crook of his arm, and takes a deep breath, holding it for a
five count before exhaling. It was nice to leave the mansion, but Midtown makes
him antsy. Maybe next time they could go to the Botanical Gardens.
Next time.
Huh. That… sounds like a bad idea, but now that he’s thought it, Bruce can’t
shake the notion that there will be a next time, especially not as he follows
Tony off the path towards a large formation of rock.
Tony scrambles up the side with the fearless zeal of youth, too young to be
afraid of the height. His wild grin reveals a missing a tooth, and it’s maybe
the first time he’s really seemed like a child to Bruce. The snarky boy who
builds circuits seems so far removed from this child with arms outstretched for
balance as he climbs across a crest.
“Careful,” Bruce warns.
“Come on!” Tony motions impatiently before disappearing over an embankment.
Bruce resigns himself to losing his last presentable pair of slacks and does
his best to follow, knees scraping across the stone as he tries to find
purchase. At the top Tony is already sitting, ignoring Bruce in favor of
watching the people pass on the path below.
Bruce gingerly takes a seat next to him and listens as Tony begins to point out
the various bizarre breeds of city dogs. He toes off his shoes and settles in
for the long haul, enjoying a rant about the absurdity of corgis.
After that, weekly day trips to museums and libraries become  a part of their
routine, and once more Bruce watches his new normal shift to fit around Tony
Stark.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is six.
6
Tony Stark is six the first time Bruce walks into the lab to finds him working
on a gun.
They’ve been sharing the lab for nearly seven months when it happens. Bruce
watches with a mix of horror and fascination as Tony’s small hands expertly
strip the gun down to its components.
“What’re you doing?” he asks slowly.
“Don’t worry, it isn’t loaded. I’m not dumb,” Tony says without looking up.
“I didn’t say you were,” Bruce murmurs as he moves closer.
It makes sense, really. A small shooting range is adjacent to the lab, and Tony
mentioned being listed on several patents for the company, but somehow Bruce
never expected... this. Naively, he assumed they were all for civilian tech.
A chill crawls up Bruce’s spine at the sight of a child assembling and
disassembling a gun with careless precision.
“I’m working on the grip.”
“Grip?” Bruce echoes numbly.
“Yeah. The testers report that the balance feels off.”
“Your dad knows you’re working on this?” he asks, even though he already knows
the answer.
Tony shrugs. “It’s more patents for the company. My dad doesn’t care.”
The sad part is, Bruce doesn’t doubt it. He knows Howard isn’t as apathetic as
he appears and that the man cares about Tony’s wellbeing, but his version of
love has less to do with affection and more with ensuring that the company his
son will one day inherit is as profitable as possible. Howard Stark is nothing
if not practical, and while Bruce understands the logic to some degree, it
makes him a little queasy to see Tony handling guns to get his father’s
approval.
Because it is approval Tony’s after, that much Bruce recognizes from his own
childhood. Howard has the family Bruce can never hope to have, and yet here is
his son in the basement perfecting guns in the company of a monster.
But while that doesn’t sit right with Bruce, he knows there are worse parenting
techniques than Howard’s apparent apathy. He has the scars to prove it.
“Dad says you’re a pacifist,” Tony says, pulling him out of his own head.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I just don’t like guns. Or, more accurately, I don’t
like the type of situations that tend to call for guns. The military and I have
a rocky history.”
Bruce forces his hands not to shake as he picks up the pistol and slots a full
magazine into place. A paper target already hangs at one end of the shooting
range, off-center holes littering its edges.
He tries very hard not to think about Tony putting them there.
“Cover your ears,” he orders.
Tony claps his hands over his ears and watches as Bruce takes aim. He fires off
the rounds one after another, and every round sends a spike of adrenaline
coursing through his system. He keeps unloading rounds into the center of the
target until the gun clicks empty and there’s sweat pooling at his collarbone.
Bruce’s ears ring as he sets the pistol back on the table.
“The grip is too thick. It forces the shooter to rotate their wrists out,
reducing stability,” he says, and his voice shakes even if his hands don’t. The
heart rate monitor on his wrist reads 173.
“You shoot really well for someone who doesn’t like guns,” Tony observes.
“Not liking them doesn’t mean I can’t use them.” Bruce says and hesitates
before checking his eyes in the glass separating the lab from the range.
And he knows he shouldn’t be in the same room as a child if he has to check,
but he feels in control despite the surge of adrenaline. It’s been years since
he’s gotten an adrenaline rush without feeling like he’s about to lose it.
Tony tilts his head as he watches. “Your eyes look normal to me. What do they
look like when you’re about to change?”
“You’re not supposed to know about that,” Bruce says, but there’s no heat
behind the words. He feels old as he answers, “Green. They look green like
something poisoned. Radioactive green.”
“Sounds pretty awesome to me.”
“You say that now, but I won’t have to tell you to run the first time you see
them.”
There will be a first time; of that Bruce has no doubt.
He opens the drawer where he keeps his personal research and pulls out a
syringe. He can’t look at Tony as he draws 10 ccs of blood, not after what he
just did. What was he thinking, taking a risk like that with Tony in the room?
Tony watches, rapt, as Bruce dates the sample, and that makes it worse. So much
worse. He’s blissfully unaware of how much danger the man he trusts just put
him in.
“See this?” Bruce holds the vial up between his thumb and forefinger. “Don’t
mess with it. I mean that, Tony. My blood is toxic to you.”
“Because of the gamma sickness?”
Bruce sighs. “Yeah, because of the gamma sickness. I take it you read all of my
files?”
“They weren’t locked,” Tony says.
The drawer has a lock, but Bruce doesn’t bother with it anymore. He’s seen Tony
teaching himself to pick locks for fun and knows that a lock is like a dare for
the kid. Part of Bruce, the annoying self-destructive part, wanted Tony to read
the files. He wanted Tony to read them and be frightened enough to stay away
from him, because clearly he isn’t rational when it comes to Tony.
Each week Bruce tells himself that he’ll pack his shit and take the first
flight to anywhere before Tony gets hurt, or worse, more attached to the
monster in the lab coat.
And before Bruce becomes more attached to Tony, is the part he tries not to
think about.
“How much did you understand?”
“Most of it.”
Bruce shakes his head. “If that were true you wouldn’t still be sitting here.”
Defiance flares in the young boy’s eyes. “If you get scared or angry your body
shifts, at least quadrupling in size and power. You can’t always remember what
happens during that time. Sometimes you go on rampages, and you’re almost
unstoppable because you’re basically invulnerable. It’s like roid rage but with
blackouts.”
“Like roid rage but with blackouts,” Bruce repeats, bemused. “I guess that’s
one way of putting it.” He scrapes a hand back through his hair. “You need to
understand, Tony: I’m dangerous. People have died because of me.” He takes a
grounding breath. “I’ve hurt people, some of them people I cared about.”
“I know. You wouldn’t be so afraid of yourself if you hadn’t,” Tony says
bluntly. “I’ve heard Mom and Dad talking, and they think it’s fine for me to be
around you. I’ve read your notes, though. I probably understand what you’re
capable of better than they do.”
Bruce decides arguing that point is a losing battle, so he asks, “There are
other labs. Why do you stay here with me even if you know it’s not safe?”
“Why don’t you kick me out?” Tony challenges.
“Because it’s your house,” Bruce says, then adds honestly, “And because I like
your company.”
“And you have your answer,” Tony says, crossing his arms and leaning back in
his chair-- which should look ridiculous considering his feet don’t even touch
the ground, but somehow the gravitas isn’t lost on his small frame. “I always
feel safe with you, Bruce. It doesn’t matter what you or those papers say. I
like you, and I trust you.”
Bruce rubs the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “That might turn out to be
a bad decision.”
“And it might not. Either way it’s my decision.”
Yes, Bruce thinks uncharitably, it is, but it’s not his alone. It’s also
Howard’s decision and Bruce’s decision. Men old enough to know better have also
chosen the ill-advised route, so how can they expect the child to pick anything
better? A child who works on guns to please his father can hardly be expected
to avoid the man whose approval he already has just because he’s dangerous.
Tony holds out his hands. “Friends?”
Bruce tries not to see the way Tony fidgets slightly as if expecting rejection,
and clasps the proffered hand in his own larger one. “Alright. Friends.”
~*~
6
Tony is also six when a housekeeper clucks in a soft Puerto Rican accent over
how good Bruce is with him.
Bruce is washing dishes at the kitchen sink when he first meets her. He’s
mulling over a new data set as he scrubs, not really paying attention to his
surroundings, when suddenly there’s a presence directly behind him.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says, wresting the plate from his hands.
Bruce takes an automatic step back, startled by the sudden influx of tiny
Puerto Rican woman in his personal space. No one other than Tony ever willingly
enters his personal space. The house staff knows about the Other Guy by virtue
of gossip and a Hulk-shaped hole in the wall that Bruce promised to pay for but
Howard laughed off.
And god, he’s living in a place that has staff. Last time that happened, he was
living out of a Motel 6 off I-75.
One time one of the maids accidentally ran into him in the hall, and she nearly
had a panic attack apologizing. Trying to talk someone through breathing
exercises when it’s you they’re afraid of isn’t an experience Bruce is eager to
repeat. Most of the house staff avoids him and he tends to avoid them, so the
older woman’s forthrightness is a pleasant surprise.
“That’s my job, Dr. Banner,” this woman says, nudging him out of the way and
taking his place at the sink. “You’ll put me out of work.”
“I can’t help it,” he manages, knowing he has to say something. “I feel so
useless in this house sometimes. And Bruce is fine, Ma’am.”
“Very well, Bruce. Call me Lorena, then. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel old.”
“You’re not old,” he says automatically, even though she must be at least
fifty. Laugh lines ring her mouth and the hair pulled back from her face is
more grey than black, but she’s aged with grace.
“Older than you,” she says.
At that moment Tony barrels into the kitchen, socked feet sliding on the tile.
His school uniform is rumpled; navy shorts dull with dirt, oxford wrinkled
beyond recognition, and tie just plain gone. Bruce catches him by the shoulders
before he skids into the cabinets.
“Bruce!” he says, unfazed by his near-crash. He holds up a piece of paper
“Look!”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” Bruce says, but his smile keeps it from being a
reprimand.
He pulls his glasses out of his pocket and takes the proffered flyer. New York
Hall of Scienceis printed at the top along with a picture of a circular
building and a rocket.
“And how do you propose we get there, huh?” Bruce asks, tapping the address.
“Dad won’t care if we take one of the cars,” Tony says.
“Gee, Manhattan traffic in $100,000 worth of Italian leather and German
engineering. That sounds like a much better idea than the subway.”
“Please?” Tony pleads. “It’s just Queens, and tomorrow’s Saturday.”
Bruce sighs, because car or no car, he’s going to give in. For all that Tony
has the upbringing of a spoiled brat, he makes very few requests of Bruce-- or
anyone else, for that matter-- so Bruce doesn’t mind humoring his quest to
visit every museum in the tri-state area. Not that Tony ever voiced that
desire, explicitly, but considering they visited the Cloisters last month,
Bruce is pretty sure that’s his intent.
Because really, who goes to a museum of medieval art unless they’re trying to
make a point?
“Okay, okay. Fine. We’ll figure transportation out tomorrow. How was school?”
Bruce asks perfunctorily, even though he knows what answer he’ll get.
“Boring.”
“Thought so,” he says and ruffles Tony’s hair. “Go change before you make more
of a mess of your uniform, and we’ll find something interesting to do. I got a
new data set from R&D earlier.”
“Awesome!” Tony calls as he takes off towards the stairs. Bruce grins after him
and shakes his head. He never used to smile this much, even before the
Accident. Something about Tony’s bright, brilliant enthusiasm makes it
impossible not to, though.
“You don’t talk to him like a child,” Lorena notes, still watching Tony as he
disappears down the hall.
“No,” he agrees, “I don’t think it would do him any good, and I know he
wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“It’s good. He’s had so few people to talk to since Mrs. Stark got sick.”
That brings Bruce up short. “Maria is sick?” he asks, but it makes sense: her
absence around the house, her apparent lack of involvement in her son’s life,
her constant coughing. He should’ve put the pieces together sooner.
“Yes. On and off since Anthony’s birth, but it seems to be getting worse now.
The doctors say it’s a poor immune system,” she says, drying the plates and
putting them in the cabinets. “It’s why she rarely leaves her room, but I know
being cooped up makes her depressed. It is a blessing that Anthony visits her
each day.”
“Tony goes to see her?” Bruce asks numbly.
“You didn’t know?” Lorena asks, genuinely surprised. “Yes. Sometimes in the
morning, sometimes at night, but he always makes time for her. I doubt she
would even be as strong as she is if it weren’t for him.”
Bruce feels like he should’ve known that. He remembers odd nights when Tony had
lacked inspiration and forced a brittle smile, but at the time he’d attributed
it to ennui and Howard's particularly shouty brand of parenting. He should have
known, goddamnit.
It leaves him breathless to realize that Tony, as young as he is, is silently
carrying this sort of burden. Bruce feels like a complete ass for thinking that
Maria might not care about her son. He wishes Tony had told him, confided this
piece of sorrow.
“Ever since Ms. Maria fell ill it has been nothing but nannies and nurses who
care nothing for Anthony and treat him like a normal child,” Lorena says,
shutting a cabinet door with more force than necessary. Her accent gets thicker
as she becomes more agitated. “A child like that-- smart beyond his years-
- requires more care, not less. He’s not a terror because he is bad, he’s a
terror because he is bored and lonely.
“I try to tell the nannies, I say to them, Anthony doesn’t have friends his
age, no one to play with or talk to because he is too smart. But do they
listen?” She spits something in Spanish that makes color rise in Bruce’s
cheeks.
He’s thankful that someone else in Stark Mansion understands. Her words stir
memories of Bruce’s own childhood, memories of being shunned and despised for
being “too smart” for his age.
“I’m just glad that you are here now, Dr. Banner. Someone who understands him,”
Lorena continues. “I try to entertain him, to relate to him, but sometimes it
is like we’re speaking different languages. What can a gifted child like him
get out of making cookies with an old woman?”
“The days you let him help you in the kitchen are the days when he smiles the
most,” Bruce says. “I’ve never seen him willingly walk away from a half-
finished project except for when you ask him to help in the kitchen.”
Because this Tony does confide. He tells Bruce with animated motions how Lorena
lets him put extra chocolate chip in the cookies and lick the mixing bowls once
they’re done.
She laughs, and the years melt away from her face.  “And here I thought I was
stealing him away from his fun. It is always Bruce this and Bruce that every
time he helps,” she says, rolling the R of his name. “I bet I know more about
what you two work on than Howard does.”
“Sometimes I don’t think I should be around him,” Bruce says, because Lorena
seems like the listening type and he has to tell someone. “I consider packing
my bags and running at least once a week. Understanding him intellectually
doesn’t make up for-- the rest of me.”
She lays a hand on his shoulder. “You are a gentle man, Bruce Banner, the sort
that child needs in his life. Whatever else you might be, you are among those
who care for Anthony’s wellbeing.”
“Care or not, I thought the goal was not to let kids play with the monsters
under their beds,” Bruce scoffs.
“I believe Anthony’s monsters look far scarier than you, Bruce. You would do
well to remember that. Sometimes it takes a monster to chase away the
monsters.” On that cryptic note, Lorena pats his shoulder and says, “I have to
get back to work, and you shouldn’t leave Anthony waiting. It was good to talk
with you finally, Dr. Banner.”
Later that night, when Tony is asleep with his head next to a whirring
centrifuge, Bruce goes silently upstairs to knock on Maria’s door. Maria is his
friend, and her illness isn’t a burden their family has to weather alone.
~*~
6
Tony is also six the first night Bruce wakes to find him curled in a ball on
top of the covers next to him.
“Tony?” he asks blearily. He fumbles to find his glasses on the bedside table
and click on the lamp.
Tony wakes with a start. “Bruce,” he says, eyes widening even as the pupils
shrink from the light. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“What’re you doing here?” he asks, not awake enough yet to make sense of the
situation
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll go,” Tony repeats, crab-crawling backwards across
the queen bed. Bruce grabs his ankle before he can fall off and tries very hard
not to think about how few times he’s heard Tony Stark apologize.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bruce says in his most soothing voice. “It’s okay. I
just need to know what’s going on. Is something wrong?”
“It’s nothing. Just a stupid nightmare.” Tony sounds nonchalant, but his
shoulders hunch unconsciously. “Your room is closest, and you usually don’t
wake up.”
That’s when Bruce’s brain finally decided to come back online. “Hold on-- This
isn’t the first time you’ve come here?”
“No.” Tony blushes and looks away. “I don’t want to wake you up, so I sit on
the floor.”
Bruce’s chest clenches at the image of Tony leaning against the bed frame alone
in the dark, too embarrassed or afraid of rejection to wake Bruce up. Bruce can
only imagine how terrifying a big, echoing house like this is to a six year
old. He wonders what dreams could be frightening enough to send Tony through
its halls in the dead of night.
“How often do you have nightmares?” Bruce asks.
“Every couple nights," Tony says "I’ve tried telling the nannies, but they
don’t-- They never listen. They think I’m making things up to get attention.”
Anger burns through Bruce‘s veins. These people are the people trusted with
Tony’s welfare, and yet they dismiss him so easily. What’s the logic? ‘Oh,
spoiled rich kid who spends all day in a lab? What’s there to have nightmares
about?’
Bruce knows firsthand that children aren’t always as simple as people would
like to believe.
“Do you-- want to tell me what they’re about?” Bruce asks and stifles the urge
to wince. He is so not this kind of doctor.
“Things,” Tony says vaguely. “I don’t remember most of them.”
“But you do remember them sometimes?”
Tony nods. Not night terrors, then. Bruce rubs his wrist reassuringly, letting
the spot of contact be an anchor.
“They’re not real,” Tony says. “They’re not memories. And I know I shouldn’t be
this afraid. I know how dreams works-- REM sleep, the brain processing excess
information-- but I’m scared no matter how much I tell myself it wasn’t real.
That Mom’s safe, that you’re safe.”
Dread sinks into the pit of Bruce’s stomach, and he drops Tony’s wrist, leaning
away. He should’ve known. He runs a hand over his face.
“You have nightmares about me-- from the file you read,” he says, and there’s
pain in his voice even to his own ears. Tony read about how Bruce turns into a
fucking monster and levels city blocks in lovingly graphic detail, for god’s
sake. Of course that’s enough to give a kid nightmares.
Bruce should be relieved. Finally, some sign of rational fear from Tony. He
should be, but he’s not. And fuck knows it’s irresponsible and selfish of him,
but he liked never seeing that spark of fear in Tony’s bright eyes.
“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have read it,” Tony says, edging closer to the older
man. “I’ve read way worse in books and Dad’s files. It just never--” He pauses
looking for words. “It’s never seemed real before. The things that that general
did to you-- I don’t understand how anyone could do that to you. You didn’t do
anything to deserve it!” Tony says with all the outrage of the innocent. Tears
well up in his eyes, and he scrubs a fist across them angrily.
And Bruce… Bruce has no idea what to do with this. Any of it. A crying Tony or
the fact Tony’s crying over the way the military treated him.
Tony makes the decision for him. He winds his arms around Bruce’s neck and
clenches the fabric of his t-shirt in tiny fists, pressing his tear-damp face
into Bruce’s chest.
“You-- have nightmares about the military experimenting on me?” Bruce asks even
as his hand come up to pet Tony’s hair. Jesus, he never thought one crying
child could be so terrifying. He’s seen crying children in Indian slums and
African shanties, but never once did it inspire this level of full-on panic in
him.
“Yeah. Of course. What did you think I--” Tony cuts off, face scrunching up
against Bruce’s shirt. “You thought you were the nightmare.”
Bruce doesn’t say anything, but that’s enough for Tony. The boy squeezes him
tighter, and presses his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck. “For someone so
smart, you can be awfully dumb, some-- sometimes,” he says on a yawn.
Tony makes a blurred, mumbling noise and snuggles closer to him, arms loosening
as his eyes drift shut. Bruce is considering the logistics of carrying Tony
back to his own room when Tony blinks awake enough to slur, “Can I stay here
tonight? You’re warm.”
Bruce bites back a laugh because yes, one of the side effects of internalizing
enough gamma radiation to turn you into a rage monster is a slight increase in
baseline body temperature.
“Okay,” he says, because giving in to Tony is starting to seem like a running
theme in his life.
He carefully lowers the boy onto the spare pillow on the other side of the bed
and pulls the covers up to his shoulders.
After Bruce lays back down, it takes less than thirty seconds for Tony to
migrate back to him, turning Bruce’s arm into a pillow as he curls into the
Bruce’s side.
He stares down at Tony’s mess of hair and thinks that he’s definitely going to
have to talk to Howard or Maria about this. An underage child sleeping in the
hermit houseguest’s room could sound pretty bad if the Starks find out about it
through the house gossip.
For now, though, he doesn’t protest or move Tony away.  Maybe they could both
use some comfort.
And if Tony shows up in his room more nights than not after that, well, it
doesn’t actually bother Bruce. It’s nice to be the one who comforts nightmares
instead of inspiring them for once.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is seven.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
7
Tony Stark is seven the first time anyone tells him to call Bruce “sir.”
“That’s ‘yes, sir,’ Anthony. Not ‘yeah, Bruce,’” the newest nanny scolds.
“Apologize to Mr. Banner for your rudeness.”
Tony makes a face. “It’s just Bruce. No way am I calling him ‘sir.’” He looks
to Bruce for affirmation.
And yeah, Bruce has to agree. Being addressed as “sir” by Tony would be weird.
“He’s fine.”
“Mr. Banner, the child has to be taught manners at some point,” she says.
Bruce knows his eyes flash green as he says, “The child spends an average of
three hours a day in a lab with me operating equipment that costs more than a
year’s salary for the average American. He can call me the Jolly Green Giant
for all I care.”
Tony yes-sir’s and yes-ma’am’s the house staff and tour guides at museums, so
where, exactly, does this woman get off implying that he has no manners? Quite
frankly, Bruce thinks that Tony could give this woman a few lessons in the
polite mode of addressing other people like they’re human beings instead of
furniture.
Word of his ‘condition’ must not have trickled down to this woman yet, because
she doesn’t react to his evident irritation. And that just irritates Bruce
more. He takes a deep breath. Time to remove himself from the situation.
Bruce stalks off towards the labs, motioning for Tony to follow. Later, he’d
realize how ridiculously risky it was to take Tony with him when he was so
close to the edge, but at that moment all Bruce could think about was getting
him away from that woman.
Tony smirks over his shoulder at her. “And he’s DoctorBanner to you.”
That particular nanny sets the land-speed record for fastest to resign, but
somehow Bruce can’t bring himself to feel guilty.
~*~
7
Tony Stark is seven when Bruce finds him in the basement turning a paper
silhouette into confetti.
The sound of rapid gunfire meets Bruce’s ears as soon as he opens the lab door,
and Bruce suppresses a sigh. Even if the gunfire doesn’t make him go green
anymore, he still prefers to be somewhere else when Tony works on weapons
testing. The sight of a child firing a gun is no less distasteful to Bruce than
it was a year ago.
He steps towards the shooting stall at the far end of the room, and the sight
that meets him makes his brow furrow.
Spent casings litter the floor at Tony’s feet-- at least three magazines worth.
Tony is wholly focused as he sights down the barrel of a standard military
issue handgun, and Bruce can’t imagine that anything on that piece needs work.
Bruce waits until Tony flicks the safety on and ejects the magazine to reload
before he approaches. Bruce pulls one side of the ear muffs away from Tony’s
head to ask, “What did that target do to you?”
“Nothing,” Tony says tersely.
Bruce flinches as he viciously snaps a new magazine into place.
“Why do you hate guns so much, anyhow?” Tony snaps.
“It’s less the guns and more what I’ve seen them used for,” Bruce says and
motions for him to hold fire. Carefully, he reaches out to take the gun from
Tony’s small hands, flipping the safety back on with his thumb. “Tony, what’s
wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Bruce raises his eyebrows disbelievingly. “Yeah? The silhouette you’re turning
into Swiss cheese would beg to differ.”
Tony only shrugs.
“Oh, come on,” Bruce says. “Stop it. You’re too young for teenage angst.”
Tony’s lips curls. “That’s always the problem, isn’t it? Too young. Too smart!”
It’s the closest Tony has ever come to shouting at Bruce, and Bruce doesn’t
know what to say to that.
He remembers all too well the pain of being too smart for his age. He remembers
a ‘childhood’ of bruises and yelling and fear. He remembers being a small,
bespectacled target both at school and at home.
He remembers it in age-stretched scars and residual helpless anger.
“Come here,” Bruce says. The possibility of Tony knowing that same fear makes
his hands shake with rage, but he keeps his hands gentle as he plucks the ear
muffs from Tony’s head and leads him to a lab stool, hoisting him up on it and
crouching down until they’re eye to eye. “I need you to tell me what’s going
on.”
Tony bites a nail nervously before finally saying, “I don’t want to go to
boarding school!”
Relief floods through Bruce, and he bows his head silent thanks. This is the
first he’s heard about Tony leaving New York, but it’s not as awful as the
possibilities that had been flooding Bruce’s mind.
“What are you talking about?” Bruce asks.
“Dad told me yesterday that I have to go to a boarding school in Massachusetts.
Massachusetts! I don’t want to go, Bruce! I really don’t want to go,” Tony
pleads, obviously working himself up to either a tantrum or tears.
Bruce rubs Tony’s arms reassuringly. “Hey, hey. Calm down. It’s okay. It’ll be
okay,” he says, even if, selfishly, he doesn’t want Tony to leave, either.
“No it won’t!” Tony says, still more agitated. “No one in my grade likes me
because I’m younger than them and still smarter.”
“Tony, you can’t rub it in their face that you’re smarter,” Bruce says, because
he has no doubt Tony is.
“I don’t try to, but sometimes I can’t help it! They don’t understand some of
the words I use, and it’s not like that’s my fault. I try talking about the
things they like but I really don’t like kid’s shows and Captain America is the
only comic I read,” Tony says.
“And when I get to Massachusetts the other kids still aren’t going to like me,
but then I’ll be stuck living with them! And I’ll have to leave Momma, and what
if she gets worse? Please don’t make me go, Bruce,” Tony begs. “I don’t want to
leave you.”
“Because no one would be around to take me on my weekly Vitamin D walk?” Bruce
asks, trying to lighten the mood.
“Because you’re my best friend,” Tony says desperately. “Because you’re the
only person who listens to me and is smart enough to understand.”
The unabashed sincerity of the statement blindsides Bruce. He’s known,
realistically, that this was the case, but Tony never said it in so many words.
Bruce also knows that something has to give.
At the moment Tony’s only friends are Bruce, Lorena, and Jarvis, the elderly
butler with eternal patience for the explosions that follow Tony around like
flies. The housekeeper, the butler, and the kept scientist are not enough
socialization for a small child.
“We’ll figure it out, okay?” Bruce pulls Tony into a brief hug and ruffles his
hair. “You’re my best friend, too.”
And the kick in the ass of Bruce’s life to date? He means it. His best friend
is a mouthy seven-year-old genius.
~*~
7
Tony Stark is also seven the first time Bruce intentionally intervenes in his
upbringing.
Bruce knocks on the carved wood of Howard’s office door, rocking onto the balls
of his feet anxiously. Coming to his boss about this seems like a breach of
protocol, and he only really sees his employer-cum-godfather once every couple
weeks to go over his work for Stark Industries.
Somehow, despite having set foot in the New York offices a grand total of three
times, Bruce has because an ad-hoc third in command for the humanitarian
division. He tries not to think how much he’s saved in taxes for a Fortune 500
weapons company through innovation in sustainable, affordable nutrition, and
clean water.
“Come in,” Howard’s gruff voice calls.
Bruce moves to stand in front of the oak desk, hands clasped behind his back to
keep from fidgeting. “I need to talk to you about Tony.”
One of Howard’s eyebrows quirks, but he doesn’t look up from his papers.
“What’s he done now?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Bruce says immediately. “It’s about-- He says you’re sending him to
boarding school in Massachusetts.”
“I am,” Howard confirms, shuffling through the paper before him. “He refuses to
spend any time with his classmates, and I thought perhaps having to live with
them might inspire him to be a more tractable student.”
“I’m sorry if I’m overstepping,” Bruce starts, taking a deep breath to tamp
down his irritation. He’s balancing on the edge of of losing his temper,
perched precariously between forced-polite-calm and about-to-start-yelling.
“But I don’t think shipping him out of state against his will is the way to do
that.”
Howard does look up now. “I thought you’d be happy to have him out of the
labs.”
And the hell of it is, Bruce isn’t. He should be happy not to have to worry
about Tony’s safety or listen to the same Aerosmith album on repeat or fight
the constant encroachment of engine parts onto his side of the lab, but he
isn’t. Not at all.
He likes Tony’s dry humor and the way Tony steals his coffee when he thinks
Bruce isn’t looking. He likes that Tony isn’t afraid of him, and he likes that
Tony challenges him intellectually. But he says none of this.
Instead he says firmly, “There are plenty of day schools around New York that
can give him just as good of an education.”
“He needs to be socialized with other children,” Howard says. “Clearly that’s
not going to happen as long as he’s here. He’d rather polish the silver with
Jarvis or bake with the maid.”
“Lorena,” Bruce corrects automatically. “And he’s socialized just fine around
adults. Make him join a competitive coding team or a soccer club if you want
him to have more diverse social interactions, but shipping him off to an
academy to live 24/7 with kids who’ll resent him for his intelligence is not
the way to do it.”
Howard’s eyebrows travel higher, and Bruce swears his mustache twitches in
irritation. “And you’re suddenly an expert on child care?”
“No more than you are,” Bruce says, and he knows he’s out of bounds. “But I am
an expert at being beaten up for being the kid who broke the curve. Maybe the
kids at this this boarding school would accept his intelligence, but Tony’s
your son and you know he won’t get along with anyone as long as he doesn't want
to be there.”
Howard looks down at his desk in consternation, and Bruce takes the chance to
go for his final shot.
“Please, Howard. He’s scared that something’s going to happen to Maria while
he’s gone.”
It’s a low blow, and Bruce knows it, but it seems to work.
“Fine,” the elder Stark says with a sigh. “We’ll find a school in New York. But
he joins extracurriculars of some kind, Bruce. It’s up to you to make sure of
that.”
Bruce nods and swallows a sigh of relief. He feels lucky not to have been
kicked out of the house.
~*~
7
Tony Stark is still seven when Bruce realizes that he isn’t going to leave
Stark Mansion any time soon.
Bruce stares at the book carefully laid on his pillow. It's bound in purple
leather that Bruce somehow doubts is the product of mass-market printing. He
hooks a finger under the front cover to reveal the title page of Contact.
In the blank space below Carl Sagan's name, Tony’s slanting scrawl read, “If
you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the
universe.But since that’s not on the table, here’s to another year of working
backwards to find the recipe. Happy 30th, Tony.”
Bruce trails his fingers under the words. Three weeks ago he mentioned offhand
that Contactis one of his favorite books after Tony caught him watching the
Jodie Foster movie, but he never expected this. Tony must have custom ordered
the beautifully bound edition, and Bruce tries not to dwell on how much it
probably costs.
And after all the trouble Tony has to have gone through to get the book, he
didn’t even give it to Bruce himself, instead just left it on his pillow like a
five cent paperback he found at the junk store. Not out of disregard for the
book’s value, Bruce knows, but out of some misplaced modesty.
No one would ever call Tony shy, at least not around strangers or at formal
events. But in private when it means something, Tony’s shyness manifests in
subtle ways, like he doesn’t know how to show affection without ostentatious
gifts.
After the Rolex and the platinum cufflinks, Bruce had to put his foot down.
“Flashy” isn’t exactly his speed, and he told Tony as much.
“But how about if it’s not flashy?” Tony wheedled. “What if I see something
that screams ‘Bruce Banner?’”
“Tony, for the last time, you’re not allowed to dress me or take me to your
tailor or have your tailor brought to the house,” Bruce told him, punching the
bridge of his nose. “Buy a Barbie Doll.”
“Fine,” Tony whined. “What if it’s not clothes?”
“Only if it isn’t expensive.”
“Isn’t what you consider expensive or--?” Tony led.
“Tony.”
“Alright, alright.”
Somehow, staring down at the beautifully bound book, Bruce rather doubts Tony
stuck to that last condition, but he thinks he can overlook it this one time.
The thought and care that Tony must have put into it outway the gift’s price
tag.
Bruce traces the loopy Y of Tony’s name with his index finger, and it hits him
for the first time that this isn’t temporary. Every time he looks in the mirror
and says he’s going to leave, he’s lying to himself. No matter how much he says
it would be for Tony’s safety, it’s only half the truth.
He let Tony in, let Tony get close to him the way he hasn’t let anyone for over
five years, and that scares Bruce nearly as much as the thought of hurting him.
But leaving wouldhurt Tony-- maybe not like fractured bones and spilt blood,
but it would hurt.
Tony needed a friend, and for better or worse he found that in Bruce. Bruce
knows he can’t leave, not after his little stunt with Tony's schooling. He made
his bed, and now he has to lie in it-- not that spending time with Tony is ever
a chore.
“Bruce!” Tony’s voice echos from down the hall, interrupting his thoughts.
“We’re going to be late if you don’t get your butt in gear.”
“Coming!” Bruce calls back, and if his voice sounds thicker than usual, he
doubt Tony notices.
He vouched for Tony to stay in New York, and he’s going to to see it through.
Last month Tony opted to join a chess team made up of local high-schoolers, and
while he’s still the youngest by far, they don’t seem to mind, preferring the
edge of victory Tony provides. Bruce watches them compete in Bryant Park every
Friday, and seeing Tony happy with people his own age-- well, closer, anyhow-
- has become one of the highlights of Bruce’s week.
Tony stops in the doorway. “You don’t even have shoes on yet! We’re going to be
late for the tournament.”
Bruce looks up, the book held tight to his chest, and blinks hard. “Thank you,”
he manages.
Tony scuffs his foot on the rug. “It’s nothing much.”
It’s the first gift Tony has been nervous about, and Bruce can't help it. He
pulls Tony into a brief hug. “Thank you,” he repeats.
Tony shrugs against Bruce’s embrace even as he returns the hug.
Chapter End Notes
     “If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent
     the universe.”
     ― Carl Sagan, Cosmos
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is eight.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
8
Tony Stark is eight when he reaches around Bruce to snags the sandwich off his
plate.
Most days sharing food, coffee, and space with Tony is second nature for Bruce,
but sometimes Tony’s willingness to get up in his personal space still catches
him off guard. Bruce has taught himself not to dodge physical contact the way
he used to, but even after three years the unselfconscious way Tony playfully
tugs at his curls before stealing his food still surprises Bruce.
Bruce shakes his head indulgently as Tony steals his lunch-- or is it dinner?
Bruce can't remember, and he knows Tony won’t volunteer the real time for fear
of being sent to bed for the night.
"I thought food in the lab was against safety procedures," Tony says, taking a
bite of Bruce's turkey sandwich.
"Not dealing with chemicals or biological hazards today," Bruce says absently
as he types notes.
"Yeah, and what's your excuse for the bare feet?" Tony asks around a mouthful.
"You almost never wear shoes in the lab."
"I don't scar anymore and can't be critically injured."
"Uh-huh," Tony says disbelievingly. "I say you're just a hippie."
Bruce laughs but doesn't bother arguing. He blames his preference for going
barefoot on too many years of fruitless meditation. Apparently, what Bruce
actually needed to keep the Other Guy locked down was a little less Vipassana
and lot more overly-tactile genius.
“Seriously,” Tony continues, apparently encouraged by his friend's amusement.
“Is that your trick for staying calm-- Crosby, Stills & Nash and a big bag of
weed?”
Bruce stares at him in mock disbelief. "You're eight. You're not supposed to
know about stuff like that yet."
Tony shrugs and takes another bite of the pilfered sandwich. "Drugs, sex,
violence, and rock'n'roll," he says. "I'm pretty well informed on all of the
above. Functionally alcoholic father, weapons manufacturer, and killer taste in
music. Check, check, and check."
Bruce snags his sandwich back before Tony eats all of it. "Yeah, what about the
sex part?"
Another shrug, this time accompanied by a shifty expression. "I read."
Bruce sighs and takes a bite of his own. He gets the feeling that this is going
to be something he’ll have to deal with. Howard and Maria Stark hardly seem the
type to sit their son down for a thorough sex talk. Bruce can imagine a terse
'be safe and don't knock anyone up' from Howard, but that's all. While books
are a good resource, they’re no substitute for a proper discussion with a
knowledgeable adult.
Tony breaks into Bruce’s thoughts. “I have a question.”
Bruce swallow hard and hopes this isn’t to do with his previous train of
thought-- he’d rather have a bit more time to prepare for questions like that.
“Alright.”
“You’re staying permanently, right? You’ve started taking your shoes off when
you get to the lab and you’ve quit putting your shampoo bottle back in your
duffle bag after you shower.”
Bruce hesitates before answering. “I made my decision to stay a while ago.”
“Good,” Tony says, relief audible in his voice. “I mean, about time you made
yourself at home.”
Guilt gnaws at Bruce’s stomach. He never considered that his indecision about
remaining with the Starks could be worrying Tony. Absently, Bruce reaches for
his coffee cup and only succeeds in spilling it the counter.
"Fuck," he says without thinking and then claps a hand over his mouth.
Tony looks distinctly unimpressed as he gathers file folders and reaches for
the roll of papertowels. "You can stop trying not to swear around me," he says.
“I don’t care.”
“It’s not a matter of you caring,” Bruce says. He takes the proffered paper
towels and starts mopping up the mess.
“What?” Tony scoffs. “You think you’re going to be a bad influence on me?”
Bruce doesn’t answer. He glances at the computer clock-- 9:52. “Time for you to
get to bed.”
“But Bruce,” Tony whines.
“Bed,” Bruce insists, then pauses to run a finger over the smear of grease on
Tony’s cheek. “Okay, shower then bed.”
“Can I at least stay in your room tonight?”
“Of course you can,” he says. “You know you don’t have to ask.”
Tony grins mischievously. “I know.” He loops an arm around Bruce’s waist in a
brief hug. “‘Night. Come to bed soon. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” Bruce responds automatically.
Tony is out of the lab before the significance of those words hits him. He’s
never doubted that Tony loves him, even if their lives might be simpler if that
weren’t the case, but he’s never said it straight out before.
It’s a little heartbreaking to realize that Tony could have been waiting all
this time for confirmation that his best friend isn’t about to walk away.
~*~
8
Tony is eight when Bruce puts an end to the revolving door highly trained and
even more highly paid nannies.
It’s also the second time Bruce Banner actively intervenes in his upbringing.
It happens like this:
Tony still sleeps in Bruce’s room more nights than not. Bruce may be many
things, but dumb has never been one of them. He knows Tony doesn’t have
nightmares as often as he used to, but he can never bring himself to broach the
subject, and it’s not as if Tony is disturbing him. He knows that if he calls
Tony out, Stark pride would dictate that he stop cold turkey, and somehow that
thought bothers Bruce.
Tony rarely starts off sleeping in Bruce’s room. Like clockwork, he sneaks in
between midnight and one in the morning. If Bruce is asleep, he rarely wakes
when Tony clambers onto the bed, all sharp elbows and knees as he grasps at the
comforter for purchase. Bruce usually wakes up the next morning to find Tony
curled peacefully on the opposite side of the bed.
Many nights, though, Bruce isn’t asleep when Tony creeps into his room. He has
his own demons to keep him awake, but he usually tries to be in bed by the time
Tony shows up, even if he isn’t tired. They talk on those mutually sleepless
nights, voices little more than low whispers as Tony asks Bruce for
explanations. One week they’ll cover the history of the big bang theory, the
next Bruce’s limited knowledge on code breaking.
On bad nights, the nights when Tony’s overactive mind is haunting him, Bruce
doesn’t say anything when Tony curls into his side and clutches at his worn-
thin t-shirt. He loops an arm around Tony’s thin shoulders and pets his head
where it’s pillowed against Bruce’s chest.
It’s roughly one in the morning, and Bruce is still awake, reading by the dim
light of the bedside lamp. His glasses have been steadily slipping down his
nose for the past half-hour, but he doesn’t have a free hand to push them back
up. One hand is balancing the battered paperback and the other is threaded
through Tony’s messy hair.
Tonight was a bad night, bad enough that Tony poked Bruce awake with shaking
hands and a murmured apology. Bruce never asks what the nightmares are about
because Tony always shares eventually-- sometimes that night, sometimes in the
morning, and sometimes a week later, but he always tells Bruce what’s troubling
him. On nights that are this bad, it’s almost always to do with Maria’s
worsening health.
But Tony never cries, no matter how bad his dreams. Bruce is thankful for that
because despite having seen many crying people over his years on the run, he’s
never gotten good at dealing with tears. Part of him, however, finds it
worrying. Tony is eight-- he’s young enough that crying is normal to a degree,
and seeing him bottle up his emotions like an adult who’s heard the phrase
“superheroes don’t cry” one too many time makes that angry side of Bruce itch.
Because Bruce knows-- better than any child ever should-- that superheros may
not cry, but frightened children do.
Tony is finally asleep, his head pillowed on Bruce’s thigh and breaths coming
in steady sighs. It’s a far cry from the dry sobs and near-hyperventilating two
hours ago. Tony wasn’t quite to tears, but it was a near thing. So when the
bedroom door bangs open with all the subtlety of a gunshot, Bruce is less than
pleased, and that’s beforethe nanny of the month comes stomping in.
“Anthony,” she barks, making her way around to Tony’s side of the bed. “You’re
supposed to be sleeping in your room, not bothering the other residents.”
“Ghu?” Tony says, blinking blearily awake. “Had a nightmare.”
“You’re eight,” the unpleasant woman says. “That’s too old to be running to
your uncle when you have a bad dream.”
“He’s not my uncle,” Tony corrects, yawning.
“Excuse me,” Bruce starts, trying to hold on to the thin shreds of his
patience. “You shouldn’t be in here unless there’s an emergency.”
“Anthony is my charge, and it’s my job to break his sleeping crutches,” the
nanny says.
Tony curls tighter into Bruce’s side, evidently not caring what the woman
thinks about it.
She gives a pompous huff and grabs Tony by his forearm, yanking him towards the
edge of the bed. The motion sends a phantom of remembered pain through Bruce’s
arm. Nursemaid’s elbow, he knows it’s called, but he remembers Brian Banner’s
rough hands tossing him aside the same careless way.
Bruce’s hand shoots out instinctively, fingers latching around her wrist like a
vice. He can feel the bones grind together, and he knows she’ll have a bruise
there in the morning.
Bruce is too far gone to care.
“Get out,” he says-- with a surprising amount of calm for the homicidal rage
coursing through his veins.
The green snaking up his neck is enough warning. The nanny backs towards the
door as quickly as she can, eyes only leaving Bruce to flick briefly to Tony.
Evidently her own safety means more to her than that of her ‘charge’ because
she’s out of the door and down the hall without another word.
Small arms wrap around his waist. “Bruce,” Tony says in a muted voice. He looks
shaken, but not afraid-- never afraid. “Bruce, stop. She’s gone.”
Slowly, Bruce comes back to himself. His chest is heaving; beads of sweat dot
his forehead. He almost changed with Tony in his arms, and that terrifies him.
But what makes him freeze, one arm still looped around Tony’s shoulders, is
that it’s the first time he’s ever stopped mid-transformation.
Somehow his desire to keep Tony safe and whole stopped the single most
destructive force in his life. He can still feel the other guy right on the
edge of his consciousness like a physical presence looming over him, but the
tatters of his self-control remain intact. Maybe it’s because he was perfectly
relaxed before the disturbance, or-- more frightening still-- maybe it’s
because he finally found the right motivation.
He’s seen so much evil-- both in humanity and in himself, but he’s also seen
the good and the selfless and the selfish being selfless. Bruce knows he isn’t
a bad person, isn’t evil, but he stopped believing long ago that he’s one of
the good guys. The Other Guy made sure of that. But maybe, and it’s a very big
maybe, anger isn’t the only driving force for Frankenstein's monster. For
Bruce, this is the first point of hope in a very long time that maybe some of
that goodness extends to the creature inside him.
Bruce’s hands shake as he carefully disengages Tony’s hold. “Stay right here,”
he orders.  
He doesn’t bother putting on shoes before marching downstairs to where he knows
Howard will still be awake. Bruce shoulders past the office doors without
knocking, and Howard looks up, eyebrows arched in surprise.
Bruce cuts him off before he can speak. “We need to talk about Tony and your
staffing decisions.”
“Your eyes turn a fascinating color when you’re upset.”
“Would you focus on your son for two goddamn minutes!” Bruce exclaims. Even as
the words leave his mouth, the reality of his situation hits him, and he
abruptly sees how easily Tony could be taken from him.
But Howard, far from looking angry, merely leans back in his chair. His
expression oozes poorly veiled amusement, and that only serves to irritate
Bruce more.
“And what trouble do you have with my parenting this time, Bruce?”
“No more nannies.”
“Come again?”
“I mean it, Howard. No more of this new-nanny-every-week bullshit,” Bruce says,
bare feet padding across the rug as he paces anxiously. He can feel the monster
inside banging against the bars of its cage.
Howard’s expression darkens. “Tell me what happened.”
“You and Maria know Tony still sleeps in my room when he has nightmares. And do
you want to know what that woman did tonight after I finally got him to calm
down enough to go to sleep? She tried to pullhim out of my bed.
“I’m done with it,” Bruce continues, not giving Howard time to respond. “Done.
I’ll take care of Tony myself if I have to-- I already do half the time
anyhow.”
“And you’re willing to take on that kind of responsibility?” Howard asks,
expression unreadable. “Match his clothes each morning? Make his lunch? Get him
ready for bed?”
“I already do! Lorena, Jarvis, and I already do all of that!”
“Lorena?”
“The maid, Howard,” Bruce snaps, “The woman who has worked for you for the past
five years.”
“I thought her name was Loretta,” Howard says absently.
“Look, Lorena already cares for Tony. If you offered her a bit of a raise, I'm
sure she wouldn’t mind taking a more active role. She and I can handle Tony
without a nanny.”
“Alright,” Howard says simply.
“Alright? That’s it? Just like that?” Bruce asks skeptically.
“I must admit, ending the parade of unknown women through this house is a
benefit. Background checks don’t always show a propensity to take bribes or
speak to the press, after all.”
“Oh,” Bruce says, beginning to feel rather foolish. He tries very hard not to
think about the fact that he’s standing in front of his employer in his
nightclothes. “I’m just going to--” Bruce jerks his thumb towards the door.
“Tony… He’s asleep upstairs. Or at least pretending to be.”
Howard stops him when he reaches for the door. “I know you’re good for him,
Bruce,” he says, smiling.
Bruce stares. He can’t help it. Howard almost never smiles except in dated
photographs and corporate schmoozing.
“Thank you,” he manages before fleeing the Twilight Zone for the safety of his
bedroom.
~*~
8
Tony is eight when he sings along with The Police while Bruce prepares dinner
for the two of them.
Howard and Maria are out of town for their anniversary, and Lorena is taking a
well deserved day off. Lorena happily accepted Howard’s offer of a raise in
return for officially taking over as Tony’s nanny, but chasing after an eight
year old genius who hates sleep is exhausting, even for her.
She and Bruce rapidly came to an agreement: during the week, she gets Tony out
of bed and ready for school, and Bruce is in charge of making sure he’s
actually in bed on any given night since apparently Bruce is the only one with
the magic necessary to convince him to take a shower. On weekends Bruce watches
Tony while Lorena catches up on her lost sleep.
The Police play through the kitchen speakers as Bruce minces garlic for vodka
pasta. Tony solders a circuit board at the kitchen table while he sings along
to Roxanne.
“I didn’t know you could sing,” Bruce says.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Tony shoots back.
“Really,” Bruce insists, “you’re good. You should sing more often.” He pauses.
“Just maybe not this particular song.”
Tony snickers and kicks up his volume up a couple notches. “‘Roxanne, you don’t
have to put on the red light. Roxanne.’”
“‘Put on the red light, put on the red light,’” Bruce choruses, smiling as he
begins chopping shallots.
Tony laughs happily. “I hope your cooking is better than your singing.”
“Gee, thanks,” Bruce says without any real ire. He’s well aware of how bad his
singing voice is. “Do you need anything from the store? I’ve got to run to Food
Emporium for parmesan afterwhile.”
Tony groans. “You know Whole Foods delivers, right? Say the name Stark, and
they’ll probably airdrop you some cheese.”
“You don’t have to come,” Bruce says. “Besides, I need the practice. Where
better to brush up on my people skills than a Manhattan grocery store?”
Bruce’s control is better than it once was, and he can’t keep hiding in the
mansion forever. He’s not living solely for others anymore-- he’s living for
himself, too. He’s built a life for himself, and if he wants to live it
properly, he has to start adjusting to the size and scale of the first world.
“You know I’m going with you,” Tony says. “What if you get claustrophobic?”
“You’re my friend, not my service dog,” Bruce says. “I don’t need to scratch
you behind the ears every time I feel anxious.”
Tony sticks out his tongue. “I know, but admit it: You feel better when I’m
around.”
Bruce forces a chuckle but doesn’t bother denying it. “Do you need anything
from the store?” he asks before he can over-think Tony’s words.
Chapter End Notes
     “Roxanne”_by_The_Police
     Chapter_4_Author's_Notes
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is nine.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
9
Tony Stark is nine when Bruce looks in the mirror and realizes he’s no longer
ageing as he should be.
Bruce touches his cheek lightly before pressing his fingers to the glass of the
ensuite bathroom’s mirror. At thirty-two he looks almost the same as he did
four years ago.
Grey flecks Bruce’s hair, but no more than when he was twenty-eight and on the
run. Whether the premature grey was brought on by stress or predetermined by
genetics, Bruce hasn't had solid black hair since grad school. It’s hard to
know how old he should look-- by his mid-twenties life had taken its toll and
he looked more like he was in his late thirties-- but he doubts the face in the
mirror is as it should be.
Between his research and what he estimates from his appearance, Bruce guesses
he’s ageing at half-speed.
His studies of his own cells suggested that he might age slower than normal
humans, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. His life up until the past four
years has been long and difficult enough, and he has no desire to prolong it
unnaturally.
Bruce sometimes wonders if he candie. Not the way he did five years ago-- he
doesn't want to test it again, but he does wonder, in a scientifically curious,
borderline-cartoonish way. ‘If a piano fell on my head, would it kill me, or
would the Other Guy chuck it aside like a toy?’-- stuff like that.
Since the accident his healing is accelerated and he doesn’t scar. His old
scars remain, though. Bruce still carries the marks of his childhood smattered
across his torso. He more than has a will to live these days, and the scars on
his chest no longer have a hold over him.
He meets his own gaze in the mirror, and stares at the brown of his eyes for a
long minute. Sometimes he needs to remind himself that they're not always
green.
A knock breaks the stillness.
“Bruce?” Tony says through the bathroom door. “Are you coming to bed sometime
tonight?”
“Yeah,” Bruce calls. “Just a second.”
He hastily pulls a faded Caltech t-shirt over his head before opening the door.
The old scars would raise questions Bruce doesn't particularly feel like
answering tonight, and Tony’s nightmares don’t need more fuel.
~*~
9
Tony is nine when he finds Bruce jogging on a treadmill at one am.
Bruce almost doesn’t hear the door open over the whirring of the treadmill and
The Kinks playing through the lab speakers. Wires trail from under his shirt,
monitoring his heart rate among other things.
“What’re you doing here?” Bruce calls over the refrain of ‘Juke Box Music’.
Tony shrugs nonchalantly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
Bruce hears what he doesn’t say: And you weren’t in your room.
“I’m sorry. I had a few tests to run before I went to bed. Go on up. I’ll be
there in a few minutes.”
Tony steps closer, ignoring the instructions. “Why are you running? I thought
yoga was more your speed.”
“Just testing an idea,” Bruce says breathlessly. “You shouldn’t be here for
this one in case it goes wrong.”
“You’re testing your control at the upper edge of your heart rate limit,” Tony
guesses, examining the monitor. “You’re already at 188, and nothing’s happened.
Your eyes aren't even green. I bet it’s a false correlation. Your heart rate is
always going to go up if you’re scared or angry. Symptom, not cause.”
“Yes, but I mean it, Tony. You shouldn’t be in here while I find out. Last time
I got over 200 BPM, your kitchen got an open floor-plan remodel.”
“You wouldn’t hurt me, and I can’t sleep anyhow.”
Bruce starts to protest that Tony’s never met the Other Guy, but per-usual,
Tony’s confident logic and earnest eyes override his better judgment. He’s sure
now that Tony is doing the eye thing on purpose.
“Fine,” Bruce concedes. “You can stay, but keep a clear path between you and
the door. If I start to go green, put the lab on full lockdown from the
security panel outside.”
Tony apparently takes Bruce’s words as an open invitation to meddle. He checks
the display on the treadmill. “You’re only going eight miles per hour,” he
says.
“I’m stepping up the speed gradually. If it feels like I’m getting close to the
edge, I pull the plug.”
Tony’s huff suggests that he finds that a distinctly boring approach, but he
clambers to sit on the counter of Bruce’s workstation without further protest.
Curiously, he starts poking through Bruce’s things. The top drawer obligingly
produces a granola bar and an origami strawberry.
“I didn't know you could do origami,” he says, holding it up to the light to
examine it. It’s a piece of printer paper roughly colored in green and red gel
pen.
“My old university lab partner taught me,” Bruce says. Min Young was a gorgeous
lesbian with a love of strawberries and the greatest deadpan fucking-with-you
expression Bruce had ever seen. They’d been lovers for a couple months despite
her insistence that she was only attracted to women and Bruce’s own 4.5 on the
Kinsey Scale. Their encounters were almost more fun for the lack of sexual
tension, all laughs and no pressure.
“There’s a story here, isn’t there?” Tony breaks in.
“Ask me again when you’re fifteen.”
“So it’s a good story.” He turns the paper strawberry over consideringly as
they lapse into silence. The music fill the space between their words. “What is
this?” Tony asks, twirling his finger to indicate the speakers in the ceiling.
“The Kinks. My mom used to play them on days when it was just us in the house,”
Bruce says. And maybe it’s the first time he’s brought up his childhood,
because Tony’s curiosity is piqued.
“Your mom? I didn’t know-- I mean, I knew you had one, obviously, but you never
mentioned-- What’s she like?”
The question is enough to make Bruce’s heart rate jump to 190.
“She died a long time ago,” he says slowly. “She was-- amazing. The strongest
person I’ve ever known. She used to dance with me around our living room every
time 'A Rock 'n Roll Fantasy' came on the radio.”
And Bruce really tries not to dwell on the significance of his mom dancing to a
song about escapism and the end of an era. He can still remember the old AM
radio and the breeze that would blow through the house during the spring. He
doesn’t know what else he can tell Tony without shining a light on the darker
corners of his past.
One day he might tell Tony how she stayed to protect him, how she did her best
to give him happy memories in a childhood with very few. Maybe he’ll explain
how she saved a few dollars every time she went grocery shopping, just enough
that Brian wouldn’t notice, slowly saving up for the day she could take her son
and run.
One day, but not tonight.
If Tony sees the memories on Bruce’s face, he doesn’t ask. He’s learned by now
that Bruce will tell him everything eventually. Instead he asks, “Does it
bother you that I still sleep in your room?”
“What?” Bruce says, because that’s not what he was expecting.
Tony scratches the back of his neck self-consciously. “I should be old enough
to sleep by myself.”
“‘Should be’ is relative. You never need to worry about that, okay Tony? You
never bother me,” Bruce says. “And I’ll tell you a secret: It helps me sleep
better.”
It’s Tony’s turn to look confused. “Huh?”
Bruce lets out a long breath as his feet continue their rhythm. “You’re not the
only one who has nightmares.”
It’s more than that, though. He sleeps better with Tony’s presence next to him,
like his sleeping mind accepts the sign that Tony is alive and safe. He almost
never dreams of running without direction when Tony sleeps beside him. Tony is
warmth and safety and the closest thing to family Bruce has had in a long time.
“Oh,” Tony says. He checks the heart monitor before he pushes himself off the
counter. “Okay, fuck gradual.”
“Language,” Bruce chides before Tony’s words sink in. “No. No fucking gradual!”
Tony ignores him, reaching around Bruce to speed up the treadmill up to eleven
mph. Bruce struggles to keep up with the pace and reaches to adjust the speed,
but Tony catches his wrist. “You can manage it,” he reassures. “I trust you.”
Bruce lets his hand fall, and the heart monitor beeps a warning as his heart
rate breaks 200.
Worry and anticipation well in Bruce’s chest, but the claws of anger are
thankfully absent. The monitor kicks up to 202, then 205, then back down to 201
as relief wins out over worry. Heart rate alone isn’t enough to trigger an
incident, and Bruce laughs with the relief of it. It’s freeing, like shrugging
off an anchor he’s been carrying for eight years.
Tony smiles delightedly. “That feeling you’ve got in your chest? That’s the
feeling of running when you’re out of shape. Your eyes are still brown.”
Bruce grins and clicks the treadmill back down to zero.
“Why are you stopping?” Tony asks indignantly. “Nothing’s going to happen-
- You’ve already proven that.”
“Thank you for the flattery, but you’re overestimating my stamina,” Bruce pants
out, clutching his side. He has a stitch that burns like a motherfucker.
Tony passes him a bottle of water. “Mind if I--?” He holds up the granola bar
he found in Bruce’s drawer.
“Go for it,” Bruce says, fishing out another for himself as he drains the
bottle. Since the accident his metabolism goes on a rampage every time he
exercises. He has to triple his caloric intake just for basic physical
activity, and Tony likes to use him as a cold feet warmer thanks to his
elevated core temperature.
Tony takes a bite of the bar and makes a face. “This is disgusting,” he says
around his mouthful. “How long has this been in your desk?”
Bruce finishes his and makes grabby hands. “Give it here. Mikey will eat
anything, especially after running six miles with an overactive metabolism.”
Tony gives him a blank look. “What?”
Bruce stares at him for a long moment. “Generation gap,” he says at last.
~*~
9
Tony is nine when Maria tells Bruce the truth.
Afternoon tea with Maria has become a daily event for Bruce whenever they’re
both free of prior engagements. At five Bruce abandons whatever he’s working on
and makes his way to one of the upstairs sitting rooms. Often, Tony joins them,
but some days he visits earlier or later than Bruce.
Maria looks up from her book and smiles welcomingly when Bruce knocks on the
doorframe. She’s sitting on a sofa, propped against one arm in a manner that
suggests repose but that Bruce knows is a sign of her fading strength.
“No Tony?” he asks.
“He stopped by earlier,” Maria says. “He couldn't wait to tell me how his
tournament went this morning.”
“He’s one of the best. He’ll make grandmaster before he turns sixteen.”
Maria pours him a cup as he takes the wingback chair opposite her. He accepts
the teacup with a thanks, carefully taking a sip. Bruce always feels like he’s
going to break the delicate little cups Maria prefers. In the lab he drinks out
of thick mugs specifically picked to withstand high-velocity-Tony impact.
Today’s china pattern is pansies. Yesterday it was tulips, and tomorrow, he
suspects, will be hydrangeas. The hydrangea teacups are Maria’s favorite-- an
anniversary gift from Howard-- and she  likes to save them for Fridays, a
“suitably happy day” as she calls it. Likewise, she saves the horrid rose-
printed ones Obadiah gave her last February for Tuesdays and days the world in
general has disappointed her.
Bruce furrows his brow at the chess board laid out on the coffee table. He’s
sure it’s the remnants of Tony’s earlier visit, but the pieces aren’t in any
formation he recognizes or can even make sense of.
Maria laughs ruefully at his expression. “Checkers,” she says. “Not chess. Tony
got tired of beating me in under three minutes, so he switched to a game I
could hold my own in.”
“Ah,” Bruce says, reevaluating the board. “In that case, you’re winning.”
“Only because he’s letting me.”
“If it makes you feel better, he lets me win sometimes, too.” Bruce takes
another sip of his tea. It’s one of his favorite mint blends.
“Have you thought about dating again?” Maria asks, apropos of nothing. “Now
that you’re more settled, I mean. Howard and I wouldn't mind if you brought
someone around from time to time. God knows we both had our fun when we were
young. After all, it’s New York. There are plenty of men who’d be lucky to have
you.”
“Men?” Bruce chokes out.
“Am I mistaken?” she asks, not sounding at all like she believes she is.
“No. I just-- didn’t think you knew.”
“Bruce, I was your primary care provider for two years before you left for
college,” Maria says, not unkindly. “I’ve known since you were thirteen.”
“Oh, um-- Oh,” Bruce manages eloquently. “I knew Howard was aware but...”
“You were trying to spare my delicate sensibilities?” she asks with raised
eyebrows.
He laughs awkwardly. “Something like that.”
The most embarrassing day of Bruce’s life had come a month before he left for
college, when Howard called him into his office for a terse inservice on safe
sex being mandatory, even for homosexuals. Embarrassing though it might have
been, in 1986 that was potentially life-saving advice that few people were
willing to give to a fourteen-year-old.
“How is Tony doing lately?” Maria asks. “He rarely tells me the whole truth
when I ask him. Are his nightmares getting any better?”
“Better than they were last year,” Bruce says before reluctantly adding, “But
he still stays with me most nights.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me; I don’t mind. I just... He’s about to turn ten, and I don’t--” He
gives her a worried look, unsure how to approach what’s on his mind.
She does it for him. “Don’t know how Howard and I feel about our child sharing
your bed four nights a week?”
Bruce nods mutely.
“For one, I doubt Howard has any feelings on the matter. Things like that, they
don’t tend to concern him the way they should. It’s not that he doesn't care
about Tony’s well-being,” she adds hurriedly. “He just doesn’t consider it a
matter of concern, at least not with you.”
“And you?” Bruce asks tentatively.
“There is no one I trust with my son more than you.” Her expression takes on a
steely edge. “And if you think that I’m narrow-minded enough that you being
attracted to men alters how I trust you with my son, you insult my
intelligence. We may not share blood, but you are as much my family as Howard
and Tony.”
A series of coughs wrack Maria’s frame, and Bruce passes her a tissue off the
end table. He can’t help noticing how thin her shoulders have gotten over the
past year.
“And how are you doing, Maria?” he asks gently.
She clears her throat. “As well as can be expected.”
“Don’t do that,” he says, carefully taking her hand. “Don’t deflect. How are
you, really?”
“I’m sorry. It’s an old habit,” she says. She traces the delicate pattern of
her teacup with one well manicured finger. “When people ask you how you’re
doing at a charity gala, they don't want to know that the prognosis is ten
years at best.”
“Maria...” Bruce says, because he doesn’t know what to say to that. He’d
suspected, but hearing it for certain hurts worse than he’d imagined. Maria
never tried to take the place of his mom, but she’d still been more of a
parental figure than his father.
“Howard’s been drinking worse than usual since we got the news,” Maria says. “I
think he’s trying to catch up with me by pickling his liver all the way to an
early grave. This morning he poured himself a cup of coffee and promptly poured
two fingers of whisky into it.”
“Does Tony know yet?”
“Not yet.”
“You have to tell him,” he tells her softly. “It’s only going to make it worse
if he has to find out for himself.”
She stares sadly into the dregs of her tea. “I know,” she says.
The rest of their tea passes in subdues small talk.
After he leaves Maria, Bruce doesn’t see Tony all afternoon. He’s not in the
lab, his room, or Bruce’s room.  When nine o’clock rolls around without so much
as a minor mechanical explosion, Bruce makes the command decision to go look
for him.
It doesn’t take long. Bruce knows as soon as he opens the door to the library
that something is wrong. Soft hiccuping sobbs echo through the room. All the
lights are off, but the ambient light filtering through the tall window
illuminates the figure huddled in the corner.
Slowly, Bruce crosses the room and sits on the floor next to him. He doesn’t
say a word because there’s nothing he can say to make this better. Instead, he
wraps both arms around Tony’s shaking shoulders and pulls him to rest against
his chest. He makes soft shushing noises as he rocks Tony, desperate to comfort
the only way he knows how.
Tony doesn’t cry, so the tears in his eyes shake Bruce to his core. Since that
first night Tony spent in Bruce’s room, Bruce has only seen him cry twice, and
both occasions involved Howard shouting.
“It’s not fair,” Tony sobs into Bruce’s collar. “It’s not fair. It’s not fair!”
“I know it isn’t,” Bruce sooths. “It isn’t fair at all.”
He doesn’t say that life isn’t fair, because that’s the most useless thing any
child can be told. Tony has an alcoholic father and a dying mother-- he knows
life isn’t fair. Sometimes, though, it makes you feel better to say it aloud.
“It isn’t fair,” Bruce agrees again.
He doesn’t know how much time passes before the sobs quiet. Tony’s eyes are
still open, but the tears have stopped. He doesn’t try to disentangle Tony,
scooping him up as he stands. He lets Tony cling on to his chest all the way to
Bruce’s room and pretend to be asleep once they get there.
Bruce gently lays him on the bed and crosses to the bathroom to wet a
washcloth. He runs the damp rag lightly over Tony’s face, wiping away the tear
tracks. After a change of clothes, Bruce settles in bed and doesn’t even try to
keep Tony at arms length. He pulls Tony securely against him, one arm around
his small waist, and holds him until they’re both finally able to sleep.
When Bruce has tea with an abnormally reserved Maria the next day, the teacups
are covered in sickeningly pink roses.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter_5_Author's_Notes
     “Juke_Box_Music”_by_The_Kinks
     “A_Rock_'n_Roll_Fantasy”_by_The_Kinks
     Exteneded author's notes and miscellaneous posts about the 'verse are
     kept on_tumblr (may contain spoilers for later chapters).
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is ten.
10
Tony Stark is ten when Bruce teaches him to ice skate.
"What are we doing here?" Bruce asks, staring up at the exterior of the Chelsea
Pier ice rink.
Tony pushes through the double glass doors. "You said you'd teach me to ice
skate."
"So your solution was to rent out the entire Sky Rink?" Bruce asks before
shaking his head. "What am I saying? Of course it was."
"The Bryant Park rink is always too full. No way am I going to fall on my butt
in front of that many people."
"Fair enough," he concedes. Truth be told, he'd rather not try to teach Tony to
skate with tourists pressing in on all sides.
"You do know how to ice skate, right? You were serious about that."
"Yes," Bruce says, chuckling. "I was serious. I know how to skate. Or, well, I
did ten years ago."
Tony doesn't look reassured. "And you don't mind teaching me?"
"When have I minded teaching you anything?"
Tony shrugs. "I don't know. There's probably better things you could be doing
with your time."
"There's nothing better I could be doing with my time," Bruce says. He likes
that Tony doesn’t consider himself too old for Bruce to teach him things.
Tony's cheeks color, but he holds the door to the rink open without further
protest. "Now what?" he asks, stalling just inside.
"Now we rent skates," Bruce says, leading him forward with a hand on the small
of his back.
"Rent?" Tony wrinkles his nose. "As in shoes other people have worn?"
Bruce stifled a sigh. "You can't skate in new skates, especially not when
you're learning. They'll hurt your feet."
"If you say so," he says, expression skeptical.
As they approach, the girl behind the counter gives them a pleasant if slightly
confused smile. "Mr. Stark. Mr Banner," she says, and it sounds more like a
question than an address.
"Yes," Bruce says.
He’s glad they have a legitimate reason to rent skates because Tony has had to
buy three new pairs of school shoes in the last year alone. Keeping Tony in
fitting clothes has become a full-time team effort for Lorena, Bruce, and Maria
thanks to his most recent growth spurt. He’s grown at least two inches in the
last year, and he’s at height with Bruce’s shoulders now.
He trades the attendant their shoes for two pairs of figure skates. He hands a
pair to Tony and leads them to a series of benches. The white leather of the
skates is discolored and cracking in spots, and Tony's expression only gets
more dubious.
"Trust me," Bruce says, shrugging off his backpack. He fishes through it, and
playfully tosses a balled up pair of socks at Tony's head. "Put these on.
They're thicker than the ones you have on."
Bruce quickly cinches up the laces of his own skates before kneeling to help
Tony with his. "Too tight?" he checks.
Tony shakes his head, and Bruce fishes in the backpack once more, producing
knee pads, elbow pads, and wrist guards. Tony groans dramatically. "Bruce," he
whines, drawing out the name. "That'll looks stupid."
"There's no one here but us and the attendant, and you'll thank me when you're
not black and blue in the morning. Be happy I'm not making you wear a helmet."
"But you don't have to wear them."
"I know how to skate," Bruce reasons. He stands, balancing easily on the
blades, and offers Tony his forearm for stability.
Tony takes it and lets Bruce pull him to his feet. He takes a shaky step, and
then another before looking up at him. "You made walking in these look easy,"
he says with a note of accusation.
They make their wobbly way to the edge of the rink, Tony never loosening his
death-grip on Bruce's arm. At the edge of the rink, Bruce steps onto the ice
while Tony clutches the side. Bruce slips over the ice for a moment before
muscle memory kicks in.
He warms up by making several small loops, just to make sure he really
hasn'tforgotten. He slides to a graceful stop just in front of Tony, who’s
grinning enthusiastically.
Bruce offers a hand. "Ready to try for yourself?"
Nodding, Tony takes a hasty step onto the ice and almost immediately loses his
balance. "Slowly," Bruce says as he rights him. "We're not in a rush. Watch how
I move my feet."
He keeps hold of Tony's hand and carefully leads him a few feet. After several
near-slips, Tony begins to move more confidently, making strides without
faltering. He looks to Bruce for affirmation, and Bruce squeezes his hand
encouragingly.
"See, you're getting it," he says, speeding up a little bit. Tony keeps up with
some effort. His hand is warm in Bruce's, and his grin is giddy. "Want to try
on your own?"
After a moment of hesitation, Tony nods. "Okay."
Bruce lets go but follows close behind him, hands hovering just off his
shoulders. They make a full circuit of the rink like that. Tony slips once or
twice but catches himself on the rink wall before he can fall far. Bruce is
impressed at how quickly he's picking up skating.
It's going great until Tony looks away from his feet to say, "This isn't that
ba-- Whoah!"
He drifted out of reach of the edge as he spoke, so when he loses his balance,
there's nowhere to go but down. His arms windmill, but it's no use. Both feet
slip out from under him.
Bruce catches him by the jacket, holding him up off the ice, and almost slips
himself in the process.
"Sorry," Tony says as Bruce pulls him to his feet.
"Hey, no apologizing," Bruce says.
"Maybe I'm not destined to be good at anything athletic," Tony says wistfully.
"Maybe my skill allotment for this lifetime has been used up already."
"You've been learning for less than a day."
"No, like, I'm actuallya genius," Tony insists. "Would it really be that bad if
we deemed sports a lost cause?"
"I fell on my ass twelve times the first day I started learning. Compared to
that, you're doing amazing. I don't expect you to pick it up perfectly in an
hour."
"Dad expected me to pick up riding a bike that fast," Tony mumbles.
Irritation spikes through Bruce. Howard may be many things, but a patient man
isn't one of them. So much for Bruce’s hope that he could make an exception for
his only son.
The night after Howard tried to teach Tony to ride a bike, Bruce had found Tony
in the lab banging on a much abused piece of metal. He had scrapes running the
length of his left arm and sported an impressive goose egg on his forehead.
After much prodding-- including a bit of literal prodding to check for a
concussion-- Bruce managed to pull the story of the afternoon out of him.
Evidently, Howard had tried to teach riding a bike the same way he explains
engine mechanics: once, concisely, and without a demonstration.
"Your father doesn't understand that you're not going to learn everything as
quickly as programming and engineering," Bruce says instead of voicing any of
his frustrations.
After that, Tony is reluctant to let go of Bruce again, but he steadily
improves until he can keep a decent pace with Bruce's longer strides. He
eventually gains enough confidence to skate tight circles next to Bruce,
keeping one hand out ready to grab Bruce at a moment’s notice.
By the time another hour passes, both of them are well and truly exhausted.
When they step off the ice Tony can barely lift his feet enough to walk
properly. Bruce takes his skates and goes to get their shoes.
"Thank you," Tony says, taking the proffered tennis shoes.
"Welcome," Bruce says automatically. It's only two, but he's already planning
to fall asleep as soon as they get home. Or maybe food first, then sleep.
Tony blinks sleepily up at him. "I meant for teaching me. Thank you."
"Any time," Bruce says with a smile.
It’s not quite rush hour yet, so Bruce has an easy time hailing a cab. As they
navigate traffic, Tony shifts uncomfortably in the seat next to him. His face
is tense with nerves despite him being on the verge of dozing off.
Bruce doesn't press. Years of practice have trained in in the art of dealing
with Tony’s I-have-something-I-need-to-tell-you-but-I-really-don’t-want-to
face. Usually, it accompanies broken lab equipment and white lies.
At ten Tony is more adept at hiding problematic emotions than any child should
be. Around anyone else, Tony can hide his nervous tics with ease and lie with
the poker face of a master, but he never makes much of an effort around Bruce.
He never lies to Bruce, at least not flat-out, and even lies through omission
come spilling out in a guilty rush fifteen minutes after being told. It’s
really not something Bruce should find so endearing.
“Bruce?” he mumbles, unable to hold back whatever’s bothering him. “I didn’t
just rent out the entire rink because I thought I’d embarrass myself.”
“What?” Bruce asks softly.
Tony looks up from where his head is resting on Bruce’s shoulder, brown eyes
nervous. “I know I’m crap at sports, and I thought trying to teach me might be-
-” He bites his lip. “--too frustrating for you.”
The words go a long way to bringing Bruce screeching back to wakefulness. He’s
not sure whether to be concerned with the fact that Tony willingly put himself
in a situation he thought might bring out The Other Guy or indignant that Tony
thinks teaching him something would annoy Bruce.
Bruce goes with the latter. It seems the safest option in the back of a
Manhattan taxi.
“Teaching you things you want to learn will never be too frustrating,” he says.
“Never be afraid to ask me things.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” Tony says with a yawn. “I just thought maybe you
underestimated how annoying I can be to teach. Seriously, just ask any of my
teachers.”
And okay, yes. Bruce can see how Tony’s school teachers might feel severely
undercompensated for their job, but Bruce’s sympathy is limited by the
knowledge that the Starks pay more for Tony to go to grade school than Bruce
paid to go to Caltech.
Bruce wraps a reassuring arm around Tony’s shoulders. “It’s not annoying, at
least not to me. I would tell you if you were doing something that would push
me too far,” Bruce says, because that honesty is the foundation their
friendship is built on. Toney doesn’t lie to him, and he returns the favor. For
good or ill, Bruce is honest with Tony, and in a world where very few people
are, that means everything.
The words must ease Tony’s mind, because he’s sound asleep by the time they get
to the mansion, head lolling onto Bruce’s shoulder and one hand clutching
Bruce’s jacket. The car horns and chaos of the city are muffled inside the car,
almost hypnotizing in their predictable irregularity.
Bruce pays the fare with a murmured thanks and scoops Tony out of the backseat
with some effort. Soon Tony will be too big, but for now Bruce can carry him.
~*~
10
Tony is ten when Bruce and Obadiah Stane draw their battle lines.
Obadiah Stane has never been Bruce’s favorite among the myriad of SI employees
flitting in and out of Tony’s life. He plays well enough with Tony, but he’s
always given Bruce a distinctly slimy feeling. The distaste has always been
mutual. Stane has never approved of Bruce living with the Starks, and Bruce
vividly recalls the words “mooching” and “charity case” being bandied around
more than once.
So running into Stane in the otherwise deserted kitchen was never going to be
the highlight of Bruce’s week.
For a moment he considers turning on his heel and retreating back to the lab.
There are enough dubiously colored potato chips in his desk drawer to last him
the afternoon, after all, but Bruce holds his ground. He refuses to be driven
off by this unpleasant man.
He takes a deep breath and pointedly ignores Stane as he fishes the sandwich
meat out of the refrigeration. He reaches to get a plate from the cabinet only
to find Stane blocking his way.
“Excuse me,” Bruce grits out, determined to be civil. Whether or not he likes
it, Stane is a part of Tony’s life.
“Am I in your way?” Stane asks with feigned surprise.
Bruce doesn’t dignify that with a response, instead shouldering past him.
Having to touch Stane makes him want to cringe.
“I don’t getyou,” Stane says. He leans against the kitchen counter to watch
Bruce spread mayonnaise on a piece of bread.
Bruce closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose. And then
another. “I’m sorry?”
“I don’t understand what you're looking to accomplish with Tony. I mean, I can
see your interest,but I can’t see what you think you’ll accomplish by grooming
him into some sort of tree-hugging pacifist like yourself. You might as well
face it: Tony will always want to please his father more than he wants to
please you. He’s always going to run off and play with guns.”
Bruce doesn’t answer. He’s not going to be a part of whatever mind games Stane
has decided to play, especially not when Tony’s stuck in the middle of them.
Instead, he lays the butter knife down on the plate. The less temptation, the
better.
Stane steps into Bruce’s space, towering a good six inches over him, and Bruce
refuses to look up to maintain eye contact. Physical intimidation is the wrong
game to play with a man who turns into an eight foot rage monster.
“Or maybe that’s not the only thing you’re grooming him for,” Stane says in a
low voice like slick oil.
“What exactly are you insinuating, Mr. Stane?” Bruce asks, staring fixedly at a
point on Stane’s shoulder.
“Oh, come on. He’s ten and still sleeping in your bed. You can’t call that
nightmares or whatever you’ve got Howard fooled into believing. Lucky for you,
he’s shit at the whole parenting shtick.”
Rage and adrenaline flood Bruce’s system.
Yeah, he’s considered how bad his and Tony’s situation might look from the
outside, but he’d dismissed it after his talk with Maria. Where Tony spends his
nights is a closed matter for the Stark household, and Bruce knows that
includes him, even if maybe it shouldn’t. He loves Tony. Maybe not as a son or
a brother, but as a dear friend and a member of his patchwork family.
There’s no explaining that to a man like Obadiah Stane. As far as Bruce can
tell, Stane’s only goal is to antagonize him, like a bully poking a dog with a
stick to see if it will bite. Bruce refuses to rise to it. If Stane wants the
monster, he’ll have to come back another day.
“Your concern is appreciated, Mr. Stane,” Bruce says, face and anger tightly
controlled, “But I would never hurt Tony.”
“Maybe you haven’t hurt him, but you like it. You get off on him trusting you
and looking up to you and needing you,” Stane sneers. “Just don’t fuck him up
too much. He’s the golden goose of this company, after all.”
And that, the idea that the goddamn companyis what Stane is worried about
instead of Tony, is what finally pushes Bruce over the edge. He can feel his
control slipping, and he strides towards the door.
“That kid’ll never be fit to run SI, and Howard’s bad parenting is his own damn
fault. If he trusts his son with a freak like you, that’s his problem. He’s the
one who let the monster out of its cage,” Stane says, halting Bruce mid-escape.
Stane leers at him. “Just how many kinds of monster are you, huh Banner?”
Clocking Stane is the last thing Bruce remembers before the world tilts on its
axis and the green mist descends. Everything past that is a blur of pure
destruction.
Afterwards, he's fairly certain he remembers throwing Stane out a window.
Several hours later, when a chagrinned Bruce tells Howard that he’ll pay for
the damage to the kitchen, Howard simply laughs, waves his hand, and asks,
“What on Earth did Obie say to have that effect on you?”
Bruce hesitates long enough for the humor to drain from the Howard’s face.
“Tell me,” he says, and Bruce does, haltingly.
Anger blooms over Howard’s features, his face rapidly reddening in a way that
has nothing to do with alcohol consumption. He sits, silent and stone-faced,
and Bruce never realized he could look so dangerous without a weapon in sight.
“Howard, I would never-- You can’t believe I’d ever-- Yes, it’s true that Tony
sleeps in my room a lot of nights, but you already knew that! I’d never hurt do
anything to hurt him. Goddamnit, Howard, there’s a lot of things wrong with me,
but that isn’t one of them. Jesus, the thought of it alone--” Bruce chokes on
the end of that sentence.
“I’m aware, Dr. Banner,” Howard said, rising from his chair, glass of bourbon
forgotten. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to find Mr. Stane to have words.
Strong, job-threatening words.”
Howard stalks towards the study door and pauses, one hand on the handle. “And
Bruce? Understand that there is no one I trust more than you with my son’s
well-being.”
~*~
10
Tony is still ten when Bruce lays awake in bed, forearm tossed over his eyes
and Obadiah’s words echoing through his head.
Bruce knows he shouldn’t let the accusations get to him, especially coming from
someone whose opinion he doesn’t give a damn about, but it does. Stane's words
have eaten at him for three days. Even just thinking of the word ‘grooming’
sends a wave of nausea through Bruce. Tony is ten, for fuck’s sake.
This is the first night since his and Stane’s knock-down, drag-out-a-window
that Tony has slept in his bed. Bruce is intentionally not touching him,
scooted as far to his edge of the bed as he can reasonably get without one leg
falling out.
What troubles him more than anything is the Stane wasn’t entirely wrong. He
doeslike how close Tony is willing to get to him-- definitely not in the way
Stane implied, but he enjoys how Tony never shies away from him. No one else
touches him, especially if they know what he is. Even when there’s no way they
can know, strangers instinctively go out of their way to avoid him, like the
has the mark of a rabid dog.
Bruce tries to rationalize that Howard knows everything, but in reality he
knows that heis one of Howard’s poor parenting decisions. All it took was a few
goading remarks, and years of self-control went out the window in favor of
tossing Stane out of one. But whatever Stane might say, at least he’s the
visible kind of monster. His jagged edges can’t be hidden, and everyone can see
exactly how dangerous he is.
Tony rolls over to look at him. “Can’t sleep?” he asks.
“No,” Bruce says, low in the darkness. “Can’t stop thinking.”
“About what Obie said?”
Bruce jerks like he’s been shocked. “How do you know about that?”
“The staff talk, and they don’t really notice who's listening,” Tony says.
“Most of them are on your side, for what it’s worth, and Mom doesn’t want Obie
around the house anymore.”
“Oh,” Bruce says dully.
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
Bruce blinks at him in the dark. “Doesn’t it bother you?” he asks, because it
should. Tony is old enough to understand exactly what Stane was implying.
Tony scoots closer across mattress. “I’m mad that he said something like that,
but I know it’s a lie. You wouldn’t,” Tony assures him. “I love you, and I know
you wouldn’t.”
Bruce wants to tell him that that’s not how the world works-- loving someone
doesn’t make them a good person-- but he can’t as Tony wraps one small arm
around his waist.
Fuck it,Bruce thinks and rests his cheek on Tony’s disordered hair. If Obadiah
wants to turn something innocent into something dirty, that’s his prerogative.
This thing between them isn’t a sexual thing. It’s just… nice.
The warmth of Tony at his side is comforting, and he basks in the physical
affection-- they both do. Maybe it isn’t good, maybe it isn’t quite normal, but
it’s what they both need.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is eleven.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
11
Tony Stark is eleven when Bruce has lunch with Jarvis.
Bruce and Jarvis are sitting in a little cafe across from Tony’s school,
waiting for class to end. The place is small enough that the lights actually
dimmed when the barista ground the coffee beans, and it’s full of the type of
clientele who simultaneously order an espresso and a gin when they come in for
their daily dose of writer’s block.
After school Bruce is taking Tony ice skating again. Since their first trip,
Tony has convinced Bruce to take him at least once every couple weeks. His
skill has improved to the point that he no longer feels the need to stay within
arms length of Bruce at all times, and he’s apparently decided that maybe
sports aren’t as crap as he’d originally thought.
Jarvis offered to drive the pair of them to the ice rink once school let out,
which was strange in and of itself. Bruce almost never asks Jarvis to drive
him, partially because it’s a luxury he’s still not used to and partly because
Jarvis deserves a break at his age. Bruce doesn't know much about Jarvis other
than that he’s been cleaning up Howard’s messes for fifty-plus years. The man
must be in his late seventies if not older, and Bruce doesn’t understand why he
hasn’t just retired yet. Yes, he’s invaluable to Howard, but surely Howard
would understand.
Either way, Jarvis’s considering gaze is enough to make Bruce suspect his
motives for volunteering to drive them aren’t wholly altruistic. Whatever the
reasons are, Bruce wishes he’d spit it out instead of just staringat him.
Bruce takes a sip of his tea to have something to do with his hands other than
fidget.
“Bruce?” asks a familiar voice.
Bruce looks up to see one of his coworkers from SI holding a to-go cup, poised
to walk out the door.
“Allen,” Bruce says, trying not to look as relieved as he feels to have a
reprieve from Jarvis’s scrutiny. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, man,” Allen says, making a beeline for their table. “What’re you
doing here? I didn’t think you got out much.”
Allen is a SI lab tech with unironically thick glasses and a thicker Jersey
accent. He’s also Bruce’s preferred lunch companion on days he goes into the
main New York labs. Allen knows enough about Bruce to realize that there’s a
lot more to his story, but he’s reliably too polite to ask more than Bruce
offers.
“I leave the lab every third Tuesday,” Bruce jokes.
“But today’s a Friday.”
Bruce nods at the school visible through the window. “Today I’m picking Tony up
from school.”
“Tony,” Allen echoes slowly. He glances at Jarvis. Despite his age, Jarvis is a
known figure among SI employees, periodically sent in to collect paperwork,
knock heads together, and retrieve his wayward boss. “As in Tony Stark. Your
Tony is Tony Stark.”
Bruce winces. Up until now he’d managed to avoid Allen connecting the Tony in
his stories with Tony Stark, their CEO’s son. Bruce still only goes into SI a
couple days a week, but it’s often enough that he occasionally trades stories
with the other scientists over mediocre Mexican food. Most of them are mid-
thirties first-time parents who like swapping their favorite kiddie
entertainment apps over the lunch table, so sometimes Bruce’s stories about
Tony growing up are relevant.
Allen seems to take the information in stride. “What even is your job? But no
really!” he says, shaking his head exasperatedly. “You’re the most brilliant
man I’ve ever worked with, everything in your personnel file save your cell
number is sealed to executive clearance, and now you’re telling me the kid I
assumed was your nephew is actually Stark’s kid.”
Bruce isn’t sure what to say. The omission wasn’t an accident, and Allen is
smart enough to know that.
Thankfully, Allen doesn't appear to expect an answer because he says, “You know
what, you just-- keep up the crazy. I’ve got to get back to work before Samson
notices I’m late with the éclairs and starts sulking again. Last thing we need
is a repeat of the October Incident when we have a deadline to meet.”
Bruce laughs because yes, Samson is a gifted chemical engineer, but a rather
eccentric one who runs off pastries and an obscure brand of Czech cola. “We
can’t have that. I’ll see you next week.”
Bruce lifts a hand in farewell as Allen leaves. Jarvis watched the entire
exchange wordlessly, a faint expression of amusement on his face.
“What?” Bruce says, finally losing his patience. In another life Jarvis would
have made a fantastic interrogator.
“I wasn’t aware you had friends outside the Stark mansion,” he says simply.
“Yes,” Bruce bites out, “I have friends.” Because for all that Allen and Samson
are work friends, they are, by some definition, friends.
“I was aware you had friends. I just wasn’t aware you had friends other than
Tony, Lorena, and Maria.”
Bruce knows Jarvis is right, but that doesn’t mean he has to dignify that with
a response. Instead, he pours himself the more tea. Bruce can wait until he’s
ready to explain what he wants.
Jarvis’s eyes track the movement of the teapot. “If I may speak out of turn,”
he says, accent even more pronounced than usual. “You would do well to be
careful with Tony.”
“Excuse me?” Bruce says, because if this is going where he thinks it’s going,
he needs to leave while he still had the option.
“No,” Jarvis says, “I’m not referring to the indecencies Obadiah Stane so
crudely implied, nor do I mean the way you fear yourself.”
Bruce swallows hard. “Then what are you saying?”
“I’m merely saying that you are a very important person to Tony, and whatever
happens, you cannot get scared by that and run.”
“I’m not going to just up and leave him,” Bruce says.
Jarvis arches an eyebrow. “Really? Because you seem like the type of man to
either run from his fears or squash them. You know that you’re important to
Tony, but I doubt you’ve ever stopped to consider just how so,” he says,
speaking slowly like he’s choosing his words carefully. “I think that the day
you finally do, it will scare you more than a physical threat ever could.”
“It scares me now,” Bruce says honestly. “It terrifies me, but that doesn’t
mean I’m about to leave.”
“Good.” Jarvis leans back in his chair, apparently satisfied with that answer.
Bruce refills Jarvis’s empty cup with the last of tea from the teapot, and
Jarvis’s face softens, apparently taking the gesture as the peace offering it
is. Bruce understands the instinct to protect Tony. He’s not about to hold a
grudge because Jarvis voiced a very legitimate concern about Bruce’s place in
Tony’s life.
“Jarvis, can I ask you a personal question?” Bruce asks as he sets the teapot
back down.
“Dr. Banner, after a certain number of years working with Howard Stark, one no
longer remembers that there still exist questions which aren’t.”
“Fair point,” Bruce allows. “Why do you still work for the Starks? I mean,
excuse me for saying it, but you’re a little past retirement age.”
“Over a decade past,” Jarvis agrees. He looks down at his folded hands. “My
wife died some years back, and we never had kids of our own. Howard-- and
Maria, once he finally settled down, have always been good to me. More than
good-- they have been my family.”
Jarvis clears his throat and takes a sip of his tea before continuing. “After
Anna’s death, I couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving the only family I had
left. The Starks offered to let me stay with them even in retirement, but then
I would merely be an old man living with his former employers. Frankly, I would
much rather be the ancient butler still dutifully serving his family.”
“Oh,” Bruce says dumbly.
Jarvis smiles. “Not the answer you were expecting?”
“No,” Bruce agrees. “It really wasn’t. But I think I understand what you mean
about the Starks being your family.”
“They do seem to have an affinity for picking up strays,” Jarvis says, smile
widening into a grin.
The bell above the cafe door tinkles.
“Bruce! Jarvis!” Tony calls, forgetting all semblance of an inside voice. He
picks his way over to their table, backpack bouncing dangerously, and one
Hemingway-in-training pulls his gin closer with an annoyed huff.
Jarvis gives Bruce a bemused look that he interprets as ‘Starks-- what can you
do?’
~*~
11
Tony is eleven when he sets off the hazard alarms in the lab.
Tony insists the toxic fumes aren’t his fault, but Bruce knows he wasn't
working on anything capable of inciting this level of chaos. Either way, the
incident culminates in the pair of them sitting aimlessly in the kitchen while
the lab filtration systems do their job. Damage assessments will come later
when the smoke has literally cleared and the orange mildly-hazardous-but-might-
not-kill-you lights are no longer flashing.
Lorena is bustling around the kitchen making lasagna from scratch. Bruce
offered to help, feeling useless just watching her work, but she politely
declined. However, by the third time he offers, her rejection is decidedly less
polite. When she turns to grab something from the refrigerator only to find
Tony standing on tip-toe to see what she's doing, it's the last straw.
"Out!" she cries. "Out while I am trying to cook. If you two boys cannot sit
still for five minutes, then get out of my kitchen. There is a library; there
is a television! Go find them!"
As if to make her point, she bats Bruce out of his chair and herds both of them
out of the kitchen with spread arms. Once in the hall, Bruce and Tony exchange
identical chagrined looks before Tony shrugs.
"The lab can't be thattoxic. It was only the orange alarm, not the red one,"
Tony says, echoing Bruce's thoughts. His brow furrows. "But then, maybe the red
one is only for nuclear strikes."
Lorena's frustrated growl proceeds her out of the kitchen. "Three hours," she
says, shepherding them further down the hall towards the living room.  "That's
all it takes before the lab is safe again."
She urges them into the room and blocks the doorway, preventing them from
making a break for it. "Do not move from here unless it's to go outside. Lord
knows the pair of you could use fresh air, but since I doubt you'll take that
advice, sit still and watch TV." She turns a menacing look on them as she turns
to leave. "I'll know if you try to get back into the lab early."
Tony looks at Bruce. "Tuesday midday programming it is," he says, "because I am
notgoing out in that heat."
Bruce has to agree. This morning the weather forecast predicted record-breaking
temperatures for June, and all the concrete and glass makes the city feel like
one giant Easy Bake Oven during the summer.
"What's even on TV at this time of day?" Bruce asks. He wonders if he can
retrieve a book from the library without Lorena duct taping him to the couch.
Probably not.
It's not that Bruce never watches TV, but Mythbusters and Code Lyoko are the
only two shows he really bothers paying attention to. Even then, he mostly
follows those because he knows Tony likes to recreate the more ill-advised
experiments and obsessively talk about Code Lyoko to anyone who will listen.
Most nights he reads while Tony watches the latest episode of-- whatever else
he normally watches, and when Bruce reads, the world could be burning down
around him and he'd never notice. Even though he's present while the TV is on,
that doesn't mean he's actually watching it.
"Let's find out," Tony says, retrieving the remote. He turns on the power, and
immediately the overdone chimes, dings, and yelling of The Price Is Right fill
the room. Tony squints at the too-excited crowed like they're a new species to
be studied.
Bruce winces as Bob Barker’s voice fills the room. Gingerly, he pries the
remote out of Tony's hand and presses the channel up button. He doesn't care
what he's putting it on as long as it's not this. Daytime game shows are pretty
near the top of his 'Things To Be Avoided' list, right after military brass and
being shot at.
The screen changes to a man in a tux standing in front of a line of equally
well-dressed women, a single rose in hand. He's saying-- something. Bruce
thinks it might be about a beautiful smile and a charming laugh.
"Is this the Bachelor," Tony asks slowly, "...in Spanish?"
Bruce nods as he watches, oddly fascinated. His Spanish is rusty, but it's good
enough to understand most of the proceedings.
Tony takes the remote back. "Vetoed," he says firmly, changing the channel.
This time the screen stops on a news broadcast, and Bruce is momentarily
satisfied before he notices the Fox News logo in the bottom corner. Worse,
behind the two bickering men on screen is a stock chart headed SRI-- the New
York Stock Exchange sign for Stark Industries.
"Nope," Tony says right as Bruce orders, "Change the channel."
Bruce is ready to give up daytime tv as a bad job and propose a game of I Spy
or something equally terminally boring when the channel changes one last time.
He slumps back into the couch in relief.
Ellen DeGeneres's smiling face fills the screen, and the camera pans to a
dancing crowd. "Here," Tony says, face brightening.
Bruce hadn't realized Ellen DeGeneres had a talk show. He remembers the Ellen
of 90s sitcoms and the media buzz it made when she came out. Even living out of
a one-room apartment in South America, he'd heard the news from another ex-pat.
For a moment, there on a couch in the Starks’ living room, it hits him how far
the world has moved since he was Tony’s age-- or, for that matter, since he
went on the run in ‘93.
One rerun bleeds into the next, and Bruce smiles at how happy the talk show
makes Tony. He leans into Bruce's side even though there’s enough couch for
both of them, occasionally interjecting to fill in pop-culture references Bruce
has missed over the past decade. Maybe-- and that's a very big maybe-- daytime
TV isn't as terrible as Bruce thought, at least with Tony to keep him company.
Bruce hardly notices the three hours passing, and it's a surprise when Lorena
sticks her head into the room. "Your time is up," she says like they’re being
let out of time out, words half-amused, half-exasperated. "You should be able
to return to the lab without asphyxiating. Dinner will be ready in forty-five
minutes." She brandishes a tea towel at them. "Be on time."
Tony grins, bouncing off the couch. "Thanks, Lorena!" he says. He grabs Bruce's
hand, tugging the older man up.
"Thank you," Bruce says, letting himself be dragged along.
Lorena smiles in response, but there's something he can't interpret underneath
it. Her eyes linger on them as Tony leads Bruce down the hall by the hand, and
her expression takes on a considering edge that Bruce has never seen on her
before.
~*~
11
Tony is eleven the first time Bruce Hulks out in his direct vicinity.
It's a kidnapping attempt gone wrong. Bodyguards rarely accompany Tony when
he's with Bruce because the blank-faced, gun-toting men make Bruce edgy and
it's assumed the giant green rage monster will go after the threat. Bruce has
never liked that gamble, but regardless of what he likes or doesn't like, he's
trusted to get Tony safely back and forth from chess tournaments and ice
skating and even the occasional game of pickup soccer.
So when a loud crack breaks the still fall air as they're walking across the
mansion's front lawn, Bruce's first instinct is to shove Tony behind him and
yell, "Run!"
The sound isn't gunfire. Bruce has been in too many warzones and handled too
many guns to make that mistake. But he's also been shot by too many tranq darts
not to recognize the sting in his left shoulder.
He prays that the attackers didn't know they had to dose for 1060 pounds, not
160. He prays that Tony makes it to the safety of the house. He prays, despite
not believing, and he for the first time in his life, he prays for the change
will take over soon.
Higher power intervention or no, the tranq dosage must not be enough because
the change comes. Bruce's world tilts and blurs, and last thing he sees clearly
is the pale panic writ on Tony's face.
~*~
Bruce wakes in a pile of rubble that might once have been the fountain in front
of Stark Mansion. His limbs feel like they're made of lead, and hunger gnaws at
his stomach like it always does after a rampage. Apparently gaining and losing
four-hundred pounds in an hour takes a lot out of him.
The previously pristine courtyard is now strewn with the wreckage of uprooted
shrubbery and what might have once been a Toyota Corolla. Mounds of broken
concrete litter the area, and Hulk-sized footprints mar the lawn. His head is
pounding, and he raises a hand to his forehead automatically.
"At least your pants stayed on," Tony says from somewhere overhead.
Bruce looks up to see Tony perched impossibly high in a tree, legs swinging
happily like he hasn't just encountered a massive green monster.
"Don't worry, Jarvis went to find a ladder," Tony says, but that does fuck all
to explain why they needa ladder in the first place. "I told him I could just
jump, but he said to wait because I'm not actually made of rubber. I could
probably come up with some kind of impact-absorbing shoes, though. It might
take a couple weeks, but--"
"Why are you in a tree?" Bruce asks slowly. It feels like a dumb question, all
things considered, but Bruce's brain-to-mouth filter tends to be the last thing
to come back online after the change.
"Because better up in a tree than down there with them." Tony points in the
direction of the worst of the destruction.
Bruce’s stomach drops as he realizes that two of the mounds aren’t rubble at
all but a pair of bloody and beaten men. He can’t tear his eyes away from them.
One’s arm is twisted at an unnatural angle and the other is smeared with a
nauseating amount of blood.
All he can think is that he finally did it. He finally killed someone, and Tony
was here to witness it. Bruce can’t even look at him. Perhaps it was foolish,
but he’d always held on to the hope that The Other Guy preferred property
destruction to actual murder. Apparently he was mistaken.
Bruce can feel the blood draining from his face as his blood pressure drops and
hear the roaring in his ears, and he clenches his abdomen to keep himself from
passing out. If there was anything in his stomach, he’d be sick.
“They’re still alive,” Tony says from his perch. He’s watching Bruce closely,
like he can tell he’s on the verge of losing consciousness. “Jarvis checked.
They’ll recover.”
Relief washes over Bruce like a physical force. “Oh,” he says, and it’s barely
more than a breath. He resists the urge to flop back into his rubble pile in
relief.
“Do you remember what happened?” Tony asks.
“Some of it. Did someone call an ambulance?”
“Jarvis called SHIELD. He thought it would be better than having to explain to
the police and getting it plastered all over the news.”
“I don’t know that attempted kidnappings are SHIELD’s preview,” Bruce says. He
runs his fingers back through his curls only to find them matted with bits of
concrete and blood he doubts is his. He wipes his hand on the grass.
“So you do remember,” Tony says.
“Only up until I yelled for you to run. I have no idea how that--” Bruce
gestures halfheartedly at the bloodied men, “--happened.”
"They tried to attack me, so you attacked them," Tony says simply.
But yeah, that did absolutely nothing to explain how Tony ended up in a twenty
foot tall oak tree. "How--?" he asks vaguely, nodding at Tony's perch.
"The guys tried to shoot me with the same tranquilizer darts they got you with.
Hulk-- That's what he likes to be called," Tony says, then cocks his head. "Or,
well, that's what he kept calling himself every time he bellowed."
Bruce knew this already, but he’d never wanted to dignify his inner tantrum by
calling it by its preferred name.
"Anyhow," Tony continues, "Hulk put me up here to keep me away from the
fighting. Which, mind you, there wasn't much of. Two dudes with underdosed
tranq darts didn't stand a chance."
"Did he hurt you?" Bruce asks, horrified at the idea of that monster actually
picking Tony up.
"Nope," Tony says, swinging his legs again. "He wouldn't have done that."
"I think you're putting too much trust in a mindless monster."
"And I think you're not putting enough trust in yourself. He isn't mindless,
and he isn't a monster. He wouldn't hurt me because you wouldn't hurt me."
Bruce stares at him, agape. "You have the self-preservation instincts of a
squirrel," he says at last. "You're supposed to be afraid of a thing like that,
not befriend it."
"Am I seriously supposed to be afraid of him when he calls me 'Little Engine
Man'?"
Bruce blinks. He runs over that sentence in his head another time for good
measure before asking, "I'm sorry, what?"
Tony puts on a fake snarl."'No hurt Little Engine Man!'" he mimics, beating a
fist on his tree branch. "'Little Engine Man good. No take Little Engine Man!'"
Bruce resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. Because of course The
Other Guy would have a nickname for Tony. Of course. All this afternoon needed
was that particular side-order of embarrassing ridiculousness.
A door slams, and Jarvis appears from the garden shed holding a ladder and
looking far more composed than anyone in his situation should. But then, after
fifty-plus years of dealing with Howard, maybe a little property damage is
simply a minor inconvenience. He leans the ladder against the tree, holding it
steady as Tony clambers down.
Bruce stands gingerly, keeping a hand on the stretched fabric of his pants. He
looks down at himself and is suddenly unspeakably grateful for the dirt and
debris covering his body. The sheer amount makes him wonder if The Other Guy
decided to roll around in the yard like an overgrown green mutt, but at least
the grime is successfully hiding the worst of his scarring from view. All Tony
needs to top off his completely stress-free day are disturbing revelations
about Bruce's childhood.
Once Tony is down, Jarvis turns to Bruce. Wordlessly, he holds out the fluffy
teal bathrobe he has folded over one arm, and Bruce is too grateful to do more
than smile bemusedly.
Jarvis quirks a knowing eyebrow. "I thought it best if expediency trumped pride
and fashion," he says in an undertone.
"I think I lost all pride the moment I woke up mostly naked in a destroyed
fountain," Bruce says, taking the proffered robe.
He ties the sash with quick, economical motions, and in the distance a black
MDX turns into the driveway, unmistakably a SHIELD response vehicle. Bruce has
always wondered how many interns Acura had to sacrifice to secure thatcontract.
As they walk up the mostly destroyed garden path to meet the suite-clad SHIELD
agents, Tony heaves a heavy sigh. "I missed my match," he says forlornly. And
yes. Yes, indeed. That's definitely a pout twisting his lips.
The laugh that escapes Bruce edges on hysterical. "I think 'failed kidnapping
attempt' is a legitimate excuse to reschedule a match," he says, slinging the
arm not preoccupied with holding up his pants around Tony's shoulders.
Chapter End Notes
     Unnecessary author’s notes and further details about the story’s
     timeline are on_my_tumblr.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is eleven.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
11
Tony is eleven when Christmas actually goes as planned for a change.
Tony is sitting on the floor in front of the tree, wrapping paper strewn around
him like the aftermath of a battle. Bruce is curled in the armchair closest to
him, one shin pressed to his back, while Howard and Maria have taken up
residence on the settee. Jarvis is humming along with the Frank Sinatra
Christmas album playing through the mansion’s speakers, and the absurd level of
picturesque makes Bruce smile.
Christmas is always a trying time of year for Bruce's nerves, what with the
Christmas rush and trying to decide what to get the family that has everything,
but this year he thinks it was worth it. It’s the first Christmas in years that
Howard hasn’t retreated to his office as soon as the presents were opened, and
Bruce suspects that it has something to do with the way Maria is currently
asleep on his shoulder.
Bruce, with all his originality, got Howard a tie pin. He has the sneaking
suspicion that he would have preferred to find Bruce's reports under the tree,
but Bruce wasn’t going to be the one to drag work into Christmas. The research
reports can wait until tomorrow. Who knows, maybe he'll even wrap them.
His attempts at Christmas presents went slightly better with Tony, if Tony’s
delighted babbling was anything to go by. A signed vinyl copy of the
Chesssoundtrack is hardly seemed like an appropriate gift for an eleven year
old, but then Bruce can’t imagine that most eleven year olds would pick a
musical about a Cold War chess match as their favorite piece of theater.
"It's even signed by the Tim Rice and West End cast," Tony babbled excitedly.
Bruce had given an internal sigh of relief. A vinyl record had been a gamble,
what with Tony's love of all things tech. He already had a digital copy of the
album, which he insisted on playing in the lab at least once a week. Bruce has
yet to figure out if this is tail-end of his 80s music phase or the start of a
Broadway phase.
Bruce sincerely hopes it's not the start of a Broadway phase. He's not sure his
nerves can take 24/7 show tunes on loop in the lab. The terrible techno phase
was bad enough. Hopefully Chessisn't part of a music phase at all, but instead
part of Tony's ongoing WWII through Cold War history phase. The late seventies
skew a bit later than Tony's typical area of fascination, but it's still
plausible.
The whole fixation started with Captain America, because with Howard, Tony, and
Bruce, it's always going to start with Captain America.Tony apparently
inherited Howard's obsession with the super soldier, which is at least better
than him inheriting Bruce's obsession with the super-soldier serum.
"He feels responsible, you know," Tony had said one day, apropos of nothing.
Bruce looked up from his microscope. "What?"
"Dad. For your accident. He thinks you wouldn't have started researching the
supersoldier serum if it hadn't been for his fixation on Captain America."
"I'm the dumbass who tested it on himself," Bruce said, and that was the end of
that conversation. Bruce's former hubris isn't something Tony asks about, and
for that Bruce is eternally grateful. He might not be the great man Tony
believes he is, but neither is he still that fool with too much conviction in
his own superiority.
Thankfully, instead of leading to gross violations of lab safety protocol,
Tony's interest in Captain America led to trains and planes and tech which then
led to Alan Turingand the Enigma code which led to post-war history and the
Cold War. On one memorable occasion, model airplanes had even been built at the
kitchen table before Tony deemed them 'too boring.' To absolutely no one's
surprise, the little model Grumman F6F Hellcat was flying around the house two
days later despite the fact that its only moving piece out of the box had been
the propeller.
Bruce, hoping-begging-prayingthat they're on a Cold War kick and not a Broadway
kick, also got Tony the entirety of the 1978 limited run of Captain America Vs
the USSR. It had taken lots of searching in a drafty Brooklyn comic shop and
more than one sketchy Craigslist rendezvous, but it had been worth it. Tony lit
up like Christmas, Easter, and four birthdays had all been rolled into one.
Both presents had read 'From Santa' on their tags, but Tony knew exactly who
they were from without being told. If Tony ever believed, it was before Bruce
came into his life.On his first Christmas in Stark Mansion, he wrote ‘Santa’ on
the tag because, far be it from him to know what normal childhoods look like,
but didn’t most five year olds believe in Santa? Tony had feigned exasperation
that Bruce thought he was that gullible, but still glowed with happiness at the
effort. Since then Bruce has always written ‘Santa’ in the From field of his
presents just to watch Tony’s amused smile.
"Oh, I do love this one," Jarvis says, dragging Bruce out of his reverie. He
sways from side to side in time with “The Little Drummer Boy.”
Jarvis technically has the day off, but Howard requested his presence for
"moral support." In reality, Bruce knows it was because Howard didn't think the
butler would accept an outright invitation to Christmas with the family. He
suspected Maria's hand in the consideration initially, but when he asked, she
said it was all Howard's doing. Small gestures like that occasionally remind
Bruce that Howard isn't as callas or as oblivious as he sometimes thinks.
Lorena took the week off to spend with her son and new grandchild in Queens,
and surprisingly, none of them have successfully burned down Stark Mansion in
her absence. Yet. They still have to survive four more days without her once
the Christmas cheer evaporates.
Bruce playfully pokes Tony with one socked foot. “You want to help me make hot
chocolate?”
“Yeah!” Tony says, jumping up excitedly. He's all coltish limbs and newly long
legs. His frame borders on too skinny, like all excess energy is going into
fueling his latest growth spurt. His shoulder blades stick out in startlingly
boney lines under his t-shirt, and his pajama pants are at least three inches
too short.
“Do you want any?” he directs at Howard, voice low so as not to wake Maria.
In answer, Howard lifts his glass of eggnog. And if Howard’s eggnog is higher
octane than is entirely appropriate, well, at least it keeps him in a good
mood.
Bruce raises an inquiring eyebrow at Jarvis, who looks surprised to be asked if
he wants a drink instead of being asked to prepare one. "That sounds
excellent," he says.
The first thing Bruce does when he enters the kitchen is check the digital
thermometer trailing out of the over. He clicks on the stove light and leans
down to peer in through the glass.
"What're you cooking?" Tony asks, boosting himself up to sit on the counter.
Lorena would chide him and chase him off of her counters with a swat, but he
knows he can get away with it with Bruce.
"A standing rib roast," Bruce says. "It takes hours to cook, but it'll be worth
it."
"Ohhh," Tony says with dawning comprehension. "That's where you went this
morning-- playing Suzie Homemaker. I thought you disappeared to play Santa."
Bruce laughs because yes, he felt distinctly like a homemaker when he got up at
5:30 to put the roast in the over. Maria, for all her many skills, never
mastered cooking anything more complicated than a grilled cheese, and both
Howard and Tony are helpless without Lorena. Bruce is fairly certain that
Howard cancook; he just thinks feeding himself is a waste of time.
Bruce remembers the first month of failed kitchen experiments when he moved in
with the Starks, neither one entirely sure what you fed a thirteen year old
boy. That was before Howard and Maria felt a cook was a necessity, and Bruce,
hardly used to a steady diet to begin with, had been baffled by the odd mix of
take out, burnt toast, and ice cream he’d been presented with. He'd figured out
early on that cooking for himself was probably his best bet.
Bruce resets the timer on the stove. "The options were either I cook,” he says,
“or we order catering, and that's just sad on Christmas day."
"Jarvis can cook," Tony says.
"Jarvis is eighty-one, and he deserves the day off after putting up with us for
a week without backup," Bruce says, reaching up to ruffle Tony's hair.
A blush spreads over Tony's cheeks at the gesture.
The blush gives Bruce a moment of pause. Despite being right in the middle of
the don’t-hug-me-in-public phase, Tony has never shied away from Bruce’s
affection. But it’s not a groan of embarrassment or an outright rejection, so
Bruce assumes their usual casual touches haven’t made the list of Unacceptably
Embarrassing Behavior just yet.
Tony looks down at the floor, and his eyes catch on Bruce’s feet. A snicker
escapes him. “I can’t believe you’re actually wearing those.”
“They’re warm,” Bruce says defensively, following Tony’s gaze down to the
ridiculous slippers on his feet. He knows Tony meant them as a gag gift, but
they’re pretty damn comfy.
“Freudian slippers,” Tony had said with a laugh as Bruce unwrapped them. Each
foot has a likeness of Freud on it, and Bruce wonder where Tony even found the
things. As gifts go, it’s about standard for them. Tony learned years ago that
their senses of humor are close enough that he can get away with giving Bruce
all of the gag gifts that make other people blink in confusion.
Bruce is fairly certain that, gag gift or not, Tony just enjoyed dressing him
up like some kind of overgrown, nerdy Ken doll. He also got Bruce a deep blue
collared button-down finer than any Bruce would buy for himself and a matching
pair of slack. Bruce doesn’t think he wants to know how Tony got his
measurements.
He’s been refusing Tony and Howard’s pleas for him to visit a tailor-- ‘please,
Bruce, you’d look much better in clothes that fit you properly’-- ever since he
moved into the mansion. Tony takes full advantage of Christmas and birthdays as
the only time he’s allowed to buy Bruce nice clothed.
Tony hops down from the counter. “Be right back,” he says, and before Bruce can
do more than look up, he’s scampering out of the kitchen.
Bruce watches him go, and a feeling of unreality hits him like a physical blow.
Tony is almost twelve. Twelve. Bruce has been living with the Starks for nearly
seven years, and somewhere along the lines he found the family he never thought
he could have. Bruce hasn’t been naive enough to imagine himself with a
significant other and 2.5 kids since he was twenty-four and living in a rundown
flat in South America. That’s not what he has now-- Tony isn’t like a son to
him, and he doesn’t particularly long for a significant other-- but they are
his family.
The smart-mouthed child who wanted to know why Bruce didn’t like him is growing
into an, admittedly, equally smart-mouthed young man with a penchant for
explosions and groundbreakingly innovative designs. He’s matured not only
physically-- though his sudden gain in height still staggers Bruce-- but also
emotionally. Even though he’s only eleven, Bruce can’t seem to apply the label
of ‘child’ to him anymore, even in his head.
It hasn’t been all good, though. Tony’s occasional fights with Howard have
gotten more frequent and much louder as he learns to hold his own and fight for
his opinions. Tony has never been anything other than his own person, and he’s
going to fight until Howard accepts that. Bruce knows that shouldn’t make him
as proud as it does.
Muffled footfalls precede Tony into the kitchen, and he intentionally slides
across the hardwood on socked feet as he rounds the corner, free hand
outstretched for balance. In his other hand is a lumpy present wrapped in what
Bruce is sure is the gaudiest wrapping paper he could find. It’s covered with
different kinds of cats wearing horribly patterned Christmas jumpers, and it’s
exactly the type of wrapping a mostly blind eighty-three year old grandmother
would pick out.
Bruce can’t help his grin.
“I have one more present for you,” Tony says, proffering the small package. His
free hand clenches and unclenches at his side, and he bounces nervously on the
balls of his feet. Bruce takes the present and carefully slides a finger under
the tape, making Tony roll his eyes. “Just tear it!”
Bruce does as he’s told, ripping at the paper until the object underneath is
visible. He carefully disentangles a pair of purple handled needle-nose pliers
from the paper and turns them over in his hands. The grip is the perfect size
for his hand, and the metal of the tips shines with a faint gold edge.
"I designed them myself,” Tony says, rocking on his heels. “They’re made of a
gold-titanium alloy, and the handles have a small tracking chip built in that
way you can find them. I've already linked them to the lab’s sensor array, so
you don't have to worry about that. If you lose them, just click the new
application on your laptop called 'find me'."
Bruce lets a wide grin spread across his face. He’s perpetually losing his
pliers, somehow always managing to misplace them in the chaos of his desk or
accidently carry them to the library, or, on one memorable occasion, put them
in the dishwasher.
“Tony, this is amazing,” Bruce says.
Tony waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t have to worry about breaking them.
They’re waterproof, heatproof, and Hulkproof,” he says. “I even made a matching
pair for myself. Yours have the Purple handles, mine have the red. I kind of
want to make a whole series of tools like this now."
“Thank you,” Bruce says sincerely. He resists the urge to clutch the pliers to
his chest like a maiden with a bouquet of flowers.
“Don’t mention it. Merry Christmas,” Tony says, looking at a blank spot on the
far wall. The older he gets, the less he knows what to do with gratitude. He
covers it with snark and sarcasm, but his awkwardness at being thanked is still
obvious to Bruce. He gives gifts because he likes to, not because he wants the
thanks. Bruce finds it both endearing and a little sad. “You said something
about hot chocolate?”
Bruce slips pliers into his back pocket and lets Tony redirect the subject for
now. He fishes the heavy whipping cream out of the fridge and grabs the whisk
and mixing bowl he preemptively put in the freezer earlier this morning. They
have a perfectly good mixer they could make whipped cream with, but Tony enjoys
whipping it himself. Bruce figured out some time back that it’s a good way to
burn off the excess energy on some of Tony’s more restless days. He sets Tony
to work as he pours milk into the frother and adds the hot chocolate powder.
“Is this good?” Tony asks after several minutes, holding the bowl out for Bruce
to see. Bruce catches some of the whipped cream on his index finger and pops it
into his mouth. Tony’s eyes track the movement, his expression unreadable.
“Perfect,” Bruce says just as the milk frother beeps. He adds the vanilla and
the sugar to the whipped cream himself because he learned his lesson about
letting Tony decide what an appropriate level of sweet is. “Grab three mugs
down, please.”
Tony leans up on tip toes to grab the mugs from the cabinet, shirt riding up to
reveal too-thin hips. Bruce has a moment to worry if Tony is eating enough,
then shakes it off. Tony already has Lorena to mother-hen; he doesn’t need
Bruce nagging at him. Still, Bruce thinks he’ll put a bit more effort into
making them leave the lab for regular food. His body can take the joke of a few
missed meals, but Tony is growing and shouldn’t skip meals in the name of
science.
Bruce pours Irish cream into his and Jarvis’s mugs and finishes each drink off
with a dollop of whipped cream. He pushes the unspiked mug towards Tony, but
Tony ignores it in favor of taking a sip of Bruce’s, a cheeky grin on his face.
Bruce gives him a stern look, but takes his hot chocolate back without saying
anything.
When the make it back to the living room hot chocolate in hand, Howard is
absorbed in something by Kafka, turning the pages one-handed while his other
hand combs idly through Maria’s hair. Jarvis takes his mug with a murmured
thanks. In the silence that follows, Bruce realizes Frank Sinatra's singing had
come to an end. “Do you want to play your record?” Bruce asks.
Tony grins in reply, grabbing the record off the end table. He sinks down in
front of the cabinet housing the more outdated electronics that remain wired
into the mansion’s media system. The VCR and laserdisc player have done nothing
more than attract dust for the past ten years, but Maria uses the record player
enough that Bruce has faith in it. It’s an old Zenith that has to be from the
late seventies, but Maria refuses to let Howard trade it in for a newer model.
Tony carefully takes the record out of its sleeve and stares speculatively at
the aged record played. Experimentally, he lifts the plastic cover and pokes at
the slipmat before giving Bruce a pleading look. “Okay, so I don’t actually
know how to do this,” he says.
“I thought you’d seen us do it before?” Bruce asks. Tony normally has a good
memory for technical things like this.
“Yeah,” Tony says, drawing out the word, “but it’s not like I was paying
attention.”
“Fair enough.” Bruce huffs a laugh and pushes off the couch, moving to kneel
next to Tony. He takes the record from Tony’s hand and places it on the
turntable.  “Thirty-three RPM is the normal speed for 12” records,” Bruce says,
indicating the little switch. He turns the main power knob and adjusts the
volume before pulling another switch towards him to start the table spinning.
Finally, he nudges the needle over the edge of the record and lowers it.
“That’s a lot of work to play half of an album,” Tony observes over the opening
of “Merano.”
“It’s worth it,” Bruce assures him. “Music sound better like this if it was
originally recorded for record for vinyl.”
Records were an impractical luxury Bruce never allowed himself during his years
on the run, but now their warmth and depth remind him that he has a home. Not
just a place to live, but a home with a family. Maybe they’re a dysfunctional
family, but they’re his family.
And maybe “One Night in Bangkok” isn’t the usual Christmas tunes, but as Bruce
watches Howard tap his foot in time to the music, he thinks that it works for
them.
Chapter End Notes
     "The_Little_Drummer_Boy"_by_Frank_Sinatra
     "One_Night_In_Bangkok"_by_Murray_Head
     Chapter_8_Author’s_Notes_and_Other_Goodies
***** Chapter 9 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is twelve.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
12
Tony Stark is twelve the first time he wakes Bruce from a nightmare.
Bruce stares down the yawning expanse of the main hall of his and Tony's wing
of the mansion. All light is sapped from the wood paneling, the usual windows
mysteriously absent. A small boy is huddled at the far end of the hall, no
older than six or seven, and his sobs echo through the hall. Concerned, Bruce
takes a step forward, but the boy only cries harder, burying his face in the
sleeves of his overlarge shirt and scooting himself blindly backwards across
the hardwood floor into the corner.
Bruce takes in the child's appearance-- his unkempt curly black hair, his bent
glasses, the bruise blooming across his cheek-- and fear settles into the pit
of his stomach. Around him, the walls start to curve in, caging him in on all
sides, or maybe he's just getting bigger.
The boy cries still louder, and his face shifts on the sob, rounding even as
his hair straightens somewhat. Ragged, secondhand clothes turn into designer
children's wear, and the glasses fade into nothingness in the blink of an eye.
The bruise on his cheek remains.
When Tony looks up, betrayal and fear distort his young face. "Bruce," he says,
and Bruce can't tell if it's a cry for help or a plea for mercy.
"Bruce!"
Bruce wakes with a jolt, head snapping up off his desk. A piece of paper sticks
comically to the side of his face, and he bats it off with a confused hand.
"Wha--" he manages, the word sticking in his dry throat.
Tony is standing right next to him, shoulders arched like an angry cat and
breath is coming in ragged pants, and he looks-- not fearful, exactly, but
nervous. He's older than the imitation Tony in the dream, and that goes a long
way to grounding Bruce in reality and calming his frantic mind.
"You were getting really worked up. I've never-- You don't usually--" Tony
says, and understanding clicks into Bruce's mind.
Tony has never seen him have a nightmare. Or, at any rate, hasn't known that
that's what he was seeing. Bruce long ago learned not to let the turmoil of his
dreams seep into his physical state lest The Other Guy show up. He guesses it
was something about falling asleep in the lab, a break in his usual routine,
that made the difference today.
He swallows several times around the roughness of his throat. "Was I--" He
clears his throat, swallows, and tries again. "Was I screaming?"
And god, it's humiliating to have to ask that. He'd quit waking up screaming by
the time he was thirteen. After he went on the run, he had plenty of nightmares
about the destructive wake of The Other Guy, but he never thrashed, never
screamed. He always lays perfectly still, frozen in his terror.
"Snoring," Tony says. "Before the nightmare."
"Oh, sorry."
"'S fine. You snore most nights."
"Sorry," Bruce repeats, because that's news to him.
Tony shrugs. “Not badly. It’s kind of relaxing.”
The silence stretches, and Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" fills in the gap. Tony is
still visibly shaken, and Bruce thinks he can understand. Bruce has been his
touchstone over the past six years, the one he ran to for comfort from his own
sleeping mind. Seeing that perceived strength-- no matter how built up in his
head-- disrupted by reality must be a jarring experience.
"Hey, it's okay," Bruce says, soothingly, and somehow, saying the words makes
it true. He's okay. It was a nightmare, nothing more. His father can't hurt him
anymore, and he would never hurt Tony. It was just a nightmare. He repeats that
to himself like a mantra. "I'm okay."
Bruce holds out a hand, and Tony takes it without hesitation, letting Bruce
pull him into a brief hug. Or, well, Bruce intends it to be brief, because he's
not sure how long his neck can take this angle with Tony standing and him
sitting, but Tony doesn't let go, arms wrapped firmly around his neck. Bruce
half-expects Tony to attempt to crawl onto the chair with him like an
affectionate toddler.
Opening piano bars of "Life On Mars" filter across the lab speakers, and Bruce
suppressed a grin. He knows exactly how to take Tony's mind off his worries.
"'It's a god-awful small affair,'" Bruce sings in a horribly fake English
accent, "'to the girl with the mousy hair.'"
"Stop that," Tony says, pulling away from the hug to hide his face in his
hands.
"'But her mummy is yelling ‘no,’ and her daddy has told her to go.'”
"You seriously need to quit."
Bruce grins. "What, am I embarrassing you?"
"You're ruining a perfectly good song. It's never done anything to you," Tony
says, but he's smiling at Bruce's terrible singing despite himself.
"How do you know?" Bruce says, mock-indignantly. "David Bowie songs and I have
a long history that goes back further than you've been alive."
Tony looks both disbelieving and curious.
"No, really," Bruce insists. "I had my first kiss to 'Suffragette City'-- which
actually, come to think of it, is an incredibly inappropriate first kiss song."
"’Wham bam thank you ma'am,'" Tony quotes, smirking, and Bruce groans.
"I never should have introduced you to glam rock," he says.
"You let me watch Velvet Goldmine," Tony says, laughing. "You officially don't
get to get onto me about anything I say short of it being about Ewan McGregor's
dick."
"Tony," Bruce says sternly, but be can't bring himself to mean it because,
yeah, he had let Tony watch that movie. Or, moreover, didn't stop him when he
found him watching it in the library at one am, which is more or less the same
thing.
Bruce had walked into the library, drawn by the faint glow of the laptop screen
and concern about what mischief was keeping Tony awake, only to find Tony right
in the middle of the scene where Ewan McGregor bounces around the stage naked
and covered in glitter. He's stood for a minute, attention caught by both the
movie and Tony's rapt expression of what-the-fuckery. When Bruce cleared his
throat awkwardly, Tony jumped so hard he nearly knocked his laptop to the
ground. Only quick reflexes on Bruce's part saved the machine from landing
screen-first.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't just find you watching this movie," he had said,
eyeing the remarkable shade of red Tony was turning in the light cast by the
laptop and turning to leave. It's a good movie-- one of Bruce's favorites, but
he was not watching it with Tony, at least not at that point in his life. Maybe
once Tony was over fifteen, but until then Velvet Goldmine was one homoerotic
adventure Tony was going to have to embark on by himself.
Tony huffs and reaches for the cold cup of coffee on Bruce's desk. Bruce is 90%
sure it's from the past twenty-four hours, so he doesn't protest. Tony gulps it
down in three long swallows and makes a face.
"Day old?" Bruce questions.
"Decaf."
Bruce huffs a laugh. "If you don't like it, go upstairs and get your own," he
says. "Besides, you shouldn't be drinking so much caffeine at your age. It'll
stunt your growth."
Tony rolls his eyes. "That's an old wives’ tale."
"Is not," Bruce insists. "Why do you think I'm this height? At least two cups
of day before I was seventeen."
Tony laughs, and Bruce doesn't bother telling him it's not entirely a joke.
He'd made it through undergrad at fifteen on enough coffee to fuel a team of
insomniac college students for a week. He's still not convinced that the coffee
isn'tthe reason he's below average height.
"Do you--" Tony starts. "Do you have nightmares often?"
"Not as much as I used to," Bruce says.
"That's not a real answer," Tony says, seeing through the deflection.
Bruce slighs and rubs his eyes under his glasses. "Sometimes. A couple time a
month," he admits. What he doesn’t admit is that it happens mostly on the
nights when Tony isn’t there. "They're not as bad as they used to be."
"You know you can talk to me, right?" Tony asks, and he looks suddenly older,
maybe older than he's ever looked to Bruce. "This arrangement we have isn't a
one way street. You can wake me up if you need to talk about it or even if you
just don't want to be awake by yourself."
"Thank you," Bruce says, because he doesn't know what else to say. "I will next
time."
And there's even a chance that Bruce means it.
He knows it isn't an offer made lightly or thoughtlessly, and it hits him that
the Tony standing before him isn't the same Tony of a year ago. Sometimes Bruce
forgets that under the snark and the mischief is a boy who's both older than
his age and younger than his intellect. He's grown so much over the past year,
transitioning seamlessly from child to young adult and reaching an age where he
wants to give back some of the emotional support Bruce has provided over the
years. What he doesn’t know is that he’s given that back to Bruce from the
beginning without even knowing it.
Tony looks mostly reassured now, only the barest traces of unease lingering
around the line of his mouth. Clearly they're on a David Bowie playlist,
because the song shifts from "Underground" to "Let's Dance." Bruce stands and
stretches, determined not to fall back asleep. He paces the length of the lab
in an attempt to restore blood flow to his legs and bobs his head thoughtlessly
to the opening of the song.
"Let's Dance" is a song that Bruce has never been able to help dancing to, and
he doesn't even try today. He lets his shoulders move in time with the music,
swaying his hips and snapping his hands from side to side in a good example of
what Tony calls "dad dancing." Unlike singing, Bruce candance well; it's just
easier to distract Tony from his worries if he doesn't.
The dancing is half for Tony's benefit, a subtle attempt to push aside all
concerns of nightmares, and half for Bruce's own mood lift. He lets himself get
more into it, bobbing and weaving across the lab in increasingly wide loops as
Tony laughs openly. On a whim, he pulls Tony into the open space between their
work tables.
And this is such a moronic idea-- they're surrounded by tens of thousands of
dollars of highly breakable lab equipment, but the goofy grin on Tony's face as
he joins in the bad dancing is enough to make Bruce forget to care. He grabs
Tony's hand and spins him in an uncoordinated approximation of a twirl.
Bruce forgets momentarily that he's supposed to be dancing like a thirty-five
year old nerdy scientist, letting his movements smooth out and his hips sway to
the rhythm. His eyes drift shut, and his head nods loosely from side to side.
He never quite got the dancing out of his system in his twenties, the prime
club and bar years of his life successfully interrupted by his obsession with
his work and the monster it created. He's sure even his good technique is long
outdated, so Tony will probably find it funny regardless.
Tony's movements slow as his eyes track the sway of Bruce's shoulders and hips.
He watches, mouth slightly open.
Bruce ignores him, because he knows his dancing isn't thatbad.
As the song fades, Bruce huffs a laugh, trying to catch his breath. "Now if
only isolating the growth markers of this latest batch of samples was as easy
as aging myself with my dance moves," he says. He runs a hand back through his
disheveled curls only to find them damp with sweat.
Ton visibly pulls himself back to the moment. "Have you tried isolating the
stagnant markers first to eliminate them?" he suggests.
Still giddy from their improvised dance session, Bruce grabs Tony by the sides
of his head and plants a quick kiss on his unbrushed mop of hair without
thinking.
"You are a genius!" he says, raising his arms in celebration.
"T-that's me," Tony stutters, color rising up his neck, "a literal genius."
~*~
12
Tony is twelve when he says, “Can I ask you something?”
Bruce pauses in his reading and looks down at the top of Tony’s head over his
glasses. The pair of them are sprawled on a sofa in the Starks’ library,
Bruce’s head resting on one arm of the couch and crossed ankle propped on the
other. He’d been here less than an hour when Tony found him and crawled onto
the couch without asking. He hadn’t hesitated to splay himself half on top of
Bruce and read the book from between his arms.
He’d never admit it out loud-- can barely admit it to himself-- but Bruce
secretly likes that Tony never hesitates to get into his personal space. Tony
understands better than anyone exactly what Bruce is capable of if his control
slips, but it never deters him, despite having encountered the Other Guy
firsthand.
Now, Tony looks up at Bruce from where his chin rests against Bruce’s chest,
eyes liquid brown in the bright sunlight filtering in through the bay windows.
“Not like you to ask permission.”
“It’s kind of personal,” Tony adds, voice soft, and Bruce resists the urge to
ask for which one of them. Tony has never been one to be shy about asking
questions, personal or not. The sudden bout of bashfulness sets off warning
bells in Bruce’s head. The last thing he’s expecting for Tony to ask is, “How
do you feel about homosexuals?”
Bruce stills before taking a deep breath and setting aside the medical journal
he’d been idly perusing. He turns his full attention to the boy lying against
his chest.
“Why do you ask?”
A shrug and inarticulate grumble answer him.
“I guess-- I guess I haven’t given the matter much thought in the last several
years,” Bruce says, clenching and unclenching the hand Tony hasn’t put to
sleep. He wills his pulse back down into a normal range.
Tony’s eyes dart sideways away from Bruce’s as he asks, “Would it bother you if
one of your friends was?”
“Was?”
“Gay.”
“Ah.” Bruce was afraid that was the question.
His sexuality has never seemed important since he came to Stark Mansion.
Relationships, even ones only lasting a single night, have been out of the
question thanks to the Other Guy. Bruce sucks in another steadying breath as he
thinks of how to respond.
“I’m making you uncomfortable,” Tony says, looking back up at him. He looks-
- guilty, is the only way Bruce can think to describe it.
He furrows his brow, and Tony makes an aborted gesture towards this chest and
throat. “The breathing thing. You always do it when you’re upset,” he says.
He’s folding in on himself, all of his overblown swagger suddenly gone. “You
don’t have to answer.”
Abruptly, the situation clicked in Bruce’s head. This isn’t about him and his
opinions on social issues, not really. The uncharacteristic dart of Tony’s eyes
tells him that much. He’s nervous, and of course he’s fucking nervous. He’s
twelve and trying to come out to his best friend. He’s probably terrified.
At least that goes a long way to explaining his sudden fascination with 70s
glam rock.
Tony makes to slide off the couch, but Bruce stops him with a hand on his back.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he says softly, brow creased with concern. He pushes himself
into a sitting position but doesn’t let Tony flee further than the cushion next
to him.
Bruce leans over, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks down at his
clasped hands. “To answer your question, no, it wouldn’t bother me,” he says,
then looks over to the boy next to him. With shoulders hunched and confidence
gone, it’s the youngest Tony has looked in years.
Bruce waits for Tony to meet his eyes before continuing, “It would be very
hypocritical of me to be bothered by homosexuals. Also very difficult to get a
date. Well, would be, if the Other Guy didn’t take care of that for me.”
That bit of information takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, Tony’s
eyes widen comically. “You-- You’re--? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Bruce holds his hands out, chagrined. “I didn’t think it mattered. I would’ve
said something if I’d realized you needed someone to talk to. So, are you--?”
he hedges, not wanting to push, but also not wanting to make assumptions.
“Um, yeah. I am,” Tony says, some of his self-consciousness forgotten in the
face of his surprise.
Bruce blows out a long breath. “Okay. Okay, good. I mean-- not good, or well,
no more good than you liking women, which is fine, too.”
A strained laugh escapes Tony. “I like women a little bit, too, I think. Mostly
men, though,” he says. Fear and nerves still tinge the edge of the words, even
in the face of acceptance. Bruce is willing to bet that this is the first time
Tony has voiced any of this, and it makes him want to pull the boy into a
fierce hug. “But how could you think it didn’t matter?”
“I never mentioned liking men because it’s irrelevant,” Bruce says.
In reality, Bruce somewhere between forgot to tell Tony about his sexuality and
didn't tell him out of habit. He’s never been the vocally out and proud type-
- couldn’t be if he wanted to keep his research grants during the late
eighties. Between his childhood and the civilian version of Don’t Ask, Don’t
Tell, Bruce had learned to keep his head down and his mouth shut when it came
to his sexuality.
His sexuality hardly makes a difference in his life anymore, but he’s also
spent too many years not telling more people than necessary to break the habit
easily. He knew rationally that Tony wouldn’t care, but old paranoias die hard.
He wishes he could have a better outlook, but by the time the world had changed
enough that he could walk down the streets holding a lover’s hand, a lover
wasn't an option.
Tony is young enough that he’ll never know firsthand what it was like to live
through the eighties as gay man. He’ll know discrimination and that small jolt
of worry the hundreds of times he has to come out in his life, but the world
has moved forward over the last twenty years. He’ll never need to fear for his
career because of his sexuality or watch the men like himself waste away by the
hundreds.
One day Tony will understand why Bruce never said anything, but not today.
“You can always come to me if you need to talk about something, okay?” Bruce
tells him. He wants Tony to have every resource he grew up without. “You can
ask me anything.”
Embarrassment and happiness war over Tony’s answering smile. “Why do you think
I’m telling you now?”
Bruce pauses, considering his next words carefully. Finally, he says, “You know
you can tell your parents, too, right? I would never tell them for you, but you
should know that you can, when you’re ready.”
Tony’s jaw sets. “I’m not giving my father one more thing about me to be
disappointed in. Mom-- I think she might already know, but there’s no way I’m
telling Dad.”
“He won’t care,” Bruce insists, because as much as Tony’s words break his
heart, he knows Howard won’t. Bruce knows what a father who cares looks like-
- knows it in insults and scars and nights spent wishing that part of himself
away. He takes a long breath, considering how much to tell Tony.
“I was thirteen when I came to live with your parents,” he says at last. “That
was 1982, and fears and myths and lies about gay men and gay sex were running
rampant. It wasn’t a subject most ‘decent’ people talked about, even if they
were liberal and accepting. I was terrified, and I had no one to turn to. I
thought maybe if I just ignored liking men, it would go away.”
He huffs a dry laugh and doesn’t have to say that it didn’t. Tony watches him,
transfixed, and Bruce know it’s the first time anyone has talked to him like
this-- like being attracted to men is common ground they share and not an
abstract concept. He remembers how exhilarating that first open conversation
can be, like a dam fracturing after spent holding back.
“One afternoon about a month before I left for CalTech, Howard called me into
his office. I was fourteen at the time. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t pry. He
just told me what he thought I’d need to know. It was possibly the most awkward
hour of my life, but I came out of it knowing how to keep myself safe and not
feeling like something in me was broken.
“He told me in plain words that it was natural and that it wasn’t something
that could or should be changed,” Bruce says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Maybe a safe sex talk and a reassurance that I wasn’t crazy doesn’t sound like
much, but at the time it helped keep me alive and keep me sane.”
“Have you--” Tony starts, then cuts himself off. “Never mind.”
“What? It’s okay,” Bruce reassures. “Ask whatever you need.”
“Have you ever been in love?” Tony makes a face like the words leave a bad
taste in his mouth.
“A couple times,” Bruce says with a sad, soft smile. “A couple men, one woman.”
“Have you ever thought about trying again?”
“No,” Bruce says. “That part of my life is over, and I’ve made peace with
that.”
Tony furrows his brow. “Why?”
“I can’t date.”
“You don’tdate. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah, risk level,” Bruce says shortly. “Look, Tony, even forgetting the innate
risk of being around me, a physical relationship is out of the question for
me.”
“Because of your heart rate?” Tony asks, blunt as he is.
Bruce looks at him, incredulous. “Those files were encrypted.”
Tony doesn’t even have the decency to look chagrined. “Use encryption you know
I can’t break if you don’t want me reading them.”
Loathe as Bruce is to admit it, Tony is right. The encryption wasn’t for Tony’s
benefit. Bruce has seen Tony breaking through encryption of that caliber since
he was nine.
“But you tested that. An elevated heart rate isn’t enough to make you lose it-
- there has to be stress or fear,” Tony presses. "Pretty sure that if you're
stressed or afraid during sex, you're doing it wrong."
Bruce would be exasperated by how quickly their sharing-and-caring moment went
to the wayside except that Tony’s face looks less pinched and his shoulders are
slowly uncrumpling. Apparently Bruce’s myriad of issues is enough to distract
Tony from his discomfort.
“Can you masturbate without changing, or is there something about an orgasm
that affects you?” Tony asks, kicking into full-on Science Mode.
“Okay, this is officially not an appropriate topic of conversation.” Bruce
might be beginning to regret that open invitation for Tony to ask him anything.
Tony, blunt as he is, ignores Bruce’s discomfort. “What, did you, like, Hulk
out in bed once?”
“This isn’t scientific trial and error,” Bruce says testily, trying to make
Tony understand. “This is putting another person’s life on the line for my
pleasure. That’s not a risk worth taking.”
“So, wait. You’ve never tried?” Tony visibly does the math. “You’re seriously
telling me you’ve been celibate for the last ten years?”
“Eleven, actually. There was a nice dry spell where I was focused on work
before the Other Guy,” Bruce says before he thinks about it.
Then his brain-to-mouth filter kicks in and he claps his hand over his mouth.
Sometimes he has trouble remembering that Tony isn’t as old as he seems and
that jokes like that are hardly appropriate to tell a twelve year old.
Tony looks unimpressed. “I basically just asked you when the last time you had
sex was. I think you’re okay.”
“This is not a conversation I need to be having with you,” Bruce says, taking
his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes.
Tony crosses his arms huffily to cover the blush blooming over his cheeks.
“Well then, who are you going to have it with, the centrifuge?”
And that right there is Bruce’s situation in a nutshell. A twelve year old
genius with a smart mouth is the only person in Bruce’s life he can talk to
about personal matters. God, he needs some adult friends. Not work friends or
other people living under this roof, but someone he can have beers with and
tell off-color jokes.
Bruce lets out a long breath and runs a hand back through his hair.
“It’s not just about the physical transformation.” He swallows and hesitates,
trying to pick the right words. “My blood is poisonous,” he says finally,
because sad jokes about lead-lined condoms aren’t going to cut it.
Tony’s brow furrows, because of course he’s smart enough to understand. “Wait,
seriously? Have you tested that? I mean, obviously not all of your bodily
fluids carry the gamma sickness. We’ve been sharing food for years, and your
saliva hasn’t affected me.”
“Tony, there’s a big difference between saliva and-- that,” Bruce says with a
vague wave of his hand.
“It’s radiation, Bruce, not an STD. Radiation that, may I remind you, turns you
into a giant green rage monster.I don’t think the normal rules apply. It’s not
like you’re leaking radiation.”
Bruce starts to reply, but Tony points a sharp finger at him.“And don’t even
try to tell me you haven’t held a Geiger counter up to yourself at least once.”
Bruce lets out a muffled laugh because yeah, alright, he has done that. More
than one, actually. He sobers, though, fixing Tony with a serious look. “I’m
not going to risk endangering the person I’m with.”
“Then don’t. Test it. Work out the variables. Grab some porn mags, and hook up
some electrodes. Get a sample, and run every test known to man,” Tony says.
“You’re paying penance when you probably don’t have to. You don’t have to live
like a monk because you made one mistake. You deserve the chance to be happy,
and don’t you dare think otherwise.”
Bruce stares at him, speechless for a long moment, before he gives into the
impulse to pull Tony into a tight hug. When they part, Tony squirms in
embarrassment, eyes fixed firmly on a point over Bruce’s right shoulder.
“So, do you want to watch War Gamestonight?” he asks, pushing off the couch.
“We could make popcorn.”
Bruce lets him get away with the deflection. “You want to watch a movie about
Soviet era video games?”
“It’s a good movie!” Tony protests, indignant.
“I never said it isn’t,” Bruce says. “It’s just strange for me that you like
watching a movie that came out when I was fourteen.”
“We could always watch--”
“Tony, no. I'm still not watching Velvet Goldminewith you,” Bruce says, then
falters, because would it be better for Tony to at least watch a movie like
that with someone he can ask questions? “Unless you really just want me to.”
Tony grins mischievously, and Bruce has the sinking feeling he's in for an
awkward two hours of gay Ewan McGregor and glitter. He should’ve just taken the
80s Cold War movie.
~*~
12
Tony is twelve when he tells Bruce, apropos of nothing, “I need you to teach me
how to dance.”
Bruce finishes chewing his bite of pizza and raises his eyebrows at him across
the kitchen table. “Come again?”
“I need you to teach me how to dance,” Tony repeats impatiently. And there's
something there, something hiding under the words.
“That’s what I thought you said. And what makes you think I know how to dance?”
Bruce asks.
“Because you’re you and you know how to do weird stuff like that. I’ve got to
go to a charity ball for the company this Friday, and everyone’s going to
assume I can at least waltz.”
“You shouldn’t have given up on the ballroom dance lessons so quickly.”
Tony huffs. “Don’t remind me.”
That had been one of the few full-on temper tantrums Tony ever threw as a
child, but there had been enough stomping and yelling to make up for lost time.
Three hours into his first lesson-- and right there was the start of the
problem; a tired and bored Tony is never a pleasant Tony--  he had made his
feeling on the subject incredibly and loudly clear to all within a ten mile
radius.
After that, no amount of cajoling from Bruce or Maria could persuade him to
take the lessons up again. Maria assumed Tony naturally hated dancing that
much, but Bruce knows for a fact that it was because he had been too
embarrassed by his tantrum to face the instructor again.
But failed dance lessons or no, Bruce is fairly certain that Tony already knows
how to dance at least something as basic as a waltz.
“Will you help me or not?” Tony says, and there it is again-- a dissonant note
that rings false to Bruce. He doesn't think Tony is lying, not outright, but
he's concealing something.
For now Bruce decides to play along. "You think my dancing is terrible," he
points out.
That catches Tony off guard. "What?" he asks.
"When I dance in the lab you always look at me like I've lost my mind."
Tony blinks, visibly considers the words, and then blushes all the way to the
roots of his hair. "I-- No, I don't think your dancing is terrible. You dance-
- very well. That's why I'm asking you," he says, the last words tumbling out
in a rush.
If possible, Tony's face colors even more. Bruce tries not to be suspicious-
- he really does, but Tony is acting odd. He pushes that aside for the time
being.
"It there-- I can't believe I have to ask this," Bruce interrupts himself, "but
is there a ballroom or something like that here?"
Even after seven years, there are many rooms in Stark Mansion he's never
entered. Namely, the entire east wing where the rooms meant for entertaining
are located. Howard avoids that side of the mansion, as best Bruce can tell,
and Maria's expression gets pinched around the eyes if it comes up in
conversation.
"Yep! Come on," Tony says, standing.
"Now?" Bruce asks in bewilderment. "I'm still eating," he says, but it's a
token protest. He finished his leftover pizza in two quick bites and stands,
brushing his hands off on his pants. He follows Tony through the house, and as
predicted, he leads them to the east wing.
"Here we go," Tony says, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. Over the
past two months his voice has started changing at a rate that Bruce finds
almost dizzying. Now, under the voice he's grown so familiar with, he can hear
traces of how Tony will sound in a year, two years.
He pushes open the double doors, leading Bruce into a large room filled with
covered furniture and a wide, empty expanse of hardwood floor. The space speaks
of disuse and feels more like a dusty photograph than any other part of the
mansion Bruce has been in.
"It wasn't always like this," Tony explains, pulling a sheet off of a chair as
he passes. "I can barely remember it, but they used to host balls and galas
here."
Bruce takes 'they' to mean Howard and Maria. He watches as Tony slowly paces
the edge of the room, letting his fingers trail through the dust on an
uncovered table.
"When Mom got sick, they stopped," he continues. "They started renting out
spaces in other parts of the city, that way she wasn't as obligated to put in
an appearance if she wasn't feeling up to it." A sad smile crosses his face.
"There's no missing a party when it's in your own home."
A record player and a small stack of records sit on a long table at the far end
of the room, the only sign that Tony prepared for Bruce to say yes. Since last
Christmas, he’s fallen in love with vinyl records. Nothing can replace the
beauty of digital in his eyes, but vinyl, he concedes, is better for the songs
designed for it.
That sneaking suspicion nags at Bruce again, and he walked over to the record
player and flips through the records stacked next to it. As suspected, none of
the record are the type of music you teach someone to dance to. The Kinks. AC/
DC. Tom Petty. Black Sabbath. Robert Palmer.
Bruce looks back at Tony. "Why are we here, Tony?" he asks, not unkindly. "I'm
pretty sure you know how to waltz."
Tony fidgets. He doesn't look surprised to be called out, but he does look like
he's struggling for an answer. He looks up at Bruce through dark lashes,
swallowing visibly. "Teach me to follow?" he asks softly, and there’s something
underneath that question that Bruce can’t quite parse
"What?"
"I know how to lead a when dancing, but I don't know how to follow," Tony
clarifies, and Bruce can hear the slight tremor to his voice.
His meaning clicks in Bruce's mind. The subterfuge, Tony's nervousness-- this
is Tony asking the only person he knows to how dancing works when another man
is leading.
Bruce doesn't say that following easy. He doesn't laugh or brush it off.
Instead, he fishes through the stack of records until he finds the one he's
looking for. He pulls Damn the Torpedoesout of its sleeve and puts it on the
turntable. Tom Petty isn't really dance music, but then, that was probably
never Tony's intention.
"Okay," Bruce says, stepping closer to Tony, who's bouncing on the balls of his
feet where he stands. This close, Tony has to look up to compensate for their
height difference. "Hand."
Instinctively, Tony holds up his left hand, and Bruce does his best not to
smile. "Other hand," he instructs. He grasps Tony's right hand in his own and
guides the other to his shoulder. Tony is a solid shade of red, and Bruce sort
of wishes he could take a picture. It's a rare enough occurrence that Tony
blushes at all, much less so profusely.
Bruce tries to set the pace in time to the music, but really, the dance doesn't
fit, not at all. That's not really why the music is here this time. The music
is meant to calm Tony, take away that nervous edge that has him almost
vibrating.
"Relax. Quit trying to lead," Bruce says, squeezing Tony's hand reassuringly.
"Following isn't passive. Feel what I'm doing, and try to move with it."
It takes another song, but eventually Tony relaxes, movements smoothing out and
syncing up with Bruce’s. They drift closer together until Bruce's breath is
ghosting over the side of his face.
“That’s it. You’re getting the hang of it,” Bruce says. He hesitates before
adding, “Thank you for trusting me with this.”
"Who else would I ask? You're my best friend," Tony says, and then scoffs.
“Besides, I’ll probably always end up dancing with women anyhow.”
Bruce is quiet for a minute, trying to figure out how to say what’s on his
mind, and as he considers his words, the slow opening beats of “Casa Dega”
crackle over the speakers.
“One day you’ll find someone you can dance with like this,” Bruce says at last.
Maybe he never found that person for himself, but times are different now, and
Tony’s life won’t be interrupted the way his was-- he won’t let it be so long
as he’s alive. “I know you always have to dance with shareholders’ daughters at
SI events, but one day you’ll be able to go with a man you love on your arm and
dance for everyone to see. Mark my words.”
For just a moment, there's something sad lurking behind Tony's eyes. Whatever
it is, it's flat and resigned, and Bruce is caught staring at it for a long
second as Tom Petty’s voice echoes through the room.
I think I'm starting to believe the things I've heard, 'cause tonight in Casa
Dega I hang on every word.
Then the moment breaks, and Tony leans his head on Bruce's shoulder, nose
almost pressed to his neck. They’re not really dancing anymore, but Bruce
enjoys the moment as they sway from side to side in time with the languid pace
of the song until the record runs out.
Chapter End Notes
     Chapter 9 Author's Notes
     Life on Mars by David Bowie
     Let's Dance by David Bowie
     Casa Dega by Tom Petty
     Velvet Goldmine
***** Chapter 10 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is thirteen.
Chapter Notes
     While I've mostly been sticking mostly to the "one chapter per year"
     model, that won't always hold true as longer scenes are required to
     address increasingly sensitive subject matter.
     That being said, anyone concerned by the content warning or where
     this story might be leading is encouraged to drop me a comment or an
     ask on tumblr with their question or contact information.
13
Tony Stark is thirteen when he convinces Bruce to go with him to Coney Island.
"Keep up!" Tony calls over his shoulder as he practically runs down the
boardwalk.
Bruce deliberately makes no effort to do so just so he can watch the
exasperated roll of Tony's eyes as he fights the wind for control of his hair.
Tony’s hair is in the artful rumple of overdramatic teens everywhere, but Bruce
can't really see the difference between this and its normal state of disarray
other than a bit of hair gel. Apparently Tony hit his teens and decided it was
time for one massive three month sulk. All that’s missing is the requisite pop-
punk, but luckily for Bruce’s sanity, he hasn’t yet sprouted a sudden fondness
for Green Day or Blink-182. Granted, AC/DC and Pink Floyd are now played
several notches louder in the lab, but Bruce can live with that. After all, ear
plugs are a possibility if the Sulk Soundtrack gets any louder.
Despite the ongoing sulk, a smile lights Tony's face as he strides down the
boardwalk, Bruce trailing behind him at a slower pace, hands in his pockets.
Bruce turns his face up to the summer sun, soaking up the warmth, and he has to
close his eyes against the glare it throws on his glasses.
"What's with you today?" Tony asks, walking backwards so he can face Bruce.
"Nothing," Bruce laughs. "Is it so strange that maybe I just want to enjoy the
sun?"
"If you say so." Tony gives a small skip to avoid a loose board that's warping
up, still not facing the direction he's walking. "You just seem a little low."
"I'm thoughtful, not low." Bruce says. He lets out a thin breath that might try
to be a laugh. "I think you'll know if I'm low."
Because no, 'low' isn't the right word for what he's feeling. Wistful, perhaps;
even a little melancholy, but never low. He's had his ups and downs, but he
hasn't dipped low in his years with the Starks. He wishes he could say that
he's forgotten what it feels like, but that's not a feeling you ever forget.
The bone-deep hollow ache, the desire to cry when there're no tears left, the
loneliness that burns deeper than any physical pain-- that's low.
Today isn't low.
Today Bruce is wrapped up in his own thoughts as he watches Tony grin his way
down the boardwalk, grey henley sticking to him with sweat. Just over two
years-- that's how long before Tony leaves for college. It feels both forever
away and so painfully close. For eight years Tony has been the fixed center of
Bruce's world, a steady axis of rotation. He hardly even thinks about the easy
way they orbit each other anymore.
Watching Tony transition seamlessly from a boy into a young man feels
simultaneously so foreign and like the most natural thing in the world. Bruce
watches as Tony jumps over an accumulated sand dune and almost wants to laugh
at the fact that three years ago Tony didn't think he was good at sports. Maybe
he isn't good at sports, per say-- teamwork, Bruce thinks, will never be Tony's
strong suit-- but he's definitely athletic. As his motor control improves and
his proportions slowly balance out, he's all smooth grace and reserved
strength.
"Hey, look," Tony says, pointing.
Bruce follows his gaze and smiles nostalgically. Right in front of an Italian
ice stand sits a battered photobooth, its red curtain faded by the sun and
black exterior scratched with initials. "Christ, I haven't seen one of these
since I was a teenager," Bruce says.
"Come on!"
Bruce lets himself be led towards it, Tony's enthusiasm pulling him forward
like a physical force. He follows Tony into the cramped little space and
watches as Tony counts out his pocket change.
"Ready?" he asks, feeding the last quarter into the machine. Bruce nods, and
Tony slings an arm around his shoulders. "One serious one."
Smiling for the picture isn't a chore for Bruce, and he thinks maybe for once
he won't come out looking awkward and pained. The flash goes, and Bruce has to
blink against the spots it leaves on his vision. Tony grins brighter.
"Okay, now a goofy one," Tony says. Bruce puts bunny ears up behind him because
it's the only thing he can think to do, and that makes Tony hiccup with a
laugh. "You're such a dork."
"That's why you love me."
When the picture flashes on the display screen, they're both wearing matching
squints, expressions goofier than anything they could have done on purpose.
Tony turns to looks at Bruce. He bites his lip for a moment, considering, then
gets a resolved expression. The flash goes again, and the picture is a nice
view of Tony in profile.
“Bruce, look here,” he says.
And Bruce looks, wondering what Tony is about to do. Tony eyes the display,
waits until the timer ticks down to one, and leans in towards Bruce. Bruce
doesn't have time process before Tony's lips are on his in a finessless kiss
and the flash is blinding him like a stunner.
After a second of horrified stillness, Bruce jerks back, and his arms come up
to hold Tony away from him. All he can do is stare at Tony-- his friend, his
bestfriend-- as alarm bells go off him his head.
The flash blinds them both one last time.
Tony is up and tearing past the red curtain like he's being chased, leaving
Bruce to sit, frozen in shock. Bruce wants more than anything to chase after
him, but he forces himself to wait for the pair of photostrips to print. He
knows he can’t leave photographic evidence of what just happened where anyone
could walk by and pick it up.
As soon as they pictures print, Bruce snatches them up and takes off after
Tony.
“What was that?” Bruce asks, jogging down the boardwalk to catch up with him.
“What did you just-- Why did you--?”
Bruce can’t even finish the sentence, brain working feverishly to keep up with
the sharp turn of the day.
“I think the ‘what’ is pretty obvious,” Tony grits out, not turning and not
slowing down. “As for the ‘why,’ I think that’s pretty damn obvious, too.”
"No, it isn't," Bruce says, and his voice reaches an unfortunate pitch.
The look Tony turns on him clearly questions if he's brain damaged.
"Look, I just had to get it out of my system. It's no big deal-- won't happen
again." He catches one of the photostrips Bruce has in a death grip. “Burn the
other one, if you want. I don’t care.”
“We need to talk about this,” Bruce insists, pacing him.
“No,” Tony says, still avoiding looking at him. “We don’t.”
“You can’t just do something like that and expect me not to be concerned.”
“Concerned,” Tony echoes flatly. He shakes his head. “I’m taking the subway
home.”
“Tony,” Bruce says seriously, catching the teen by the shoulder.
Tony jerks free of his grip. “I can find my own way back. I get around the city
fine when you’re not with me, you know.” With that, he takes off at a clipped
pace down the boardwalk. His hands are clenched into fists, and his shoulders
hunch in a defensive slouch that could be mistaken for nonchalants by the
uninitiated.
Bruce curses under his breath and runs a hand back through his hair. “That’s
not the way to the station!” he calls.
“I’m taking the Brighton Beach train!” Tony yells over his shoulder. “I want
chak-chak.”
He sets off down the boardwalk and shoves his hands into his pockets,
apparently preferring a walk next to the parkway over admitting Bruce is right.
Bruce watches him go and hopes the Russian pastries are worth the extra twenty
minutes of walking.
Standing there, watching Tony’s form shrink in the distance, the reality of the
situation hits him like a body blow. He feels like he’s been punched in the
gut-- unable to breath and aching sharply.
But then, the later might just be from the nerves settling into the pit of his
stomach.
Bruce moves blindly, setting off down the sand in the opposite direction of
Tony. He takes off his shoes, trying to make himself relax enough to think
properly. The waves lap at his feet as the tide comes in, but he barely notices
over the tumult in his head.
He can’t help wondering if he did this. Somewhere in all of his good
intentions, did he do something that would cause this? He thinks about Tony
still sharing his bed and about the way he sometimes wakes to find Tony curled
into his side after one of them has a nightmare. He worries for one long,
irrational second that he’s somehow become the monster Stane accused him of
being.
Bruce banishes that thought with a rough shake of his head.
He didn’t do this, at least not intentionally. He isn’t capable of making Tony
gay or bi or whatever he considered himself. That was an act of nature, and
nothing Bruce could have done can change that. Tony is his friend, his best
friend. Justhis friend. Thinking otherwise-- even experimentally as he tries to
figure out what was going through Tony's head-- makes Bruce want to take a
shower.
And alright, in hindsight Tony’s crush is pretty fucking obvious, but Bruce
never even considered the possibility that Tony thought of him as anything more
than a friend. He thinks back to the afternoon Tony asked him to dance, and the
knot in this stomach tightens. Even if it was unintentional, so many of his
actions could be seen as encouraging Tony’s feelings, leading him on even.
Maybe all that affection was platonic, but he should have know that it would
lead to less than platonic feelings on Tony’s part, what with the hormonal
teenager thing. As a young queer man learning to accept his emotions, it’s
natural that Tony would latch on the closest queer role model he has,
especially when said role model is also his primary source of affection.
But twenty-three years.
Bruce knows that attraction over large age disparities aren’t as uncommon as
society would have them believe, but fuck. Tony is thirteen. He’s thirty-six.
He can’t figure out what Tony thought he would accomplish by kissing him like
that, because no matter how indulgent some of Bruce's actions could have
seemed, he can’t have deluded himself into thinking Bruce returns his feelings.
At best, their easy camaraderie turns tense and awkward. At worst, Bruce is
forced to move out of Stark Mansion.
And yeah, Bruce has to forcefully remind himself for the fifth time that he
can’t be sent to prison for Tony kissing him.
Bruce thinks about the way Tony’s eyes track his movements and the sad look
Tony gets sometimes while watching him, and he knows he has to address this.
How, though, is a different matter entirely.
It’s dark by the time he gets back to the mansion, and he’s unspeakably
grateful when he doesn’t run into any of the house’s other occupants. Tony’s
bedroom door is closed, but a sliver of light filters out from under it. Bruce
hovers outside for several minutes, poised on the edge of knocking, but he
doesn't know what he'd say even if Tony answers.
In the end he chickens out and goes to take a shower, resigning himself to a
sleepless night of worrying.
~*~
13
Tony is still thirteen when Bruce decides to put an end to the mother-of-all
teenage sulks.
“Tony?” Bruce calls. He knocks lightly on the ajar door to Tony’s room. When no
response is forthcoming, he nudges the door open with the tips of his fingers
just far enough to stick his head inside. It’s been over a week since Tony’s
little stunt at Coney Island, and Bruce has barely seen him.
Tony’s continued presence in the lab is marked only by occasional shifts in the
mountain of debris and chaos on his worktable. Legal pads cramped full of notes
in his messy, slanting scrawl keep magically appearing, and Bruce has the
creeping suspicion he’s been sneaking down there in the dead of night to work
rather than sleeping.
Two nights ago Bruce woke to find Tony asleep on his floor, apparently having
snuck into the room somewhere during the night. He was gone by the next
morning, and Bruce tried his hardest to ignore the thought that this is
starting to feel unnervingly like an angry, sexless marriage.
“Tony?” he repeats, walking slowly into the room.
He can count the number of times he’s been in Tony’s room. It’s bland,
reserved-- all beige colors and neat corners-- and the décor lends it the feel
of a disused guest room rather than the room of a teenage genius. The only
personal touches are three tightly packed bookshelves and a vintage Captain
America poster he suspects Tony liberated from his father’s collection.
The lack of personality makes Bruce’s stomach clench. He’s seen Tony’s
personality for years, overflowing from lab tables in dismantled engines and
sarcastic Einstein sticky notes littered with reminders.
A breeze drifts through the room, stirring the sheer curtains lining the far
wall, and Bruce realizes that the French doors to the balcony are open. He
edges further into the room, bare feet soundless on the thick carpet.
Tony is sitting on the edge of the balcony, arms and legs threaded through the
railing as he stares unseeingly at the tree line of Central Park. His school
blazer lays abandoned on the ground next to him, and the cuffs of his oxford
are unbuttoned and rolled up past his forearms. His forehead is pressed to the
gap between the wrought iron spindles, and smoke wafts up around his head.
Bruce stares incredulously.
“Are you smoking?”
Tony doesn’t look up. “No,” he says even as he takes another drag of the lit
cigarette.
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Cut the sullen teenager act. You’re
thirteen. Leave some of the drama for the next six years. And give me that,” he
says, striding forward to catch the cigarette from between Tony’s nimble
fingers.
Tony shrugs loudly, and Bruce never realized it was possible for a sulk to be
audible.
Bruce leans his elbows against the rail next to Tony’s head and takes a drag of
the cigarette. Nicotine seems very necessary if he has to deal with his
adolescent best friend’s Mood.
“You’re smoking,” Tony points out.
“I’m over eighteen and nearly impossible to kill. I think I’m allowed. If lead
bullets and gamma radiation can’t kill me, I don’t think a few carcinogens
stand a chance.” He reaches down to flick Tony’s ear. “You, on the other hand,
are thirteen and have a family history of substance abuse.”
“Quit reminding me that I’m thirteen. It’s not going to make it stop.”
“Make what stop?” Bruce asks. He’s genuinely curious.
“It,” Tony spits. “Whatever this thing I have for you is.”
“Ahh,” Bruce says, nodding his head. “So that’s what the sulk to end all sulks
is about.” He looks towards the park and watches a family with a picnic basket
as he flicks ash from the end of the cigarette. “For the record, I’m not
reminding you that you’re thirteen; I’m reminding me.”
Tony snorts derisively. “Yeah? I was under the impression that you’re very well
aware of how old I am.”
With one final inhale, Bruce snubs out the butt and flicks it over the rail.
“Tony, you’ve known me for eight years. In that time I’ve barely aged four. I
am literally the most constant thing in your life. We’re--”
Bruce hesitates, picking his words carefully.
“Close,” he says at last. “We always have been. It’s-- normal that’d you’d
start to develop feelings for me--”
Tony groans, cutting off whatever he was about to say next. “Save it, please.
Spare us both the ‘it’s natural’ speech that I’m sure you’ve rehearsed very
well.”
“I’m trying to say that it’s all right, okay? It isn’t a problem. I’d just
never thought about it until you…” Bruce trails off.
“Until I what? Can you even say it?”
“Until you kissed me,” Bruce says sharply, starting to lose his patience with
Epic Sulk 2005. “I never considered that you might think about me like that
until you kissed me. I gave you the sex talk; of course I never considered you
romantically. Now will you please quit being an ass about it?”
Tony side-eyes him, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t know.
I think ‘ass’ might be spelled out somewhere in my genetic code next to the
name Stark.”
Bruce smiles at that and reaches over to card his fingers through the back of
Tony’s messy hair, brushing lightly against the grain at the base of his skull.
The gesture is familiar, reassuring, and Tony leans into it automatically.
“I have my own agency,” he says softly. The edge is gone from his voice, now.
“I’m in high school-- I’ve been exposed to way worse already. I know what I
want, a lot more than most people my age.”
“Look, Tony,” Bruce starts, “Sulking like it’s an Olympic sport because I don’t
feel the same way isn’t going to help me view you as an adult with agency.”
“I wasn’t sulking because of you. I knew before I did it that you didn’t feel
the same. It was stupid and selfish to surprise you like that,” Tony says, and
Bruce knows that’s as close to an apology as he’s going to get. “Knowing you,
you probably angsted over it worse than I did, and you have nothing to feel
guilty about.”
Bruce opens his mouth-- to say what, he doesn’t know-- but it’s Tony’s turn to
interrupt.
“No,” Tony says, “I know you. You have the crippling self-esteem issues of an
adolescent girl. You’d blame yourself for third-world hunger if you could find
a way to rationalize it.”
Tony lets out a long breath and rests his forehead back against the railing,
closing his eyes. Suddenly he looks so much younger than the overdramatic boy
with the cigarette.
“I was sulking because of me. It was dumb, you know? But I wanted you to be…"
“Be what?” Bruce prompts, fingers still running though the back of Tony’s hair.
And maybe this kind of touch isn’t entirely appropriate for this discussion,
but they’ve always been like this-- overly tactile and affectionate with each
other. Bruce ignores the thought that that’s probably what led to this
discussion in the first place. He’s very good at that, ignoring his own
thoughts.
“Be my first kiss,” Tony says forcefully, like he has to get the words out
before they bite him.
Bruce’s hand stills. “Come again?” he chokes out.
“Don’t make me repeat that.”
There’s a long silence, and Bruce still doesn’t pull his hand back, because now
it would just feel like a slight. He has no clue what to say to that, both that
he was Tony’s first kiss or that that’s what Tony intended.
Tony’s the first to break the quiet. “It doesn’t feel weird to me-- wanting
you, I mean,” he says softly, “It feels as normal as breathing or building an
engine. You’re not my brother. You’re not my father. You’re Bruce, and that
means a hell of a lot more than either of those.”
Once more Tony renders Bruce speechless. No response he can come up with feels
right answer to the pain and love in those words. Instead, he stands, and Tony
flinches like he expects him to just walk away.
Open surprise covers his face when Bruce hauls him to his feet by the upper arm
and pulls him into tight, wordless hug. He relaxes almost immediately into
Bruce’s arms, pressing his face to the taller man’s shoulder.
Bruce wants to say that it’ll be okay, that they’ll figure this out, that it
won’t change things; but he doesn’t.
Those aren’t promises he can make.
***** Chapter 11 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is thirteen.
Chapter Notes
     Warnings for brief mention of past depression and canonical suicide
     attempt.
13
Tony Stark is thirteen when Virginia “Pepper” Potts enters his life.
The Clash fills the lab like a solid wall of sound, and Bruce is beginning to
suspect that he’s going to lose his hearing before he reaches forty. Somehow,
Tony’s glam rock phase has given way to a punk rock phase. Bruce doesn’t mind;
it’s music with history, the politically charged anthems of an era, but he’s
beginning to think they need to have a discussion about how many decibels is
too many. The chime of the automatic lock on the lab doors is almost lost to
the sound of Joe Strummer belting “London’s Burning”.
“Who’re you, and what are you doing in our lab?” Tony asks drolly without
looking up from the intake manifold he’s reworking.
Bruce glances up from the spectral analysis he’d been studying and straightens
in surprise.
A tall woman with strawberry hair hesitates momentarily before striding into
the room with obviously feigned confidence, smart heels clicking on the
concrete floor.
“Dr. Banner,” she says. She stops in front of his work station, elbows pulled
in tight to avoid the myriad of files handing half-off the tabletop. She holds
out a manila folder. “Mr. Stark asked me to deliver these to you. They’re the
field report for the latest round of tests for the latest filtration system. He
told me to tell you that the results look very promising. Outbreaks are down
34% in test populations.”
“That’s wonderful. Thank you,” Bruce says, taking the folder. “You must be
Howard’s new secretary.”
She’s younger than him, probably around twenty-nine, well dressed in a
professionally cut blouse and pencil skirt. Tension and nerves thrum through
her like a beacon, but it’s little wonder considering Howard has gone through
four secretaries in the last month and a half alone.
“Yes,” she says with a tight smile. “Virginia Potts.”
“Well, Ms. Potts, a bit of advice, if I may?” Bruce says with a soft smile.
“Relax. Breathe. The first week is going to be hell, but you’ll get used to his
leaps of logic soon enough, and his filing system will start making sense
eventually.”
Tony leans backwards over the back of his chair, gazing up at her upside-down.
“If it makes you feel any better, you look way less ditzy than the last three.”
He rights himself and clambers to his feet. “Stanford? Stern? Columbia? No, it
was Dartmouth. Definitely Dartmouth. You’re from the Northeast and wouldn’t
have wanted to go too far from home.”
“Tony,” Bruce says sharply. “A round of ‘let’s guess your personal life’ is
hardly conducive to a pleasant first week.”
“Yeah, and Nine Inch Nails isn’t conducive to a peaceful working environment,
but you play them all the time,” he says with a smirk. He raises his eyebrows
at the woman and mouths ‘all the fucking time’at her with a roll of his eyes.
He plucks a spectroscopic slide off Bruce’s table and holds up to his eye. “If
she’s focused on me being an ass, she’ll quit stressing over how many lumps of
sugar Dear Ol’ Dad likes in his coffee, or whatever she’s hung up on.” He
points at her over the white rim of the slide. “Trick question. He takes his
coffee black. So what’s really bugging you, Ms. Potts?”
“Where does he keep the 1968 tax filings for Humanitarian R&D?” she blurts
frantically. “He said to find them, but I looked in the file room, and only
1976 to current are in there. And I know the humanitarian branch still files as
for profit because some of the research is funneled into other branches, but--”
“Breathe,” Bruce reminds her, laying a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“Seriously, you’re gonna’ make me hyperventilate,” Tony adds. He sets the slide
back on the lab table with a pointed click and sighs. “There isn’t a 1968 tax
filing. Stark Industries didn’t develop a humanitarian branch until after the
Vietnam War. The company needed an image boost, and fixing third-world problems
was the way to do it.”
“But why would he ask me to get it if it doesn’t exist?” Virginia says
pleadingly, her hair starting to slip from its neat bun.
“I can’t rightly say,” Tony says. “Chances are, he forgot. Better chances are,
he’s an ass.”
“Tony,” Bruce chides, but it’s half-hearted at best. Bruce knows the truth
behind Tony’s words firsthand.
Tony looks at him, and there’s something hiding behind his veneer of humor.
“What? It’s true. You and I both know it.”
Bruce sighs, but doesn’t object except to say, "He's your father."
The younger man looks back at the frazzled secretary. “The first month is a
hazing process with him. Remember that. He does it to make sure you won’t crack
under pressure, that way he knows you won’t flake out when he needs you most.
“He’s an ass, yes, but after the first month he’s fine to work for. You never
have to worry about ass-grabbing or mind games with him,” Tony says. “Do your
job, do it well, and he’ll treat you accordingly. Or at least give you a hefty
bonus after he yells at you for something that isn’t your fault.”
“Okay, that’s--” She takes a deep, steadying breath and straightens to her full
height. “That’s good to know. Thank you. I was beginning to think I’d taken the
job from hell.”
This time it’s Bruce who chuckles. “Oh, it’s still the job from hell. But it’s
the reasonable job from hell that pays a small fortune.”
A genuine laugh escapes her, and she holds the remaining paperwork up to cover
it. “I should get back.”
Tony cocks his head as she makes to leave. “Ms. Potts,” he calls. “Good luck.”
She smiles, open and real this time. “Call me Pepper, both of you. Thank you.”
“I like her,” Tony says once the door closes, sealing off sound from the
stairs. “I hope she makes it.”
“Me, too,” Bruce says, and it surprises him how much he means it. He brushes a
light hand over Tony’s shoulders. “I think that was the kindest thing I’ve ever
heard you say about your father.”
Tony scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.”
~*~
13
Tony is thirteen when he lays a ticket on the edge of Bruce's lab table.
"I've got an extra ticket for the opera tomorrow night. Come with me," Tony
says.
Bruce looks up from his paperwork, and he can feel his hair sticking up where
his hand's been buried in it for the past hour.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," he says. Once upon a time he'd loved
symphonies and operas, loved the music and the elegance, but now the idea of
being trapped in the middle of a stagnant crowd for that long sets his teeth on
edge.
"The ticket is already paid for, and it's just going to go to waste if you
don't come." Tony leans his elbows on the tabletop and gives Bruce his best
pleading look. "Dad bailed for a conference in LA, and it's just pathetic to go
alone."
Bruce can feel himself giving in despite his better judgment. Tony always seems
to have that effect on him. "I don't have any clothes nice enough for that," he
says, but it's a token protest.
"Let me handle that."
"Tony, no."
"Come on, you'll shame the Stark name if you don't let me get you a good suit,"
Tony wheedles.
And Bruce knows he means it as a joke, but he also knows the truth behind the
words perhaps too well. The Starks have an image to maintain in the society
circle of New York, and Bruce-- Bruce will never blend in there. No amount of
tailoring or finery will change the fact that he's a stray being paraded among
the Kennel Club.
Tony's eyes widen as he reads something of these thoughts on Bruce's face. "No,
no! I'm just kidding," he says hurriedly. "You can go in jeans and a t-shirt
for all the difference it makes to me. As long as you come with me, I don't
give a shit. I just want you to have something nice to wear if you want it."
Bruce forces a chuckle. "What's your obsession with dressing me?"
"You'd look hot in a well cut three piece suit." Tony shrugs like the answer is
obvious. "Or, well, hotter."
Bruce gapes.
"Don't look at me like that. It's not 'a thing' if it's true," Tony says, and
Bruce can hear the air quotes around the words, Tony's way of lightening a
serious subject that they still haven't entirely figured out how to navigate.
"Maybe you don't see it, but you're attractive-- the kind of attractive that
would look smokin' in a good suit. It would be a waste notto dress you up."
Under the words, Bruce hears what he isn't saying: Bruce lives with the Starks,
works for them, loves and is loved by them. He might as well look like it in
public.
Bruce has long suspected that the clothes are an unintentional form of
possessiveness, a way for Tony to lay claim. Not in a controlling way-- not the
way an obsessive lover would. Tony doubtlessly means every gift purely as a
kindness. He gives and gives with no thought of getting something in return,
but that in and of itself ties Bruce to him. Small gifts thoughtfully yet
thoughtlessly given weave a web, blanketing Bruce and holding him in this place
that's become his home. Every gift is another tie he'd have to break if he ran.
Tony straightens and says, "It's settled, than. This afternoon we're going to
see Mr. Hardi, and you're getting a real suit that doesn't need an inch less
cuff. Seriously, they don't make off the rack suits in anywhere near the
correct measurements for you."
"The pains of being below average height," Bruce says.
Tony's answering smirk is enough of an agreement. He cups Bruce's jaw and leans
in, pushing himself into Bruce's personal space. For the first time in years it
takes an effort for Bruce not to flinch back.
But instead of doing something they'd both come to regret, Tony scratches
Bruce's two day stubble against the grain. "Don't forget to shave," he says,
his breath coming in warm puffs against Bruce's ear.
~*~
Bruce fidgets with the cuff of his tux. The material feels tight, restrictive,
but he's pretty sure that's just because he hasn't worn professionally fitted
clothes in a decade and a half. "People are staring at us," he says.
"They're staring because you clean up nicely. Verynicely."
And really, that sentiment is laughable coming from the young man next to him.
Even in a three piece suit, Bruce looks just as out of place as if he'd shown
up in a dressing gown. He knows it's all in how he holds himself, confidence
and ease made painfully noticeable by its absence. Bruce keeps reminding
himself not to hunch his shoulders, but standing up straight just makes him
look stiff and robotic, as five minutes spent staring at the bathroom mirror
had proven.
Tony, on the other hand, looks just as comfortable in tux and waistcoat as in
grease-stained sweatpants and a henley.
Bruce had insisted on paying for his suit himself, even knowing that the price
tag would probably have at least three zeros. When the price he was quoted
turned out to be far less than he'd expected, Bruce suspected Tony's hand, but
he couldn't rightly accuse the small Kurdish tailor of charging him too little,
especially not as the man had blinked kindly at him through Coke-bottle
glasses. Mr. Hardihad been nothing like what Bruce expected-- small, patient,
and quietly kind. He never made Bruce feel out of place, never treated him like
he probably couldn't afford the majority of the shop's contents.
"I can't tell if we're overdressed or underdressed," Bruce muses.
"Bruce, we're fine," Tony says, stilling Bruce's nervous fidgeting with a hand
on his wrist. "I wouldn't let you show up looking dumb. Have a little faith."
"I have faith in you; you know that. I'm just-- nervous. I'm nervous, and it's
making me twitchy and paranoid."
"Really? I hadn't noticed," Tony says, eyes wide with mock surprise. He runs
what Bruce suspects is supposed to be a comforting hand down his arm. To Bruce
it feels more like being guided like a lost child. "Relax. Breathe. No one's
even looking at us except to check out how hot we look. I really didn't bring
you along to make you miserable; I thought you'd like this kind of artsy
stuff."
"I do. Or, well, I used to. What are we seeing?" Bruce asks, feeling remarkably
foolish. He'd been so worked up over getting ready that's he'd forgotten to
check the tickets to find out what they were seeing once they got here.
"Marriage of Figaro," Tony says, no hint if he's surprised by Bruce not
knowing. He glances at the honest-to-god pocket watch he's carrying. "Come on.
We should take our seats."
Unsurprisingly, Tony leads them to a pair of perfectly positioned seats, the
view of the stage magnificent and the acoustics stunning. The curtain lifts,
and the preference begins, instantly captivating Bruce.
Even as Bruce's nerves dissipate as he relaxes into the narrative of the
performance, Tony's seem to ratchet up. He keeps glancing at Bruce out of the
corner of his eye, expression what Bruce only knows to call guilty. His leg
bounces out of time with the music, a ceaseless tic of movement that makes the
elderly man next to them huff in disapproval and does little to sooth Bruce's
nerves.
After fifteen minutes of relentless bouncing, Bruce lays a steadying palm on
Tony's knee to quiet the movement. Tony stills immediately under the touch and
throws Bruce another guilty look. Satisfied, he takes his hand back.
Bruce gets approximately eight minutes of fidgeting before the leg bouncing
starts up again. Torn between amusement and exasperation, he covers Tony's knee
once more and this time doesn't remove his hand until intermission. When the
house lights come back up at the break, the first thing Tony does look around
like he wants an exit to flee through.
"Tony, are you alright?" Bruce asks, beginning to feel genuinely concerned.
"I lied," Tony says in a rush.
"What?"
"The ticket was always for you. I just felt stupid asking. So, I lied. Sorry,"
he says, and he looks it. He's staring at the empty stage opposite them, legs
crossed and shoulders back, but an air of tense regret surrounds him. "I
thought you'd say no unless you thought a ticket would go to waste, but now
you're uncomfortable, and you're not enjoying yourself, and I'm sorry."
And maybe Tony is right. Maybe Bruce wouldn't have agreed unless he thought the
ticket would be wasted otherwise. The pomp and expense of the Met Opera has
never appealed to Bruce, even if the art itself does.
"It's alright," Bruce says. "Next time just ask me, okay? You don't ask me for
much, and you know I rarely tell you no when you do. And I am enjoying the
show. The show makes the pomp and circumstance worth it. As long as you don't
make me go back out there to mix and mingle, we're fine."
"Deal," Tony says, tension draining from his posture.
The remainder of the performance goes much better for Bruce's nerves. Tony
actually seems to be enjoying himself now, smile wide on his face as he leans
forward in his seat. More than once Bruce finds himself watching the younger
man rather than the actors, a small smile curving his lips at how happy Tony
looks. Bruce can't help but think that he'd do all of it-- the tailor, the
awkwardness, the crowd-- over again if it would keep that expression on Tony's
face.
"What'd you think?" Tony asks as they file out with the rest of the crowed.
Bruce hesitates just a moment too long. "It was-- good."
Tony laughs. "Okay, now that the polite answer is out of the way, what's you
really thing?"
"It was long," Bruce says delicately. "I still enjoyed it, though."
"Yeah," Tony says, drawing out the word. He holds the door open for Bruce. "I
usually entertain myself by pretending Cherubino really is a woman, and that
they're caught in one giant lesbian love triangle."
That startles a laugh out of Bruce. Even though he knew that women often played
younger men in operas, the page's rather obvious breasts had still been a bit
distracting for the first couple scenes.
"You feel up to walking back?" Tony asks. "It's not too far if we cut through
the park."
Bruce considers that for a moment, evaluating just how badly his dress shoes
are bothering his feet. "That sounds good," he says, deciding that his feet
will survive. The crisp Februaryair sounds like a welcome relief after two and
a half hours of sitting still.
He follows Tony up and over a handful of blocks, thankful for the relatively
thin crowds. Tourist season hasn't hit yet, and the people they pass are mostly
locals out enjoying their night. The beautiful thing about New Yorkers is the
way they pointedly ignore even the strangest of passersby. Two people in
evening wear don't even ping their radar.
Well, apart from two exceptionally drunk women practically holding each other
up. They can't be over twenty-two, and Bruce is willing to bet at least one of
them is working off a fake ID. The drunker of the two-- or at least the one
requiring more bodily support-- actually does a double take to stare at them.
"Hot damn," she stage whispers to her friend. "Look at curls and glasses back
there."
Bruce resists the urge to look around for another man with curls and glasses as
both girls look over their shoulders. He keeps his eyes trained on the path
ahead of him, just to the right of Drunk One and Drunk Two, and pretends he
doesn't hear the words. Tony, however, has no such reservations.
"Is it still catcalling when women do it?" he asks, loud enough for them to
hear. He elbows Bruce in the side. "See, I told you you'd be hot in a suit."
"The nerdy ones are always better in bed," the woman slurs, undeterred.
Bruce has to muffle his smile behind his hand, and he wishes he couldn't feel
his ear reddening. It's flattering in an odd way.
"He's hot, but damn, he's got to be ten years older than you," Drunk Two says.
"Fifteen," Tony singsongs under his breath. Bruce abruptly realizes that the
women have started following them like pair of drunk pigeons, probably too
wasted to even register that they're doing it.
"So?" the first asks belligerently.
"I am too drunk to deal with your old man thing tonight."
Tony snorts gracelessly, and Bruce feels mildly insulted. He's only thirty-six
for Christ's sake, and he can't look older than thirty-one thanks to the Other
Guy.
"Fine Miss-- Miss Age Is Everything, what're you after in a man?"
"The other one," she says definitively. "No one that short should look that
good in a suit."
Tony stands up a little straighter at the words, and Bruce bumps her shoulders
together. "You do look good tonight."
"I know that," Tony says, but his forced nonchalants comes out almost
defensive. "But I doubt she's be quite so enthusiastic if she was sober enough
to realize I'm not even fourteen yet."
The words carry an underlying tension that Bruce tries not to think too hard
about.
"Where the fuck's this club, anyhow?" Drunk Two says.
"69th."
"Aw fuck, 69th was two blocks back," she says, making an ungraceful U-turn and
pulling her companion along with her. They leave an awkward silence in their
wake.
"Were we actually just followed by a pair of drunk college students?" Tony
asks.
"Pretty sure we were," Bruce says, leading them into Central Park. Even this
late, people still dot the paths, mostly couples and the odd night jogger. It's
quiet, though-- quieter than it ever is in the daylight. The trees muffle the
sounds of the city, and for just a moment Bruce can imagine that they're not in
the center of a metropolis.
"You know what I love about New York?" Tony asks.
Bruce makes an inquiring noise.
"The anonymity. My family is splashed over tabloids every other week, but those
two didn't even recognize me," he says. "People here just don't care. They
don't think anything of it when a dude walks past with a cat on his head. It's
some of the largest crowds in the world, and sometimes you might as well be
standing in the middle of the tundra."
"That also makes it very lonely," Bruce says, voice soft.
Tony shrugs. "People are lonely. Crowds aren't."
"What do you mean?"
"Lonely is keeping on a public face with people who don't know you but that you
have to pretend to get along with," Tony says. He turns his face up towards the
permanent twilight of the city sky still visible through the trees. "A crowd of
random people knows you better than an acquaintance ever will. A crowd sees you
laugh at something dumb. A crowd sees you trip on the curb when you're waiting
at the crosswalk. A crowd sees you cry over a bottle of Advil in Duane Reade."
"Do you that often-- cry in the pharmacy section?" Bruce jokes, because he
thinks he understands a little too well what Tony means.
"It's New York. If you're going to cry, there's like a ninety percent chance
that it's going to be in a public place."
The silence lengthens, and Bruce stops pretending that they're actually taking
the short path back to the mansion. He leads then down a winding side trail as
he considers his next words.
"I hated that at first," Bruce confides. "I hated the city period. When I moved
in with your parents as a teenager, I didn't know how to deal with it. I'd
never been in a place where you could always be surrounded by people but always
be alone. I had to learn to like it, but when I did, I fell in love with it. I
could lose myself in a crowd-- forget who I was, where I came from, and what my
problems were. No one knew those things, and no one cared.
"When I came back-- when you were five-- I used to stay in the lab all the
time. Maria even asked me once if I was agoraphobic." He takes a deep breath
and watches a rat dart under the roots of a tree. "It wasn't that simple. I
wasn't afraid of going outside; I was afraid of what I'd lose again if I did.
For years I'd run from place to place. I always chose cities with large
populations, places where I could lose myself in the crowd. I learned to forget
my problems by giving myself away piece by piece, because doing that felt like
atonement."
Bruce doesn't know why he's telling Tony any of this. Maybe because it feels
like giving something back, maybe because he knows Tony's soft spot-- knows
that he'sTony's soft spot, or maybe he's saying it just because he can.
"I stayed inside because I was afraid that if I went out into a crowd, I'd
never come back. Sometime I still get this paranoia that if I look at my own
reflection in the windows of a subway train for too long, I'll lose myself
completely. Just forget everything, and never find my way back home. I don't
know if you even remember it, but the day you dragged me to the MOMOA was the
first day I knew I'd come back. It was the first day I had something to bring
me back."
"I did that?" Tony asks.
He did a lot more than that, but Bruce doesn't know how to explain, not
properly. He spares Tony some details, leaving out things that even eight years
out feel too raw, too painful. He doesn't mention falling low. He doesn't
mention the old fear that he would try to step in front of that train.
For so long he was afraid that the desire to end his own life wouldn't end with
him getting back to New York. Refusing to go outside wouldn't fix that, but he
thought that maybe if he buried himself in enough work, he wouldn't notice the
hollow ache of depression and desperation in his chest. In the end, work became
just one more way of losing himself.
But the urge to jump never came, and Tony slowly taught him how to keep hold of
both his sense of self and desire to live. The desperation faded, and the
depression stayed within manageable levels. He still feels the hollow wash of
it some days, but he's learned how to cope, the same way he knew how to cope
before the Other Guy. The process might look different now-- fewer Dallasreruns
than when he was in grad school and more Ellen on the couch with Tony-- but it
worked for him.
Even if Tony can't read between the lines to know the things Bruce is omitting,
he still knows Bruce, and he knows him well enough to read the tired lines
Bruce can feel forming around his eyes.
Tony loops his arm through Bruce's, leaning their shoulders together in silent
comfort. And maybe he shouldn't, what with the revelations of the past six
months, but Bruce is too selfish not to lean into the familiar contact.
"Let's go home," Tony says.
The statement strikes Bruce the way it does occasionally. The ease of it, the
surety of it-- it's not just Tony's home, it's Bruce's too.
"Yeah," he manages. "Let's."
~*~
It's past eleven by the time they get in, and Tony automatically follow Bruce
into his room, not even making the pretense of going to his own first. Several
pairs of his night clothes live in Bruce's spare dresses drawer, and more
nights than not he showers in Bruce's bathroom instead of his own. Bruce thinks
it should worry him now that he's aware of Tony's feelings, and the very fact
that it doesn't worries him even more.
Tony shucks off his suit jacket as soon as they're in the room, tossing it
carelessly over the foot of the bed, and the thoughtless treatment of such
expensive clothing is almost enough to make Bruce wince. He looks away sharply
as Tony's hands move to work on the buttons of his waistcoat.
Tony muffles a scoff. "I'm still wearing, like, two layers. It's fine."
Bruce doesn't say anything to that, doesn't acknowledge that there's anything
strange about his behavior. He just moves to closet to hang up his own jacket,
silently passing Tony a hanger. The awkward sideways comments are the closest
they ever come to acknowledge the feelings that Tony no longer bothers keeping
a secret, at least whenever it's just them. He doesn't bother covering the soft
look he sometimes gets around Bruce. He doesn't hide the way his hand lingers a
little too long after a hug, or maybe he's not even aware of it anymore.
By all means Bruce shouldn't even be letting him sleep here, but Tony has kept
to his word. He hasn't tried anything else, clearly doing his best not to make
Bruce uncomfortable with his affections. Nothing has changed between them, at
least not on the surface. If anything, Tony's more guarded with his affection
than before. Some of the careless ease that's always existed between them is
stifled now, tense. He never emerges half dressed from his showers, never
wanders around in only boxers and a t-shirt stolen from Bruce.
Tony thinks he's being subtle, but since the kiss Bruce has become hyper aware
of him, constantly mindful of anything that could be considered 'inappropriate'
for both of their sakes. Even a whiff of scandal could endanger Tony's future
career, and with Obadiah sniffing around the mansion even more than usual,
that's not a risk Bruce is willing to take.
"I'm going to go take a shower," Bruce announces. He knows Tony will already be
in bed by the time he gets out, feigning sleep but made obvious in the attempt
by his absolute stillness. He doesn't stay with Bruce every night, but Bruce
knows on the nights he does, he rarely falls asleep before Bruce himself goes
to bed.
With a quick movement, Tony's hand catches his wrist.
"I enjoyed tonight. Thank you for agreeing to come, even if I did bully you
into it," Tony says. He looks up at Bruce, and a wealth of unspoken meaning
lurks just below the words. "I know crowds and fancy clothes aren't your thing,
but thank you."
"I had fun. Thank you for inviting me," Bruce says, hoping the words don't come
out as stiff as they feel in his mouth. He gently disengaged from the hold and
tries to pretend the depth of the emotion in Tony's eyes doesn't shake him.
***** Chapter 12 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is fourteen.
14
Tony Stark is fourteen when Bruce teaches him to love speed.
“You drive like a granny,” Tony says on a groan, lolling his head back against
the headrest with an exaggerated thump.
“We’re on the Washington Bridge,” Bruce says through clenched teeth. “This is
as fast as we’re going unless you want me to drive over the car in front of
us.”
“You could at least drive more aggressively. This is boring.”
“This is a very rare, very expensive car, Tony. You don’t want my anywhere near
‘aggressive’ right now,” Bruce says. His white-knuckled grip stands out against
the dark steering wheel.
Whatever Tony was going to say next is forestalled by traffic inching forward.
Bruce takes a calming breath and thinks that stop-and-go weekend traffic in a
McLaren SLR was not what he had in mind when he proposed a relaxing day trip
upstate.
“Woo-hoo, three whole feet,” the teen deadpans when they come to a stop.
“Where’re we going, again?”
“The Catskill Mountains.”
“And when we get there we’re going to… what? Commune with nature?” Tony says
with a dubious look. “I know you’re secretly a hippie and all, but I didn’t
think bugs and dirt were your idea of a good time.”
“This coming from the person who dragged me to a museum of medieval art when he
was six,” Bruce scoffs. “Don’t you trust me?”
“Oh, I trust you. I trust you with my health, my safety, and my sanity. What I
don’t trust is your ability to pick vacation destinations. Forgive me if you
spending the lion’s share of the past eight years living in our basement
doesn’t inspire confidence.”
“I had a life before I was the Stark family’s kept scientist, you know. It’s a
national park; it can’t have changed that much in the last decade,” Bruce says.
“And I work in your basement. I live in your guest room.”
“Bruce, after this long, I think it officially qualifies as yourroom,” Tony
says. “Remind me why this trip sounded like a good idea?”
Bruce grins. “Come on, you know you jumped at the chance as soon as I said
‘three hour drive’ and ‘just us’.”
Beside him, Tony stills, and it takes a moment for Bruce to process what he’s
just implied.
“Oh, shit. Tony, I didn’t mean it like that,” he says in a rush.
Tony forces a nervous laugh. “Nah, we both know it’s true.”
Mercifully, Bruce is saved from having to respond by that by another surge in
traffic. This time the slow migration of cars holds steady until they’re most
of the way across the bridge.
Bruce is honestly impressed with their cumulative ability to ignore their
situation-- and this coming from the man who has trained himself to ignore
perpetual blinding anger. The only hints that Tony still feels anything other
than affectionate friendship towards him come in the form of awkward, sideways
jokes and the occasional lingering look when he thinks Bruce is absorbed in his
work.
At least four nights a week Tony still appears in his bed, and as Tony’s senior
year of high school looms on the horizon, Bruce is beginning to wonder what the
fuck they’re even doing. It’s still platonic, even on the younger man’s side as
far as Bruce can tell-- no different from when he was seven or ten or twelve.
He still sleeps mostly on his side of the bed, arms wrapped around his pillow
like a life preserver.
The occasional night still finds him curled into Bruce’s side with his head
pillowed on the other man’s arm, but that’s nothing new. Bruce considers
putting an end to Tony’s continued presence in his bed on a near daily basis,
but he can never come up with a reason that doesn’t ring hollow. There’s no
tension to it, no undercurrent of ulterior motives, and Bruce has almost
managed to stop worrying how their relationship would look from the outside.
“Blessed, blessed freedom!” Tony exclaims several minutes later as they clear
the bridge. “Jesus Christ, I thought I was going to have my retirement party on
that thing.”
“You are a drama queen, Mr. Stark,” Bruce says, but he can’t help smiling.
Tony pulls a face. “Eww, ‘Mr. Stark’ makes me sound like my father. You can
blame him for all the melodrama; I do. And you know you think I’m adorable.”
Bruce smiles but doesn’t say anything to that. Any honest answer would probably
only encourage the feelings Tony has for him, and although it may be a moot
point, all things considered, Bruce really does try to avoid doing that.
“You should hold on to something,” he says instead.
“Why?” Tony says, completely ignoring the advice.
Instead of answering, Bruce checks an open stretch of highway before flooring
the gas, upshifting as the whine of the engine rises in pitch.
Tony is yanked back in his seat. He sprawls automatically, open palms grasping
for purchase on the door and center console.
“You should listen to me once in a while,” Bruce says over the sound of the
engine and the tires on the road. “Your head alright?”
In answer, Tony lets out a breathless, gleeful whoop.
Encouraged, Bruce pushes the car harder, watching as the speedometer passes 110
and 115 then 120 and 130 effortlessly. He wants to keep going, push the
gorgeous car as far as it can go, but he’s not willing to risk it with Tony
next to him.
“Where’d you learn to drive like this?” Tony asks, grinning.
“It’s amazing what skills three years as a fugitive will teach you,” Bruce
says. And okay, maybe he’s showing off a little bit. He pushes down the small
voice that says thisis encouraging. “If you want, we can go to a track one day,
and I’ll teach you.”
Because, yeah, Bruce would much prefer teaching Tony with a helmet involved,
never mind that he himself learned this particular skill set by being chased by
cars with pretty flashing lights. That’s also how he learned to drive a right-
hand drive.
The rest of the drive is uneventful, and Bruce tries to keep it below ninety.
Tries, but mostly fails. He slows down once they get into the mountains, but
the curvy mountain two-lanes are too appealing for him to stick entirely to the
speed limit.
Tony all but has his nose pressed to the glass as they ride, taking in the
riotous green of the new leaves in the valley, and Bruce rolls down the windows
so they can feel the spring breeze.
Tony leans his head against the side column, briefly closing his eyes as the
wind ruffles his dark hair. “Okay,” he concedes. “So maybe you are allowed to
pick daytrip spots.”
“We’re not there, yet,” Bruce says. He tilts his head. “You’ve really never
been up here before?”
Tony shrugs, eyes still shut. “Dad isn’t really big on vacations unless there’s
a business trip on the other end.”
Bruce remembers. Trips to Paris, Florence, Hong Kong, and Prague where Tony,
armed with a bodyguard, is left to his own devices while his father attends
conferences.
“Besides,” Tony adds, “Can you imagine him and me stuck in a car together? We’d
need to have it reupholstered to get rid of the blood stains.”
Bruce laughs despite himself as he turns down a side road. It’s actually quite
sad if he thinks about it too long.
He pulls into a small parking area that’s really just a disused patch of gravel
with some weeds poking through. Tony follows him out of the car and looks
around the shabby clearing skeptically.
“Well,” Tony says, scuffing the gravel with his foot. “This is underwhelming.”
“It’s the trailhead,” Bruce says blandly. “We have a two mile walk to the good
part.”
Tony’s eyebrows creep up incredulously. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Bruce garbs the small backpack he packed and swings it over his
shoulder. “That is, unless you’re really not at all curious what’s at the end
of this trail.”
Predictably, Tony breaks almost instantly. “Fine,” he says. ‘More curious than
wise’ has always been one of his most reliable traits.
He follows Bruce onto the trail without any more complaints. The damp leaves
under foot muffle their footsteps as they make their way down the narrow path.
It’s an easy hike, nothing to give either of them difficulty. The trail is
flat, if rather poorly maintained. Fallen trees spot the path every couple
hundred feet, and Bruce has the stop several times to confirm that yes, that
discolored spot on the tree is indeed the trail marker.
“You’ve gotten us lost, haven’t you?” Tony says the third time he has to do
this.
“Not lost. I’m just making sure we’re still on the right trail,” Bruce answers.
“Considering this backpack isn’t hiding a tent and some sleeping bags, I’d hate
to accidentally end up on one of the backpacking trails we cross.”
At that, Tony’s eyes get a slightly glassy look, and Bruce realizes that yes,
he has just inadvertently sparked a new fantasy. Quite possibly one involving
huddling for warmth under an emergency blanket.
Tony remains disconcertingly quiet for the rest of the trek, following Bruce
single file down the narrow path.
After another half hour, the trail opens up onto a sheer mountain ledge, trees
giving way to grey rocks of all shapes and sizes. Tony slows.
The gap in the trees faces precisely west, perfect to watch the sun sink lower
on the horizon. The afternoon sun hangs orange above the mountains, still over
an hour from setting.
“Wow,” he breathes, eyes wide. He trails his fingers over one of the larger
rock formations protruding vertically from the ground. “This is amazing.”
Tony walks to the edge of the clearing where the large, flat slab of rock under
their feet drops away into nothingness. “That’s got to be at least a hundred
foot drop,” he says, peering down over the side of the cliff.
Bruce snags the back of his shirt. “Let’s not test it,” he says. He lowers
himself onto a relatively smooth patch of rock and motions for Tony to join
him. He wishes he’d remembered to grab a blanket to sit on, but there’s no
helping it now. “I thought we could watch the sunset from here. You can never
see so many colors in the city.”
A light spring breeze stirs the leaves, and Bruce rolls down the sleeves of his
light jacket before rifling through the backpack. Triumphant, he pulls out two
bottles of water and a Ziploc containing two sandwiches he’d thrown together
earlier.
“You packed a picnic?” Tony says disbelievingly as he sprawls out next to the
older man. “Jesus, I don’t know whether to call you an old soul or just old.”
“Two sandwiches and a pack of M&Ms is hardly a picnic,” Bruce says, tearing
open the packet and dumping a few into his hand.
Tony plucks two of the candies from Bruce’s palm and pops them into his mouth.
“Dinner and a sunset…” he trails, and there’s something soft under the words.
And okay, when he says it like that, maybe this whole outing does sound like a
harebrained idea.
They eat in silence for several more minutes until Bruce toes off his shoes and
crosses his feet out in front of him, weight leaned back on his arms and elbows
locked.
“Hippie,” Tony says affectionately.
“Not wanting to wear shoes all the time does not make me a hippie,” Bruce
protests, but he’s smiling as he says it.
Tony shrugs and shivers slightly as he finishes the last of the M&Ms. The
cricket chirps have slowed, and the breeze has turned slightly less pleasant
now that the sun is going down.
“Are you cold?” Bruce asks. The stone under them is successfully sapping any
and all excess heat.
“I’m fine,” Tony says, but goosebumps cover his arms and legs.
Bruce sighs. ‘Stubborn’ is Tony’s second most reliable trait, located right
between ‘curious’ and ‘willfully obnoxious’. He shrugs off his jacket and
drapes it across the younger man’s shoulders.
Tony shakes his head in protest. “No, Bruce, I’m fine. Really. You’ll get
cold.”
“I’ll be alright,” he huffs. “I’ve got long sleeves and an elevated
metabolism.”
Tony doesn’t argue, just pulls the collar of the jacket tighter around his neck
and sways into Bruce’s side slightly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce sees Tony sniff not-so-subtly at the collar
of the jacket.
“What, do I smell bad?” Bruce asks with an arched eyebrow. “I swear I washed it
last week.”
Color instantly floods Tony’s cheeks at being caught. “No, I-- You smell fine,”
he mumbles. “I like the way you smell.”
“Seriously? I smell like Dial soap and chemicals.”
“No.” Tony shakes his head, blushing harder. “I mean, you do, but you also just
small like you.Like vanilla shampoo and that herbal tea you drink.”
It dawns on Bruce then how they must look sitting out here, Tony wearing his
jacket and pressed to his side.
A blush creeps up his cheeks, because holy shit, if he didn’t want to encourage
Tony’s feelings, this was definitely the wrong way to go about it, in
retrospect. He brought the teenage boy with a crush on him to a remote rock to
watch the sunset and eat dinner. If they were any two other people, this would
totally be a date.
“Tony,” Bruce starts warily, but Tony shakes his head rapidly.
“No, it’s not one of ‘those things.’ It’s not something I notice because I-
- you know--” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Have a thing for you, or whatever.
I’ve always liked how you smell, even when I was a kid. It’s, I don’t know,
comforting.”
Silence falls again, and the sun starts to make its descent below the
mountains. Riotous shades of orange, pink, and yellow color the sky, casting a
sepia glow on the entire clearing.
It’s nice, relaxing, sitting here with Tony pressed against his side. Part of
Bruce is still screaming, ‘Hello, encouraging, right here,’ but another,
quieter part reminds him that they’ve always been like this-- a little too
close, basking in each other’s affection like cats in the sun.
“Sometimes I don’t think I really want to take over the company,” Tony says
into the quiet. His voice is soft and confiding. “I know I have to.
‘Responsibility’ and all that.”
Bruce stays silent, afraid he’ll break the trance by opening his mouth, and
because he doesn’t know what to say to that.
Tony tilts his face up towards the sunset. “I daydream about it a lot,” he
continues, even quieter now. “I plan it all out in my head. I’d run away,
change my name, and get a job as a mechanic in some no-name town in the
Midwest. I always imagine that you come with me. You, I don’t know, research
world peace, and I work on cars, and no one knows who we are.”
Bruce hears everything he isn’t saying, the happily ever after he dreams up for
himself with Bruce at his side.
Tony bites his lip. “It’s stupid, I know.”
“It’s not,” Bruce says gently. He places his hand reassuringly over the back of
Tony’s where it lays at his side. “Tony, you don’t have to take over the
company if you don’t want to. There’re other options.”
Tony turns a sad smile on him, and the light from the setting sun haloes his
profile. “You know you’re the first person to ever tell me that?”
He turns his hand over under Bruce’s. When the older man doesn’t move, he
interlaces their fingers, running his thumb over Bruce’s wrist, and something
warm settles in Bruce’s stomach at the motion.
Tony looks up at him, and a mix of emotions Bruce can’t to name lurks behind
his eyes. Contentedness and longing and sadness all rolled into one.
It strikes Bruce how beautiful Tony is like this, backlit by the sunset as the
last light disappears below the horizon. His chocolate eyes shine in the fading
glow, bright and sparkling as ever but edged with sadness.
Raw panic surges through Bruce.
He pulls away from Tony’s grip like he’s been shocked, and the last of the sun
sinks behind the mountains, leaving only a burnt orange glow in its wake.
He pulls his shoes towards him, hurriedly forcing his feet into them before
standing. “We should go,” he says, unable to meet Tony’s gaze. He can’t look at
the hurt and longinghe’d see there, not right now. “It’s already going to be
dark before we get back to the car.”
“I--” Tony starts, voice rough, before redirecting. “Yeah. Yeah, sounds smart.
I’d hate for you to get us lost, again.”
Tony is quiet for most of the walk back. It’s not the peaceful silence of the
hike in, but a tense, heavy silence that makes it hard to breath.
But then, maybe that’s the guilt sitting on Bruce’s chest.
Darkness descends quickly, and they’re almost back to the trailhead when Tony
says, “I’m sorry.” His voice comes out choked and hoarse. “I thought-- just for
a moment. But I was wrong. I made you uncomfortable, and I’m sorry. It won’t
happen again.”
Bruce stops abruptly, and Tony bumps into him, nearly toppling over until Bruce
grabs his forearm steadying. They’re mere inches apart, Tony looking up at him
with eyes that gleam with remorse and something that could be challenge in the
near-total darkness.
Bruce takes a blind step backward and looks away.
“Don’t apologize. It’s fine. I shouldn’t have--” He breaks off, shaking his
head like a dog trying to rid itself of gnats.
I shouldn’t have brought you out here. I shouldn’t have let you take my hand. I
shouldn’t have looked at you like that. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have. I
shouldn’t--
“Let’s get back to the car,” he finishes lamely, words conveying none of the
panic bubbling up his chest like a scream.
They pull out of the parking lot without another word spoken. Tony is silent as
Bruce drives-- much slower this time-- back out of the mountains, and he’s
asleep before they reach the highway. His head lolls sideways against his
seatbelt, the headlights reflected off the asphalt lending his face a soft blue
glow.
The quiet ride back gives Bruce plenty of time to dwell on what he’s feeling.
He’d hoped it was a one-off, the combined effects of isolation and an arguably
romantic location.
But now that he’s seen it, he can’t unsee it.
Even asleep in the seat next to him, Bruce can still see now how beautiful Tony
is. The sharp jut of his cheekbones; the soft curve of his lips; the dark
shadow of his eyelashes.
He looks away sharply.
And he wishes, wishes like a prayer to an unseen god, that it was all physical.
He wishes he only noticed how beautiful Tony is now that he’s growing into
himself, because if that were the case, he could go out to a bar. He could
charm some willing stranger for the night, roll the dice and relieve some
stress. He could feel the intimate press of another body for the first time in
years, indulge until he’s satisfied, take until he no longer wants.
But it’s more than that. It’s not physical, as much as he’d like it to be. Just
the thought of Tony and sex together sends a squeamish, guilty roil through his
insides.
No, it’s emotional, the kind of intimate connection born of years sharing the
same space, inhabiting each other’s minds. Nearly nine years spent sharing
coffee cups and trading ideas has coalesced into something Bruce never
predicted but should have anticipated.
It’s the kind of bond that Bruce wouldn’t hesitate to act on if Tony were an
adult but here, now, is beyond inappropriate.
Bruce swallows past the lump in his throat and glances briefly at the sleeping
teen next to him.
And yes, below the knotted mass of guilt, confusion, and anger, he still feels
the warm tug. Desire more than want, yearning more than need, care more than
carnal.
Bruce’s fists clench white on the steering wheel, and he forced himself to
focus on the empty highway before him, to let the constant flow of white dashes
become his only thought.
Tony Stark is fourteen when Bruce realizes they have a problem.
***** Chapter 13 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is fourteen.
Chapter Notes
     Content Advisory: The back half of this chapter involves discussion
     of past child abuse (Bruce).
14
Tony is fourteen when Pepper orders, “Talk,” over the noise of the bar.
Bruce shakes his head like a dog coming up out of water. “Huh?”
“You,” she says. She gestures emphatically enough at him that some of her drink
sloshes over the rim of her glass. “You’ve been moping all week.”
She says it jokingly, but there’s a note of genuine concern in her voice.
They’re in a dive bar somewhere east of 4th and south of 20th that Pepper
managed to drag him to. The noise and cigarette fog of the place should put him
on edge, but it seems to be having the exact opposite effect.
They’re each on their third beer, and that’s more than Bruce almost ever
drinks. He has no doubt that if it came down to it, Pepper Potts could drink
him under the table, accelerated metabolism be damned. Bruce takes a long drink
of his beer to buy time before answering.
“I’m fine,” he reassures her. “Just have a lot on my mind these past couple
weeks.”
Pepper’s eyes are knowing. “Is it about Tony?”
“You could say that,” he allows. He leans his weight onto the table, letting
his shoulders hunch in.
“His crush on you?” she asks.
Bruce’s head snaps up. “What?”
Pepper shakes her head with a fond grin. “Oh come on. There’re maybe some
indigenous tribes in South America that don't know about his crush on you.
Maybe.”
“Right. Of course.” Bruce says, slumping back in his chair.
“Don’t tell me you just figured it out, and that’s why you’re pouting.”
“I knew,” Bruce says more defensively than he meant to. He isn’t that
oblivious. And okay, the problem did sort of have to kiss him in a photobooth a
year ago before he noticed, but still.
“Because it’s gotten worse?” Pepper looks at him seriously over the rim of her
glass. “Bruce, he’s a teenager. It was bound to happen if he’s attracted to
men. Give it six months and he’ll move on.”
It hits Bruce then that Pepper hasn’t even been around them for a year. She's
become such an integral part of their lives and their little puzzle-piece
family that he sometimes forgets. She hasn’t seen how long Tony’s ‘crush’ has
been going on. Hindsight being what it is, Bruce is confident in guessing that
Tony's had it since he was at most twelve, maybe even younger. Bruce feels like
a moron for not seeing it sooner.
“It’s perfectly normal,” Pepper continues, taking Bruce’s silence as
acceptance. “He’ll move on eventually, and things will go back to the way they
were.”
Bruce isn’t nearly drunk enough to explain that Tony’s emotions aren't problem,
so he nods mutely. Things will never go back to the way they were; Bruce knows
that now. Even if Tony moves on, Bruce isn’t sure if he can.
And that-- that thought right there is proof that he’s either drank too much or
not enough. He chooses to think it's the latter and downs the remainder of his
glass to remedy the situation.
The Budweiser clock on the wall says it's well past one in the morning, and
Pepper yawns, stretching wide enough that a sliver of skin shows around her
midriff. Bruce idly tracks the movement, but he looks away abruptly when her
eyes catch his. She huffs a laugh and takes a sip of her beer.
“I still can’t figure out if you’re polite or just gay,” she says.
For a long moment Bruce draws a blank on what to say to that, and that only
makes her smirk.
“If you want the truth,” she starts, drawing out each word, “I dragged you out
here tonight to see if you were any less polite or any more interested in women
with a few drinks in you. But apparently not.” She sighs and looks at him with
one raised eyebrow.
He gives a wan smile. “Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
He really does, though. Pepper is exactly the kind of woman he would have gone
for were he not two and a half weeks into a moral crisis. She’s brilliant,
snappy, and fully capable of proverbially kicking his ass. Pepper is good.
She’s sane and stable, and Bruce needs more of those things in his life. He
wishes he could want her as more than friend to sip beer with.
He’s established through more tests than he can even count-- and okay, that’s a
lie; it’s 32-- that he isn’t toxic. Short of there being an unexpected attack,
it’s perfectly safe for him to take another person to bed. The thing is, he
just doesn’t want to. Apparently his conflicted feelings about Tony have driven
away what little libido he had to begin with. He’s sure he could, but he’s not
about to do that to Pepper. She deserves better than being used as a tool to
assuage Bruce’s guilt.
Bruce's fingers trace the rim of his empty glass. “A little bit of both,” he
says.
“Hmm?”
“You asked if I’m polite or just gay-- A little bit of both.”
That makes her laugh. “Ah-well. Probably for the better. Tony would hate me.”
Bruce forces a chuckle because while Tony probably wouldn't outright hate
Pepper for stealing Bruce, he’d be more than a little sour about it. The loud,
drunken part of Bruce’s brain supplies that he wouldn't just be sour, he’d be
heartbroken.
Something in the same vein must go through Pepper’s mind, because they both
signal for another round of drinks at the same time.
~*~
Bruce shuffles as quietly as he can down the hall-- which, considering how
thoroughly plastered he is, isn’t very. He shoulder-checks the doorframe as he
enters his room and is very proud of himself for not tripping over the rug. In
the dark, he can just make out the outline of Tony sprawled diagonally across
the bed.
The smell of cigarette smoke is radiating off of him like a heat haze, and he
knows he’ll regret tonight even more in the morning if he doesn’t take a
shower. He opens the dresser drawer and stares into it blankly, momentarily
forgetting what he was doing. He stands there, frozen staring at his socks,
tonight's conversation echoing through his head next to the memory of that
evening in the Catskills.
He can still see Tony’s smile in the sunset, hear his voice shaping the
daydream that they could run away together. Bruce’s mind has started drifting
back to that day more and more these past weeks. He shakes himself out, forcing
his hands into motion. He grabs a shirt and a pair of sweatpants before
shutting the drawer with more force than necessary.
On the bed, Tony shifts, and Bruce glances over.
Tony sighs, lips parting, and turns his face into the pillow. His limbs are a
graceless sprawl, somehow managing to take up the entire queen bed. He’s
tangled in the covers with one leg kicked out of the blankets entirely.
Tony isn’t half as coltish as he was a year ago, sharp edges now smoothing out.
His jawline is more filled out, and even in the dark, Bruce can see the
sweeping lines of neck and shoulder and collarbone, both more defined and more
graceful than they once were. His limbs still have the lankiness of youth, but
every day Tony grows more into them, bone and muscle finally starting to
reflect the mind underneath.
Tony’s Kiss shirt is hiked up to expose a wide strip of skin to the night air,
and Bruce's eyes catch on it. It’s an eerie echo of the earlier moment with
Pepper. The difference is, this time Bruce feels the warmth of attraction in
his chest as his eyes skate over the skin.
And no. Nope. His mind is not going there, even drunk. The only thing holding
the fractured pieces of his peace of mind together lately is the knowledge that
it’s not physicality that attracts him to Tony.
Blindly, Bruce takes a step back and promptly trips over an abandoned pair of
shoes. “Fuck,” he hisses.
“Bruce?” Tony mumbles. His voice is lower low, a sudden change Bruce still
hasn't gotten used to. He stretches, shirt riding up even more, and scrunches
his nose blearily. “Wha--? You reek like the bottom of an ashtray.”
“Shower,” Bruce slurs in response. He doesn’t trust his voice any further.
Time for a very long, very frigid shower. He intends to stay there until his
metabolism burns through the alcohol and then maybe try to catch a few hours of
restless sleep on the library couch. Maybe his mind will start making sense
again once he’s sober.
He doubts it.
~*~
14
Tony is fourteen when Bruce tells him he should sleep in his own room.
“What?”
“You heard me,” Bruce says, still staring down at his work so he doesn’t have
to see the hurt in the younger man’s eyes.
“But why? Bruce!” Tony circles Bruce’s work station, ducking his head to force
Bruce to meet his gaze.
Bruce finally looks up-- because Tony deserves that much, at least-- and he
sees exactly what he was afraid of. Even angry and hurt, Tony is beautiful, all
passion and righteous indignation and flyaway black hair against tan skin.
He glances back down.
“I’m sorry, Tony, but we have to stop being naïve about this,” is all he says.
Because how do you explain to a fourteen year old that you’re noticing things
like the shine of his lips or the careless flop of his hair over chocolate
eyes? How do you tell him that it makes your stomach knot up when he looks at
you like you hung the moon and wrote the laws of thermodynamics all in one day?
The right answer-- the responsible answer-- is that you don’t.
The black humor of it is that Bruce never got off on Tony sharing his bed,
never got anything other than platonic comfort from it, even after his little
revelation, but he can’t in good conscience allow Tony to continue, wholly
unaware that Bruce now wakes from dreams of him drenched in sweat and nauseous
from guilt.
“Look, I’m not going to molest you in your sleep,” Tony bites out, and his
flinch says that he knows it’s the exact wrong choice of words as soon as it
leave his mouth.
Bruce looks up, beginning to lose his patience. “No, I think the general
opinion is that it’s the other way around you should be worried about. People
will start to talk. The house staff already do, and how long before it gets
into the media? We don’t live in a vacuum.”
The lie comes easy. Bruce knows they’re safe from the media, at least for now.
Yes, the staff talk, but no amount of money is worth the wrath of SI’s legal
department.
“Since when do you care what people think, huh?” Tony says disbelievingly.
“Since it could hurt you.”
A sneer twists Tony’s. “No, you’re just uncomfortable because I have a thing
for you.”
Bruce can feel a tension headache building. He takes a deep breath and forces
his voice softer. “It’s not that, Tony. I just don’t think it’s a good idea
anymore. Whatever feelings you have for me aren’t the reason.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” Tony says as he bangs out of the lab.
Bruce stares after him and tries to ignore the wave of despair that washes over
him. He and Tony have never fought before. Bickered, yes. Argued, yes. Sat
through hours of chilled, sulky silence, yes. But never fought. Not like this.
That privilege was always reserved for Howard.
That night Bruce doesn’t sleep.
He stares at the wall for nearly an hour, cursing his own overactive brain.
Most nights like this, when sleep isn’t elusive but impossible, he’d give up
and go back to the lab; but if the menacing clang of metal on metal is anything
to go by, Tony was still in there.
And right now, facing Tony is the last thing he needs to do.
Bruce will give in. He knows it as sure as he knows he isn’t going to sleep any
time soon. By now Tony will have constructed a perfect argument of fact and
sentiment guaranteed to crumble Bruce’s defenses.
Hence why Bruce is still awake constructing counter arguments as he studies the
wallpaper.
A small part of his inability to sleep-- loathe though he is to admit it-- is
the total lack of Tony. It’s not like Tony is in his room every night, but
there’s always the expectation that he could be, the knowledge that if he’s not
there, he’s still tinkering in the lab or reading in the library. The room
feels lonely without him, like Bruce is trying to readjust to sleeping alone
after a divorce.
Bruce flops onto his back, just for a change of scenery. The ceiling is no more
sleep-inducing than the wall.
When fifteen minutes trickle by without even the hope of sleep, Bruce decides
to try another tactic.
He takes a deep breath, centering himself, and lets one hand drift down to the
waistband of his sweatpants. Normally this is something he takes care of in the
shower-- less mess, less restriction, less chance of Tony magically appearing
in the doorway halfway through-- but honestly, if the endorphin rush of getting
off will help him relax enough to get some sleep, he’s not above trying.
He rests his palm flat against his lower belly, letting the warmth seep through
the cotton of his t-shirt. His breathing keeps a slow, deep rhythm. Inhale,
one, two, three. Exhale, one, two, three.
He doesn’t think about anyone as his hand moves lower to brush against his
thigh. Fantasies rarely play a role in him getting off. The touch of his own
skin is usually enough for him, the pure physical sensation of it, the pleasure
for pleasure’s sake.
Finally, he wraps a hand around himself, grip too loose for anything more than
the barest friction. He wills himself to relax into the touch, focuses on the
heaviness of his extremities. His grip gradually tightens as he moves his hand.
Pleasure arcs up his spine, and his pace speeds.
Of its own volition, his mind drifts to soft hair under his fingers and a face
pressed to his neck, soft skin and patchy stubble against his cheek.
His movements falter for a moment.
It’s not that he never fantasizes, but it’s been a long time. Even thinking of
the faceless press of skin against skin is a rarity for him. A lack of sex
isn’t something he ever really considered a loss, not something he particularly
missed.
He knows thanks to his barrage of tests that his semen isn’t dangerous, and
elevated heart rate alone can’t make him change. Theoretically, sex isn’t out
of the realm of possibility, but he’s not ‘lacking’ sex so much as not seeking
it.
Even so, fantasies of a nondescript man or even the occasional woman pressed to
him aren’t unheard-of. He lets his pace even out again, and his free finger
wander, exploring and pressing.
He thinks of a body pressed against his, of wrapping his arms around a narrow
waist and letting warmth flow between them.
A moan escapes his lips, unbidden, and he arches up into his own touch.
He thinks of kissing soft lips, slightly chapped from a nervous habit of biting
them, and he’s too far gone to wander where he got something that specific.
His pace turns frantic, and one of his feet is planted against the mattress for
leverage.
He thinks of a mouth warm and damp against the underside of his jaw. He thinks
of that mouth turning up into a sly grin. He thinks of a breathless, unabashed
laugh and long lashes shadowing sharp brown eyes.
Horror shoots through Bruce, and he comes, pleasure contracting his muscles.
He’s staggering up and out of bed before the aftershocks have even dissipated,
nausea and regret chasing the pleasure like venom. He clings to the edge of the
bed, knees unsteady as his world tilts on its axis.
He staggers into the en-suite, flipping on the light and sinking to his knees
on the tile. He blinks as his eyes adjusts and stares at the toilet as another
wave of guilt threatens to make him sick.
He’s dreamed of Tony before, dreamed of kissing him, of holding him, but those
were dreams. They were always relatively chaste, and he could assuage the guilt
by reminding himself that he had zero control over the images his mind conjured
while he slept.
This, though-- this is a new low. This is somewhere he’s never allowed his mind
to venture while awake. The thought of Tony like that feels like a betrayal. Of
trust. Of love. Of everything they’ve been to one another through the years.
He thinks of leaving, of running, of finding an understaffed refugee hospital
somewhere on the other side of the globe. He thinks of giving himself away
piece by piece until he loses himself completely, until there’s nothing else to
give and he becomes a shadow of the man he is now.
He could leave tonight. Pack his duffle and take a red-eye from LaGuardia to
nowhere he knows.
He thinks about it long enough that it begins to form into a plan-- a plan that
will start as soon as he works up the nerve to push himself up off the bathroom
floor.
But of course that’s the moment that the bedroom door bangs open.
“Okay, I know you said I couldn’t sleep here tonight, but I’ll sleep on the
fucking floor if I have to. I can’t sleep in my room, and two nights without
sleep is overkill even for me. Bruce? Where are--” Tony stops short as he
rounds the corner into the bathroom.
The too bright light filtering through the doorway casts his shadow back into
the dark bedroom, the worry writ on his features standing out in sharp relief.
“Bruce, are you alright?”
“Fine,” he manages.
“What, do you have a stomach bug or something?” Tony asks, concern instantly
replacing the agitation in his voice.
Bruce can’t look at him. “Yeah. You should probably leave.”
“I can bring you Gatorade or saltines or--” He cuts himself off as his eye
track over Bruce, taking in the full picture. The dark stain on the front of
his undone sweatpants. The pale, clammy skin. The scent of sex in the air. “Oh.
Really? I didn’t think--”
“Tony,” Bruce pleads, “For once in your life will you please do what I say and
leave.”
It’s humiliating. This isn’t an image he ever wanted in Tony’s head, him
kneeling on a bathroom floor, broken and busted and wrong.
If he had to pick a low point of the years since he came to Stark Mansion, this
would be it.
Tony crosses his arms over his chest. “No.”
Bruce can’t tell if he wants to scream, cry, or throw up. He needs space. He
needs separation. He needs Tony not to be standing in the doorway with that
knowing look.
He doesn’t get any of those things and doesn’t suspect he’s going to.
“You got off thinking about me,” Tony says, and god, since when can his voice
even go that low? “This is why you wanted me out of your bed. Because you’re
attracted to me now.”
“It’s not what you-- I don’t-- It won’t--” Bruce starts, cutting himself off
each time. Because what’s he going to say?
‘It’s not what you think?’ It is.
‘I don’t think of you like that?’ Apparently I do.
‘It won’t happen again?’ Who’s to say it won’t?
Instead he settles on, “How?”
Tony takes a step into the room, biting his lip absently. “Your pants are
undone, you’re hanging over a toilet like you’re waiting to be sick, and you’re
wearing your guilty face. It doesn’t take a genius. Grown men aren’t normally
guilt ridden about jerking it.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t--”
Tony ignores him and steps further into the room, bare feet soundless on the
tile floor. “Look at me. Please.”
Reluctantly, Bruce obeys and looks up, finally meeting his eyes. And yes, those
are definitely the same eyes he was thinking about. The thought makes him look
away almost immediately. “It’s past midnight. You should go to bed,” he says.
Instead of listening, Tony sits on side of tub and says softly, “Do you know
that I don’t sleep on the nights I’m not here?”
Bruce glances up, brow furrowed. “What?”
“I figured you’d want some alone time, so I made a point not to sleep in here
every night and alternate which nights I show up. I didn’t want to bother you.
But you see the thing is, I can’t sleep when I’m not with you,” Tony says.
He picks idly at the hem of his overlarge sleep shirt and continues, “I’m a
chronic insomniac. The nights I’m not here, I either work in the lab or sit in
the library reading. Sometimes I can doze off on the library couch, but not
often. I didn’t want you to find out. I didn’t want you to let me stay with you
out of pity. Some nights I’d sit outside your bedroom door hoping that that’d
be enough for me to get some sleep.”
“When you were little?” Bruce asks despite himself.
“No, last month. Fucking creepy and codependent, right?” Tony’s laugh is short
and hollow. “What I’m getting at is that me staying in your bed isn’t something
sexual. Yeah, I have a thing for you, but it’s not--”
Tony breaks off and tilts his head back, searching for the right words.
When he finds them, they come slowly. “Yes, maybe there are nights when I enjoy
being next to you a bit too much, but it’s not about that. That’s not why I
stay. Around you I can relax enough to shut my brain off for a while. I’m
comfortable with you like I’m not with anyone else.”
Tony reaches out a hand to run his thread through Bruce’s messy hair.
Bruce flinches from his touch, but Tony pays no heed, scritching lightly at the
curls. The touch is comforting, and it’s a comfort Bruce doesn’t deserve.
“Tony,” Bruce breathes, “You really should go.”
“Shut up, and let me finish talking before you have the rest of your freak
out,” he says. “Us sharing a bed doesn’t have to be something sexual. Clearly
you’re not comfortable with whatever you feel towards me, and that’s okay. It
doesn’t have to be a factor.”
“It’s always going to be a factor, Tony. Whether you want it to be or not.
You’re fourteen. I’m thirty-seven. There’s a big difference between you being
attracted to me and me being attracted to you. It’s not right that I-- thought
about you like that.”
“Why?” Tony challenges. “Do you plan on doing something about it?”
The blood drains from Bruce’s face at the thought. “Tony, no. I would never-
- Fuck, I’d never do that. I couldn’t hurt you that way.”
“Okay, then,” Tony says like that’s the end of it. He’s silent for several
moments, eyeing Bruce’s legs where they’re folded awkwardly under him, before
he asks, quieter now, “Do you ever wonder why on the rare occasion we actually
talk about this, I always say I have ‘a thing’ for you instead of a crush on
you?”
He lets the question hang, obviously not expecting an answer.
“’A crush’ is what preteen girls get on pop stars. ‘A crush’ is what I felt
when I was eleven and you’d ruffle my hair.” Tony looks down at his clasped
hands and licks his lips. “’Crush’ isn’t nearly a big enough word for what I
feel for you, but I’ve always been 99.3% sure you’d freak right the fuck out if
I say I’m in love with you. So, I say it’s ‘a thing’.”
Bruce runs a tired hand over his face. “You shouldn’t say that.”
“Why?” Tony asks, voice like an ice razor. “Because you don’t think I’m old
enough know what I want? What I feel?”
“That’s the problem, Tony. I think you are, and sometimes I forget that maybe
you aren’t,” Bruce says. His voice sounds hoarse and haggard, even to his own
ears.
“I know you do. I know what I feel, I know what I want, and I know my limits. I
wouldn’t do anything I couldn’t handle, even if you asked.”
“That does make me feel a bit better,” Bruce says, forcing a small smile. “But
that still doesn’t address the main problem here.”
“And what will? You leaving?” Tony asks, voice hard. Bruce opens his mouth to
answer, but Tony points a finger at him accusingly. “And don’t you dare take
that to mean you should leave.”
“But I should,” Bruce says, and the words come out like a plea, like he’s
begging Tony’s permission to run from this, to run and run until his own
desires are lost in a haze of exhaustion and selfless acts. “I should’ve left
seven years ago when I realized you were starting to get attached to me. I
should’ve, but I was too selfish.”
“And where do you think I’d be if you’d left back then, huh? At some boarding
school resenting my father while acting like an over privileged ass-lamp. I’d
have no one, and no one but myself to blame.”
“You trust me, and you shouldn’t. That’s what I can’t make you understand.”
“Why, because you turn into the Jolly Green Giant? Tough luck, but that excuse
is invalid. The one time you lost it around me, you saved my life. There’re
pictures of me riding on the Hulk’s shoulder. Argument officially null.”
“That’s not what I--”Bruce shakes his head. “Yes, but that’s not what I mean.”
“Because you’re attracted to me?” Tony asks, and his eyes soften, a hint of
sadness creeping in. “You can’t just stop yourself from being attracted to
someone, no matter how inconvenient. And trust me, as someone who’s been queer,
closeted, and twelve, I’ve tried. Beating yourself up over it isn’t going to
make it any better.”
He slides off the edge of the tub to kneel next to his friend. “I trust you,
Bruce, and unless you give me a real reason not to, nothing has to change
between us.”
He wraps an arm around Bruce’s shoulders in a loose hug and cups the back of
his neck, pulling his head down to rest against the crook of his neck. And
maybe it’s more comfort that Bruce deserves, but he takes it anyway, allowing
himself to enjoy it, just for a moment, to relax into the embrace and bury his
face against the juncture of skin and t-shirt.
His breath is warm on Tony’s neck, and Tony's skin smells like grease and stale
coffee and the aftershave he stole from Bruce. But the feelings it provokes
aren’t inappropriate, not by any stretch. Bruce feels warmth and affection and
compassion.
This is familiar-- Tony’s arms around his chest, Tony’s face pressed to his
hair. This Bruce knows. Tony’s slim frame is a solid reassurance against him, a
reassurance that everything will be okay.
After a minute he tries to disengage from the embrace, but Tony catches his
wrist and burrows closer. “You’re not leaving, right?”
“I don’t think I can,” Bruce says against his shirt.
They sit like that for several more minutes, Tony idly rubbing circles into
Bruce’s neck and Bruce letting him. His back is getting very insistent in its
objections to the floor, but he ignores it.
“Come on,” Tony says after a while, pushing to his feet and motioning for Bruce
to follow suit.
Reluctantly, Bruce stands, and his knees pop audibly.
Tony raises his eyebrows. “I would so totally make a joke about you being old
right now, but that’s poor timing even for me,” he says, then gives Bruce a
quick once-over and grimaces. “Yeah, let’s find you some new pants.”
A faint blush slides up Bruce’s cheeks. He fumbles out a weak protest as Tony
makes for the dresser, but the teen ignores him, sifting through the drawers
two at a time. Bruce doubts he leaves a single shirt unwrinkled or sock paired,
but after a moment he returns holding a pair of grey shorts.
“Put these on,” he says, pushing them to the taller man’s chest. Bruce
hesitates, and Tony rolls his eyes with an exasperated hiss of breath. He turns
his back to Bruce and holds his hands out at his sides. “Happy now? My innocent
little virgin eyes won’t be violated. But seriously, it’s not like those sweats
are hiding much without underwear.”
Bruce’s face heats even more, and he puts his back to Tony, shucking out of the
ruined pants with quick, economic motions and pulling the shorts on, knotting
the drawstring for good measure.
“Virgin, maybe, but innocent, I highly doubt,” Bruce quips, trying to defuse
the tension.
A surprised laugh escapes Tony. “You got that right.” He turns to face the
other man again and gives what Bruce can only call a leer. “And yes, I am a
virgin, if that’s relevant to your fantasies.”
Bruce gives a squawk like a scandalized maiden aunt. “That’s not a--”
“The next word out of your mouth had better not be ‘appropriate’. Nothing about
tonight’s topic of conversation has been remotely appropriate. Our
conversations rarely are. I’m not going to start censoring myself around you
just because you thought about me with your hand on your dick,” Tony says
frankly. “It doesn’t bother me what you think about when you get off. God knows
I’ve thought about you enough times.”
Another pained noise escapes Bruce.
“Don’t be such a prude. If we’re talking about this finally, we’re doing it
thoroughly. In for a penny, and all that,” Tony says. He catches Bruce’s hand,
tugging him towards the bed.
Bruce balks, digging his heels in as his last memories from that bed come back
in lurid detail. “Tony, no,” he says. He intends it to sound stern, but the
words only hang tiredly.
“Oh, come on. I’m not going to try to seduce you,” Tony says incredulously,
adding in a muttered undertone, “You might implode from guilt.”
And Bruce gives in like Tony knew he would, like he always does, because he’s
too tired to argue and maybe a little too caught up in the young man next to
him to care. He lets himself be pulled onto the bed after Tony, as if not going
under his own power somehow makes him less culpable.
He lays down on his back as Tony settles next to him, not quite touching but
still close enough for Bruce to feel his warmth. He wants to go to sleep, wants
this night to be over already, but he can tell Tony’s gearing up to say more.
“Okay,” Tony starts, propping himself up on an elbow beside Bruce. “I need to
ask you something, and I don’t want you to get weird about it.”
Bruce turns his head on the pillow to look at him. “Whatever you need to know,”
he says, because it’s the least he can give and it’s not like anything Tony
asks can make this night any less appropriate.
Tony runs his teeth over his lower lip nervously. “How long have you been
attracted to me?” he asks. “Whatever the answer is, it’s fine.”
So, Bruce was wrong. So utterly and completely wrong. It can definitely get
less appropriate. Something of his thoughts must show on his face.
“Jesus, Bruce, I’m not asking you if you’re a goddamn pedophile,” Tony says
with no small amount of venom. “I’m not giving you carte blanche here. I know
you. If you had--” He waves his free hand vaguely before letting it flop back
down to the duvet. “’Ill intentions’ towards me, I wouldn’t be sitting here
because you wouldn’t be you.”
Tony lets out one long exhale, and it’s the first time in all of this that he’s
sounded tired, like this is a conversation he’d rather not be having. He scoots
closer to Bruce until the few inches of mattress left between them are closed,
pressing to Bruce’s side from toe to chin. His ankles curl around Bruce’s leg,
feet pushing the hair there against the grain.
Bruce wants to feel ashamed about how reassuring the gesture is, but he can’t
summon the energy.
“I know you in all your beautiful pansexual objectivist glory. No matter when
you became attracted to me, it was to me,not my age,” he says. He lays his head
on Bruce’s chest, ear pressed flat to his t-shirt like he’s listening for a
heartbeat. Bruce wonders if he can hear how fast it’s beating.
The silence lengthens, and Tony doesn’t push for an answer. At last Bruce says,
words catching in his throat, “The hiking trip right before your birthday.”
“Okay,” Tony says simply. “That’s all I needed to know.”
Bruce swallows, and after several breaths he says. “If I can ask, how long have
you--?”
“Since I was ten. It terrified me at first,” Tony says. Bruce tenses at the
words, and Tony thumps him on the chest. “Not like that. I was scared because I
was ten and realized I had a thing for my much older male best friend. I
couldn’t talk to anyone-- you were the only person I told stuff like that, and
obviously that wasn’t an option. I didn’t know what to do.”
“I never realized,” Bruce whispers. “Not until Coney Island.”
“I know you didn’t,” Tony says, and something in the words feels like a
blessing. He looks up at Bruce in the dark. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk in the
morning.”
Maybe it’s cowardly, but Bruce doesn’t protest. He falls asleep with his arm
curled around Tony’s shoulders.
~*~
When Bruce wakes the next morning, it’s to find Tony still burrowed against his
chest, not an inch further away than he was the night before. Bruce gingerly
disentangles himself from Tony’s octopus hold, careful not to wake him.
He washes his face at the bathroom sink and stares at his reflection for a long
minute. It’s been three days since he shaved, and his bedraggled curls look
like he hasn’t washed them in a week. Last night feels surreal-- like the
memory of alcohol-fueled celebrations during his grad years. And like some of
those nights during grad school, mortification tinged with regret colors the
memories.
When he steps back into the bedroom, Tony perched on the edge of the bed. “Done
hyperventilating in the bathroom?” he asks.
“I wasn’t hyperventilating,” Bruce says.
“Having a moral crisis, then.”
Bruce sits down next to him, leaving a good two feet between them. He wasn’t
having another freak out in the bathroom, but he doesn’t tell Tony that. The
truth is, he moved past the point of crisis last night, and even after a solid
night’s sleep he’s too tired to process the full implications of their
situation. He feels old-- much older than thirty-seven.
“Thank you,” he says simply, pulling Tony into a brief one-armed hug. “You’ve
handled all of this very maturely.”
Tony’s expression darkens, and Bruce knows immediately that he chose the wrong
words. “That sounds like you’re trying to say goodbye again. It sounds like
you’re trying to push me away and say goodbye.”
“I’m not,” Bruce assures him. “I’m not going to leave unless you want me to,
but last night changes things. I don’t know how to move forward from here.”
“Well, you can start by treating me the same as you’ve always treated me and by
giving me a real hug instead of some half-assed one,” Tony says. “If I’ve got
to put up with your angsting, I’m getting a real hug.”
Bruce can’t help his rusty laugh and doesn’t protest when Tony loops both arms
around his neck. Tony’s warmth is as comforting as its always been, but Bruce
wishes he couldn’t feel the markedly non-platonic way Tony nuzzles at his neck.
“Tony,” he says warningly.
He’s not surprised when Tony doesn’t listen. He places a light kiss behind
Bruce’s ear.
“Tony, stop,” Bruce says, and this time he pushes Tony back. “If you want me to
treat you like nothing’s changed, you have to start acting like it.”
“I’m in high school, you know,” Tony says petulantly. “I leave for college next
fall.”
“I know, but that doesn’t change the fact that we can’t do this.”
“Because I’m too young?” Tony asks.
“Because I’m too old,” Bruce says.
“You’re not old.”
“My knees pop every time I stand up, and my back hurts when I sit too long. I’m
old.”
“You’re really not,” Tony repeats.
“I am compared to you,” Bruce whispers emphatically. “Your parents trust me
with your safety. They’ve vouched for me, given me a roof over my head and a
second shot at a career. I can’t betray their trust or the trust you place in
me.”
Tony runs a hand over Bruce’s stubble. “You wouldn’t hurt me,” he says.
“I could hurt you so easily without even meaning to, and I don’t think you
fully comprehend that. We’re too close. We’re each other’s best friends, and
for years we’ve lived out of each other’s pockets. To act on what I feel for
you, even if you feel the same-- Tony, that would be emotional manipulation
verging on abuse.”
Bruce saw too many kids with that haunted look in their eyes during his time in
Kolkata, and he can’t bear to be one to make Tony’s eyes lose their shine.
“Abuse,” Tony scoffs. “You really think--”
“I need to show you something, okay?” Bruce says, cutting him off. Before he
can second guess his actions, he strips his t-shirt over his head. Tony never
sees him without a shirt, and that’s no happy accident. Bruce isn’t self-
conscious, per-say; he just never wanted to answer the questions he knew Tony
would ask, never wanted to see the worry and pity in Tony’s eyes.
Whatever Tony is expecting, it evidently isn’t this. He stares in shock for
several moments. The scars are blurred and stretched with age, but still
visible. At least six mottle his chest and back, varying from thin, clean lines
to the remnants of jagged gashes.
“Bruce,” he breathes. He reaches towards the scar arcing along Bruce’s ribcage
but hesitates, glancing at Bruce for permission. Bruce nods almost
imperceptibly. Tony’s fingers trace the raised length, delicate like he expects
Bruce to shatter, and Bruce can’t help the twitching involuntary under his
touch.
“If you’re trying to put me off, it’s not working. Quite the opposite,” Tony
says, forcing a smirk. Despite the attempt at levity, Bruce sees Tony’s brain
filing through all of the possible sources of the scars. “Did General Ross-
- No, wait. You couldn’t scar by then,” Tony murmurs, beginning to piece the
truth together. Bruce lets him work it out on his own.
Open horror crosses Tony’s face for the first time. “How old were you when you
got these?” he asks, touching one of the more obviously stretched marks.
“Five. Seven. Ten. Twelve. A couple in between that I’ve forgotten. Or
blocked,” he adds as an afterthought.
“Who did this to you? Where are they?” Tony says. And fuck, Bruce never knew
that Tony could look like this-- like he’s two steps from ordering a hit on
some unknown entity.
“Wasting away in a padded cell,” Bruce says.
That’s the way he likes it. Death is better than Brian Banner deserves.
“Who?”
Bruce swallows. He started this conversation, and he has to see it through. “My
father,” he says after a moment.
“Your father?!” Tony shouts. “How could-- What--?”
“You know that your parents are my godparents and that I lived with them before
I left for college, right?” Bruce says, staring down at his clasped hands.
Tony nods.
“I came to live with them after my father killed my mom in front of me. She was
trying to protect me, and he bashed her head in for it. He’d abused both of us
for years-- thought it was unnatural how smart I was, among other things.”
Bruce says the words blandly, a nearly emotionless statement of fact.
Tony is visibly shaken, but he steels himself, asking, “How? How did he-- What
did he do?”
“No,” Bruce says sharply. Then kinder, “No, Tony. That’s not something you need
to know right now. What he did… It was a long time ago.”
Tony doesn’t need to hear the specifics about how the scar on his shoulder came
from a flight of concrete stairs or the one on his side from a broken vodka
bottle. Not all Bruce’s wounds show up on his skin, but they’ve all scared over
with time.
Bruce will never tell Tony how many of those unseen scars he’s helped heal.
He’ll never know how he helped Bruce reclaim the sense of self he gave away in
refugee hospitals or the way he taught Bruce that some things are worth staying
in one place for.
“Did he ever…?” Tony trails, looking scared of the answer, and Bruce can guess
what he’s trying to ask.
He shakes his head. “Brian Banner was a monster, but not that kind.”
Tony looks like he wants to say something. Bruce can see the apology forming on
his lips, so he shakes his head. “Don’t apologize,” Bruce says. “You don’t even
have to say anything. It’s just something you need to know to understand.”
“Understand what? Why are you telling me this now?”
“Understand why I have to be so careful with you, Tony. Understand why I’m
telling you no. I was abused for most of my childhood-- if it can even be
called that. I spent nearly thirteen years afraid, and I can’t do that to you.
Never. Maybe you don’t see it now, but acting on my attraction to you would be
taking advantage of your feelings. Abuse.”
Carefully, like he thinks he’ll startle him, Tony stands and move to stand next
to Bruce where he sits on the bed. He reaches out to take Bruce’s hand.
“You will never be like him,” Tony says deliberately. “You’re not a monster,
even when you’re green and rampaging.”
He slowly leans forward to press a kiss to a scar arching across Bruce's
shoulder before wrapping his arms around the older man’s waist. This time
there’s nothing sexual about the embrace, just comfort and caring, and the
press of Tony’s body is so familiar that Bruce automatically brings his arms up
to return the embrace. Their breathing syncs up after a minute, and the
platonic affection is painfully familiar. Even with Tony’s added weight,
Bruce’s shoulders feel lighter.
Bruce can almost pretend everything is alright-- that flames aren't licking at
his hard-won peace.
Tony pulls back from the embrace. “Hold still,” he says. “Please. Just this
once.”
Slowly, deliberately, Tony sways towards him. He kisses Bruce softly on the
lips, and while Bruce doesn’t kiss back, he doesn’t move away, either. He holds
still and lets himself be kissed, the hand on Tony’s waist frozen in the
movement of pushing him away.
“That was all me,” Tony says when he moves away. His hands tremble, but a giddy
smile threatens to overwhelm his nervous expression. “No coercion, no abuse,
and don’t you dare insult my by arguing. I’m old enough to know what I want.”
Bruce opens his mouth, closes it, and flounders. He’s spent all these years
treating Tony like he’s old enough to make his own decisions, and he can’t
abandon that just because it’s inconvenient. This whole situation would be
easier if he told Tony flat out that he’s too young to make this sort of
decision, but Bruce knows that isn't true.
Tony is old enough to make his own choices, and it’s up to Bruce to make his
independent of what Tony chooses.
Finally, he asks helplessly, "I suppose I can’t convince you to stay out of my
room at night?”
“If you really don’t want me in here, lock your door,” Tony tosses over his
shoulder as he walks out.
Bruce knows he won’t. He knows it would be best for both of them if he did, but
he’ll never lock Tony out of his room. Bruce can see through the bravado
covering both Tony’s nerves and his delight, and he knows that he could never
shut him out.
***** Chapter 14 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is fourteen.
14
Tony is fourteen when Bruce pretends not to hear the arguing for the fourth
time in as many weeks.
Bruce leans his elbows on the lab table and tries not to make out the words.
They're muffled through two sets of doors and half a house, but Howard and Tony
have carrying voices. The argument has been going on for ten minutes, rehashing
all of the old hurts not covered in the last month's worth of shouting.
"I got into MIT. MIT!" Tony yells. "And I don't even get a 'congratulations'
from you. Just a curt nod and a grunt."
"That's because I wouldn't expect anything less from you. I know what you're
capable of, Anthony, and anything less than MIT isn't it." Howard isn't
shouting, per say. His voice is a cool boom echoing through the mansion.
"Is that supposed to be a compliment? I can never tell with you."
"Then run back to the lab to the only person you bother making an effort with."
"At least Bruce bothered to tell me 'good job!'" Tony shouts. "And maybe you
don't put in enough effortto know it, but I have friends besides Bruce. I have
an entire life that you just don't care about because it doesn't do anything
for the company!"
Bruce knows the argument isn't about him, not really, but it shakes him to hear
his name dragged into this. He worries that Tony's feelings for him are just
because Bruce shows him normal human affection without using it as a bargaining
chip, and he really doesn't want to think about the implications of that. Tony
has other friends now, friends who have gradually shown him how normal
relationships function. Bruce knows this, but he still worries.
"You want to talk about effort?" Tony's voice continues. "Tell me the last time
you asked me about something that wasn't a patent pending. When was the last
time you showed up to a chess tournament? I'm a grandmaster. Did you know that?
I mean, I know I told you, but that doesn't mean anything with you. Not like
you give a shit what I say."
"Get out."
"With pleasure."
Predictably, Tony's footfalls make a beeline for the lab, and he hits the
handprint scanner with more force than necessary. He pauses when he catches
sight of Bruce leaning on the table.
"You heard that, then?" Tony asks, not quite making eye contact.
Bruce only nods mutely.
"Sorry."
"Don't," Bruce says. "You don't have to apologize to me."
Tony lets out a humorless huff. "He was plastered, you know? Must have been
quarter of a bottle down by the time the shooting started. He can't even do me
the courtesy of being sober when we have it out. At least he's functional
enough to remember it tomorrow. Father of the year, right there."
Bruce stays silent, opting to let Tony talk off the residual anger. This isn't
a fight he needs to get in the middle of. Instead, he takes a step closer and
puts a comforting hand on Tony's shoulder.
"You know I can count the number of times he's said he loves me on one hand?
Two fingers of one hand, actually." Tony says. He's still avoiding looking
directly at Bruce. "And forget him saying he's proud of me. That's never going
to happen. Nothing I do is ever going to be good enough to live up to the
Howard Stark legacy."
"He is proud of you, Tony," Bruce says. "He does love you. He might not say it
in as many words, but he does."
Bruce knows it's true. The pressure and the expectations are Howard's way of
showing that he cares, but Bruce can't help agreeing with Tony.
"He has one hell of a way of showing it," Tony says. "He should be the one
telling me that, not you. You shouldn't have to. It's not your job to make up
for his lack of parenting skills."
"I don't have to," Bruce says and ducks his head until Tony is forced to meet
his eyes. "I'm proud of you. Never forget that." He takes a breath because the
next words stick in his throat now the way they never did before last year. "I
love you."
He means it to be affectionate, comforting, reassuring, but that's not how the
words sound when they leave his mouth. Bruce is probably the one who's said
those words most to Tony over the years. Little 'I love you's before bed and
long trips, praise when Tony does well on an exam or reassurances when he does
poorly-- for years those have been Bruce's purview, not Howard's.
He's said those words plenty of times, but they've never come out in that tone
before-- the 'I'm in love with you' tone.
Tony evidently hears it too, because he asks, "In what way?"
Bruce rubs his eyes. "I don't even know anymore," he says hoarsely, because
saying 'all of them' is definitely out of line. There’s no use lying, not to
Tony. Tony, who sees through his deflections better than anyone he’s ever
known.
"I love you," Tony says. He takes a step closer. "But you already knew that."
"Tony," Bruce warns.
Predictably, Tony doesn't listen. He leans in and traces his nose up Bruce's
neck, his breath ghosting over the sensitive spot just behind his ear.
"We can't do this," Bruce says with an effort. All he wants to do is put his
arms around Tony and give him what he wants.
"Why? My daddy issues?" Tony prods, still prickly from the fight. "You can say
it. You think I've fixated on you because I don't get love from him or some
psychoanalytical bullshit like that."
"You're upset, and you're not thinking clearly."
Tony makes a frustrated noise. "Yes, part of the reason I have feelings for you
is because you're good to me, but that has nothing to do with Howard Stark. He
could be the best father ever, and I'd still feel the same for you. You're a
good man, Bruce. A kind man. That's why I love you."
Bruce wants to protest that a good man wouldn't have this kind of conversation
with a teenager, but Tony is close enough that they're sharing breath. A good
man would lean away when Tony leans in, but Bruce isn't as good of a man as
Tony believes.
He lets Tony close the distance between them and holds still as Tony kisses him
without much coordination. He raises a hand to push him away, but somehow ends
up cupping the side of Tony's neck instead-- not pulling him closer, but not
pushing him away, either.
For just a moment, Bruce kisses back. He gives in to the gravitational pull,
and lets his lips move against Tony's. He kisses back before he remembers all
of the Very Good Reasons he's not allowed to do this.
Bruce pulls back so their foreheads are pressed together. "We can't. Not now,"
Bruce says, and desperation tinges the words.
Tony gives a watery smile. "I know." He presses his face into the juncture of
Bruce's neck and shoulder, and Bruce wishes he could do something about the
dampness of Tony's eyes. "But... can you just hold me for a while? Nothing
wrong with that."
Bruce disagrees, but he doesn't let go. He lets Tony pretend he isn't crying
into his shoulder and rubs circles into his back. Bruce hopes Tony can hear
everything he doesn't know how to say.
~*~
14
Tony is still fourteen at half past ten the night of May 28th, 2007.
Bruce hovers at the edge of the ballroom, eying chatting businessmen and
twirling heresies. As he watches, feeling roughly as out or place as a stray
dog, the thought occurs to him that he wasn’t this awkward at his high school
prom. At least he dances at prom.
He clutches a champagne flute close to his chest like a lifeline, because at
least it’s something to do with his hands that isn’ttrying to unravel the hem
of his suit jacket. He recognizes some of the SI employees that pass, but most
are well above his pay grade. None of his little hodgepodge research team are
present, and he gets the distinct feeling that none of them would want to be.
A man he identifies as the head of legal throws him a curious glance, and Bruce
can read lips well enough to know that he’s asking the hedge fund manager next
to him if he knows who Burse is. Predictably, the other man doesn’t.
Bruce moves to take another sip of his champaign and is dismayed to find the
glass empty.
As if summoned, a smartly dressed waiter with a tray of champagne materializes
at his elbow.
“You are a godsend,” Bruce murmurs, just low enough for the man to hear.
The waiter’s lips twitch. “I do my best,” he says before vanishing as quickly
as he appeared.
Another curious glance from an employee making her way to the dance floor, and
Bruce has to grit his teeth and remind himself he’s here for Tony. The
birthday-cum-graduation party is far from the ‘small affair’ Tony requested,
and Bruce is ninety percent certain that he’s Tony’s only real friend here.
It doesn’t matter that none of the assembled crowd know who he is to the
Starks. That’s what he wanted-- anonymity, and having it known that he lives in
Stark Mansion is certainly not that. One or two of the general science staff
might have put the pieces together, but most people with enough clout to be
here tonight are clueless as to what his place in Tony’s life is.
The discomfort must be plainly visible on his face, because Tony catches his
eye over the shoulder of the stockbroker’s daughter he’s dancing with and
raises his eyebrows in silent question. Bruce nods minutely and tries to give a
reassuring smile. He doesn’t suspect it works.
Tony’s People Pleasing face is out in full force, and Bruce thinks wildly that
he’d do just about anything to make it go away. These days, Howard almost never
loses his public face, and Bruce can’t help fearing that that will happen to
Tony, that the pleasantly interested expression will stick like a mask he’s
forgotten how to take off. Bruce can hardly recognize the most familiar person
in his life.He doesn’t normally come to these events because he hates seeing
Tony so miserable while everyone else think he’s having fun, hates seeing him
paraded around like a prized walking horse in preparation for the day he takes
over as CEO. A day which, at least in Howard’s mind, is a foregone conclusion.
As soon as the waltz ends, Tony makes a beeline for Bruce’s patch of wall,
nimbly dodging every person set on waylaying him. He sidles up to Bruce, one
hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a glass of sparkling water.
“Do I look that uncomfortable?” Bruce asks in lieu of greeting.
“Nah,” Tony says dismissively. “Just like the hors d'oeuvres have given you a
stomach ache.”
“Because that’s so much better.”
Tony merely shrugs. “You should be proud of me.”
“Oh?” Bruce asks. “And why’s that?”
“Because I’m A-- deathly board and B-- dead sober,” Tony says. “Usually at
these things it’s ‘if A then not B’. I just thought that me getting drunk off
my ass might worry you.”
“Tony--” Bruce starts.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward, not quite, but it’s a near thing. Bruce
casts around for something, anything, to say and lands on, “Are you nervous?”
“About what?” Tony asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“Of course not. What do I have to be nervous about?” Tony smirks easily, and
the expression is so much a part of his Public Face that Bruce’s chest
tightens.
“You graduate tomorrow-- valedictorian speech and all,” Bruce says. “You’re
allowed to be nervous.”
The Public Face flickers, then dies, and suddenly it’s the Tony that Bruce
recognizes standing before him.
“Okay, maybe a little nervous,” he allows. He looks out over the crowd,
considering. “You know I’ve danced with almost every woman here under thirty?
Most of them are okay, but a couple of them? Jesus, I’ve never been so
aggressively hit on in my life. I can’t tell if they just want to marry someone
with more money than daddy or if there’s some kind of bet on about who can
deflower me.”
Bruce chokes gracelessly on the sip of champaign he’d been in the process of
taking, and the bubbles burn his nose. “Please tell me you’re joking,” he
croaks, swallowing against the urge to start coughing.
“I wish.” Tony looks sideways at him with a lazy smirk. “Don’t worry; I’m not
going to take any of them up on it.”
“It’s your choice if you do,” Bruce says and tries his best to ignore how the
words burn worse than the champaign.
The look Tony gives him is considering. “I’ve danced with almost every woman
here under thirty, and you know what? I can’t dance with the only person in
this room I really want to.”
Tony looks away, back out over the crowed, and Bruce has nothing he can say to
that. Tony evidently doesn’t expect a response, because he continues, “I could
ask for just about anything I want for my birthday, and yet somehow the only
thing I actually, honest-to-god want is to dance with you, and that’s the one
thing I can’t have.”
Bruce downs the rest of his champagne in two quick swallows, feeling suddenly
wreckless. “Come on,” he says. He moves purposefully towards the exit, trusting
that Tony will follow, for all the world like he had any idea what he’s doing.
One in the empty hall, his dress shoes squeak on the marble floors.
Tony jogs to keep up, the fabric of this suit jacket rustling as he speeds.
“What’re we doing?” he asks.
“Something amazingly stupid,” Bruce says, grinning. He takes Tony’s hand to
pull him further down the hall, and as the warmth seeps into Bruce’s palm, he
blames it on that last glass of champagne.
Bruce tries doors at random intervals as they walk, jiggling handles uselessly
until one finally gives way. The room inside looks to be where disused
microfiche and old slide projectors on wheeled carts come to die, but it will
do. Bruce unsubtley pokes his head out to look either direction in the hall
before shutting the door, more for show than actual practicality.
Tony laughs at the ridiculous show, but there’s an edge under it. “Okay,
really, what are we doing? Or have you suddenly developed a fascination with
80s office tech?”
“I,” Bruce announces, shrugging off his suit jacket and draping it over a dusty
filing cabinet, “am giving you the one thing you’ve ever asked me for for your
birthday.”
He doesn’t bother to turn on the light. The curtains are drawn back from the
window, and the ambient city light is more than enough to cast a sepia glow
over the room. Faint strains of classical music and chatter are still audible
from the ballroom.
Bruce holds a hand out to Tony, and Tony takes it and shakes his head,
grinning. “You lead. I’ve led enough for one night, thanks.”
Bruce steps closer, putting his hand on Tony’s waist. He ignores every siren in
his head blaring out how amazingly terrible this idea is, because Tony’s face
is nothing short of elated. There’s not much space among the office detritus,
but there’s enough room for a slow waltz.
To Bruce’s surprise-- and, if he’s entirely honest, disappointment-- Tony holds
himself in check. He’s the picture of decorum, as if they were dancing in from
of the assembled crowd rather than a dusty closet. He doesn’t press closer than
he would on a formal dance floor, doesn’t do anything to betray just how much
he wants this dance save leaning ever so slightly into Bruce’s touch.
They dance for an immeasurable amount of time; maybe minutes, maybe hours. They
dance through the pauses between pieces, and they dance like every dance might
be the last.
It’s an eerie echo of two and a half years ago, when he first danced with Tony
in the Starks’ disused ballroom. This time, though, Tony is almost at height
with him, and unlike before, he’s painfully aware of the yearning in Tony’s
gaze when he looks up. His hand warm on Tony’s waist through the fine material
of his dress shirt, and Bruce’s own sudden awareness of that fact makes him
breathe in sharply.
“Happy birthday,” he whispers against Tony’s cheek.
Tony angles his head so they’re eye to eye, eyes liquid and longing in the
washed-out light from the street. They’ve stopped swaying to the faint threads
of music that still drift down from the main hall. They’re inches apart, noses
almost brushing, and Tony licks his lips, either nervously or in anticipation,
Bruce doesn’t know, but the movement draws his gaze.
This time it’s Bruce who leans in.
It’s so easy, like falling or flying or maybe a bit of both. All he has to do
is sway in those last couple inches until their lips brush, and then Tony is
there, surging up into the kiss. It’s soft and graceless, and his hand on
Tony’s waist feels like the only thing keeping him upright. Tony’s hand clings
to the fabric of his collar, and Bruce can’t even care about the wrinkles.
The kiss is slow, lips barely moving against each other as they learn the feel
of each other’s skin and bask in the momentary closeness. Tony exhales through
his nose, and the breath brushes over Bruce’s cheek, warm and intimate.
Bruce wants to hold on and never let go, but that’s exactly why it’s what he
has to do.
Bruce takes a step back that’s more like a stagger. “We should get back before
people start to notice you’re gone.”
“Yeah,” Tony says, and he looks off-balanced. “Yeah.”
Bruce collects his jacket and attempts to dewrinkle his collar even as guilt
claws at his throat. This time there are no excuses, no pretending that he is
blameless. This time, he kissed Tony.
The silence is heavy between them, and they exit the storage room together,
which Bruce realizes a moment too late is careless bordering on stupid. They’re
three steps down the hall when a too-familiar voice booms out, “Tony, there you
are!”
Bruce jumps minutely at the voice while Tony only closes his eyes as if in
prayer before turning to face Obadiah Stane. He looks far from surprised to see
them, and his fingers drum a staccato rhythm on the sleek cell phone he has
clutched in one hand.
“Obie,” Tony says, pleasant smile reaffixed to his lips, “What’re you doing
here?”
“I was just wondering where the birthday boy disappeared to. Evidently Bruce
was keeping you occupied.” Stane eyes both of them appraisingly. “Very occupied
by the look of it.”
Bruce resists the urge to check his clothes for wrinkles.
“The crowed was getting to me. Snuck a little too much champagne, you know?”
Tony says with an impressive show of feigned ignorance.
“I thought a bit of a walk might help him sober up,” Bruce puts in.
“A walk in the coatroom?” Stane asks with mock innocence.
“The outdated tech room, actually,” Tony says without missing a beat. “It was
amazing-- I’d never seen a real Xerox machine before.”
The panic tightening Bruce’s chest momentarily gives way to childish
satisfaction as Stane’s pleasant expression threatens to twist into an
irritated sneer. Instead, Stane forces his smile wider even as the phone in his
hand buzzes. He glances down at it briefly.
“Well, you can tell me all about it later. Right now I’ve got to go catch my
ride,” he says hurriedly. “Happy birthday once again, Tony.”
With that, Stane is striding off down the hall, a great deal quicker than the
situation calls for. Bruce has the sinking feeling that he’s just missed
something. Tony, evidently, agrees.
“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word. “Tell me I’m not the only one who found
that strange.”
“I wish you were,” Bruce says.
Tony takes a deep breath and straightens his tie, visibly preparing himself to
rejoin the party. Bruce just tries to breathe past the guilt. He feels like
everyone will see it on him just as easily as Stane had, that he kissed a
fourteen year old in a storage room. Or was Tony fifteen by then? Bruce had
long since lost track of time, and suspects that midnight passed by without
either of them noticing.
“Relax,” Tony says. “It’s fine. We’re fine. It was one kiss, not a sordid tryst
on the slide projector.”
Bruce swallows hard and nods.
Tony’s answering smile is sad around the edges. “Blame it on the three glasses
of champagne in three hours that your elevated metabolism absolutely had not
burned off if you have to.”
“Tony--” Bruce starts, but Tony cuts him off.
“I know, I know-- it won’t happen again,” he says, but he catches Bruce’s
wrist, running warn fingers over the delicate skin there. He smiles again, and
this time there’s genuine warmth in it. “But thank you, for giving me the one
thing I really wanted for my birthday.”
“What was that?” Bruce asks, because he can see the opening Tony is leaving
him.
“You.”
And with that, Tony plasters on his People-Pleasing grin and strides
confidently back out into the party, leaving Bruce to watch him go with a
mixture of guilt and longing tightening his chest.
As he reenters the ballroom, Bruce swears he can feel Howard’s eyes on him.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is fifteen.
15
Tony Stark is fifteen when Howard calls Bruce into his study.
Bruce takes a steadying breath, bracing for impact, before pushing open the
door. He’s sure that somehow the elder Stark knows about the kiss. It didn’t
matter how, but he knows. Bruce doesn't know what he should brace for-- being
evicted or being arrested.
Howard's expression is unreadable as Bruce faces him across the desk. Bruce
stands with his shoulders back and hands clasped behind his back. No matter how
edgy Bruce feels, he knows looking cowed in front of Howard won't do him any
good.
Whatever Howard intends to do, Bruce hopes he does it calmly and subtly,
because he doesn't know how the Hulk will react to being separated from his
friend "little engine man."
To Bruce's surprise, Howard says, apropos of nothing, "You look more confident
now."
Bruce blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"You don't stand like you're afraid of yourself anymore," he says. "You're more
comfortable walking around the city and going into SI headquarters when
necessary."
Bruce considers this. "Yes, I suppose I am."
Howard nods as if this is the answer he was hoping for. "And how much of that
confidence is because of Tony?"
"I don't know if I understand what you're asking."
"He isn't afraid of you, just as I'm not. He knows you would never hurt him,
even as 'The Other Guy,' as you like to call him." Howard drums his fingers on
the desk and continues, "Tony has shown you your limits, and you've been there
for him in ways I've never known how. The two of you have a bond that I can't
begin to understand."
Bruce remains silent because he really can't tell where Howard is going with
this.
"I know I messed up with Tony. A child, no matter how brilliant, is still a
child, and I always forgot that. I put more expectations on him than most
adults can even imagine, yet most days I still treat him like a toddler. He
resents me for it."
Howard runs his finger around the rim of the empty tumbler on his desk. "You
never had that problem. You never treated him like a child, but you never gave
him more than he could handle. You've always done what you thought was best for
him, even when it went against my wishes."
Bruce doesn't bother to disagree, and silence fills the room.
"I haven't been the greatest father, but I haven't been as careless as Tony
likes to think, either," Howard says. "I went to several of his chess
tournaments. I was there the night he made GM."
Bruce furrows his brow. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because I know how Tony gets around me. He tenses up and acts like he always
has to prove something. I didn't want to ruin the evening for him."
"You wouldn't have," Bruce says.
"We'll have to agree to disagree. That being said, I'm not the best father, but
I'm certainly not the worst," Howard says and gives Bruce a significant look.
"Most people would consider letting the thirty-seven year old man who allows
your teenage son to kiss him stay in your house ‘bad parenting,’"
The blood drains from Bruce's face. "Howard, it won't happen again. Whatever
this thing is between us, I'm putting an end to it. I was already considering
leaving."
"I'm not telling you to put an end to it, and I'm certainly not asking you to
leave," Howard says. "I'm asking you to do what's best for Tony, and I don't
believe that ending your-- relationship with him, is for the best."
And Bruce-- Bruce is lost. There's no playbook for your boss-cum-godfather
telling you to continue your less than platonic relationship with his son.
"You're going to have to explain," Bruce finally says.
"I've been aware of Tony's feelings for you for well over three years," Howard
says. "When he was twelve I considered it a harmless crush that would fade. At
thirteen I thought of it as an unrequited infatuation. At fourteen, puppy love.
Now... Now I can't pretend that this is something that will go away anytime
soon.
"He knows his feelings aren't unrequited, and he's not going to stop until he
gets what he wants or you make him. Maybe that's for the better. As long as
he's fixated on you, he's not out screwing anything that will stand still and
ruining his chances of inheriting Stark Industries at eighteen."
"The company," Bruce says, growing angry. "That's what this is about, the
company?"
"No," Howard says, standing and beginning to pace the well-worn length of his
rug. "This is about my son, and the fact that I've never seen him look at
anyone or anything the way he looks at you."
Howard runs a hand back through his thinning hair. "And you... You look at him
like he's the most amazing thing you've ever seen. You always have, but there's
more under it now."
"Are you out of your mind?" Bruce asks before he can really think it through.
"You can't seriously be telling me you want me to-- to what? Lead him on?
Seduce him? Sleep with him?"
“I’m saying I want you to follow the natural progression of your relationship,
wherever that may lead. In the past you've always been what's best for him, and
I don't believe that will change now.”
Bruce shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m having this
conversation with you. Tony is fifteen. Fifteen.There are very good reasons why
what you’re suggesting is illegal.”
Howard looks up, eyes sparking. "Do not mistake me, Bruce. If you harm my son,
I will lock you in a pit so deep SHIELD won't find you for a decade," he says.
His shoulders fall, and with that small change he looks older than Bruce has
ever seen him. “You wouldn’t be under this roof if I thought you could hurt
Tony.”
Bruce doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he turns on his heel and walks
out of the office before he do anything rash. Namely, telling Howard Stark to
go get checked for signs of early dementia.
The slam of the door is definitive, but Bruce swears he can feel Howard
smirking from the other side.
~*~
15
Tony is fifteen when he finds Bruce with his head in his hands, hair sticking
out at gravity-defying angles from running his fingers through it.
Tony’s voice breaks Bruce’s reverie. “What, did he offer you some goats as a
dowry? Maybe a research grant or two?”
Bruce jumps slightly. He didn’t realize Tony knew about this place, but of
course he does. Bruce doubts there’s a single hidden passage, freight elevator,
or back stairwell Tony hasn’t discovered over the years. Bruce is sitting on
the steps of a service passage in the back wing of the house. There are only
five non-security staff members in the mansion, and none of them apart from
Lorena and Jarvis know about this spot. Light filters in through a small
stained glass window, and Bruce has always found it a calming place to sit and
think.
“How much did you hear?” he asks without much hope. He’s sitting with his
elbows on this knees and chin in his hands, staring up at the multicolored
patterns the window casts.
“Enough to get the gist,” Tony says. He takes a seat next to Bruce, and they
sit in silence for several minutes. Finally, he prompts, “You have to tell me
what you’re thinking.”
“Honestly?” Bruce looks over at him. “I’m thinking that your father’s lost his
mind.”
Tony snorts inelegantly. “You’re not that lucky.”
“I’m thinking that I want to be angry. I want to be angry that he thinks his
blessing somehow makes this better instead of worse, but,” Bruce swallows hard,
“then I’m also glad I’m not about to be evicted or arrested. I could go to jail
for what he’s suggesting, you know. I mean, of course you know, but has that
ever fully registered for you?”
“Kissing isn’t considered sexual contact by New York law,” Tony says, shaking
his head.
“Tell me it wouldn’t be for you,” Bruce says. Tony always acts like things are
so straightforward and simple, like this is a decision that should be easy for
him to make. “They can take you away from me at any time, Tony. I have no legal
place in your life-- I never have.”
“You turn into a giant green rage monster,” Tony says dismissively. “The entire
US army couldn’t keep us apart.”
“Yes, but the CEO of the largest weapons tech corporation in the world could.”
“And he’s not going to, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that you should be in the 9th grade!” Bruce exclaims.
“But I’m not.” Tony says, beginning to get irritated. “I leave for college is
less than four months, and I’ve earned the right to make my own decisions about
what I can handle.”
“I could accidentally hurt you in so many ways. I’m not going to-- to--” Bruce
stutters over all the possible ways that line could end, “--do thisjust because
your father gave me his permission! This is not the 1700s, and you are not a
bride that comes with some goats and a hope chest. This isn’t Howard’s decision
to make.”
Tony’s face hardens. “No, it’s not. It’s ours. Yours and mine. I’m perfectly
capable of making my own choices independent of my father or my mother or even
you. I probably would have walked away if you’d come out of his office suddenly
fine and dandy with this thing between us. I am not my father’s to give away,
and I’d lose respect for you if you ever forgot that.
“For the last ten years you’ve treated me like I’m capable of making my own
decisions, and that had better not change now,” Tony continues, eyes locked
onto Bruce’s. “I know you want me back. I know this isn’t all in my head. You
love me, and maybe you're even in love with me. Either way, I think you would
have made the same decision regardless of what my father said.”
“And what decision is that?” Bruce asks, dreading the answer because Tony won’t
let him get away with the lies he tells himself.
“The one that you know we both want. I kissed you, and you didn't pushed me
away. Why? Did you feel sorry for me?”
“No,” Bruce says automatically.
“Then why? Say it,” Tony says, and it sounds less like an order than a plea.
“Say it so we both know for sure.”
Bruce speaks past the tightness in his throat because Tony deserves the truth.
“Because I never wanted to. I never pushed you away because I never wanted to,
but that doesn’t mean we should-- be romantically involved. You’re capable of
making your own choices, but we both have to make the choice that won’t break
us in the long run.”
“Maybe we will get hurt,” Tony says. “Maybe this will end in heartbreak, but
that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Tony looks like he’s expecting a response, but Bruce doesn’t have one. It’s not
just his own heart he’s risking. He’s afraid for himself, but he’s more afraid
for Tony. He also knows Tony wouldn’t thank him for making the choice to
‘protect’ him, however. Tony was right-- this is their decision, not Bruce’s or
Tony’s but both of theirs, together.
“Look, I know this thing between us isn’t normal,” Tony starts, biting his lip.
“You probably think I’ve got some short-sighted view that magically simplifies
everything, but here’s some news for you: I don’t. I’m not ignorant or naive.”
“I know that. I do,” Bruce insists. “We wouldn’t be in this situation if I
thought either of those things were true.”
Because if Bruce honestly believed Tony was ignorant or naive, he would be able
to walk away. If he viewed Tony as anything less than his equal, Bruce wouldn't
be attracted to him.
“If it’s my virtue you’re worried about, it’s not like I haven’t been exposed
to sex.” Tony smirks and leans in conspiratorially. “The only reason I’ve never
had any is because I want my first time to be with you.”
Bruce groans and holds his holds his hands. “You can’t say things like that!”
“Why, because you like it?” Tony shoots back. “You like hearing that I want
you, that I’ve never done anything because you’re the one I want, and it makes
you feel possessive.”
Bruce doesn’t respond because those are things he doesn’t like to admit, even
to himself. “You’re a teenager,” he says instead. “You’re supposed to make
mistakes and have bad sex.”
“Would you rather my first time be bad?” Tony raises his eyebrows. “Would you
finally want me back if I let other people have me first?”
Bruce’s eyes flash green, and he beats the monster inside back down. “It’s not
a matter of wanting you back,” he forces out. “It’s a matter of not wanting
this to end in heartbreak for both of us.”
“So you do want me back.”
“You’re not listening to me!” Bruce shouts, losing his patience.
“I am!” Tony yells back. “I just think your arguments are dumb. You think I’m
better off fucking someone my own age who only wants me for my last name?
Getting hurt by someone doesn’t hurt any less when they’re the same age as you,
and that’s always going to be the stakes I’m playing with. I'm the heir to a
billion dollar weapons tech conglomeration-- I don’t get the luxury of low-
stakes teenage puppy love.”
"Give it two years, and fifteen is going to seem so young to you. You're going
to wonder what you were thinking,” Bruce says quietly. He runs a hand back
through his curls. “You're going to wonder what I was thinking."
And that right there was the concession Tony was looking for. It's as close to
an admission that they're really going to do this as Bruce has given so far.
Tony moves to crouch in front of Bruce. “Maybe it will, but I'll never question
your motivations, and I'll always remember mine. I know you can hurt me, Bruce.
I know why this--” He motions between them. “--is illegal. But you’re not
tricking or seducing me, no matter what you’ve guilt-tripped yourself into
thinking. I trust you. I trust you more than anyone else in my life.”
Slowly, deliberately, Tony leans in to close the distance between them. When
their lips meet it's barely more than a brush, just breathing each other's air.
Tony pulls back an inch. "Kiss me," he says, breath ghosting over Bruce's lips.
"Don't make me figure this on my own."
It hits Bruce that Tony probably hasn't kissed anyone else before. He barely
has any idea what he's doing. This time when Tony closes the distance between
them, Bruce cups his cheek. He keeps Tony in control, but he kisses back this
time, guiding Tony with his lips and the tilt of his head.
And god knows he shouldn't, but Bruce loves the feel of Tony's lips against
his. He loves the way Tony slowly figures out how to kiss back. He loves the
way Tony isn't quite sure what to do with his hands.
He loves Tony, and maybe that doesn't scare him quite so much anymore.
Tony's hands hover just off Bruce's shoulder, Bruce catches hold of them,
guiding one to his neck and the other to his chest. He lets Tony set the pace,
lets him have all the leverage. Bruce's arm comes up to wrap around his waist,
loose enough to leave him plenty of leeway to move away.
Tony parts his lips slightly, and they slot together like they were made to.
His tongue darts out to trace Bruce’s bottom lip, not daring to go further.
Bruce wants to smile at the lack of finesse. It shouldn’t be as endearing as it
is. Or as attractive. Bruce opens his mouth against Tony’s, an invitation, and
coaxes Tony to deepen the kiss with a teasing flick of his tongue. Tony follows
the hint, and warmth settles low in Bruce’s stomach, so abruptly that it almost
startles him.
Bruce pulls back to pepper light kisses over the column of Tony’s neck, giving
himself a moment to think. It’s been long, interminable years since he’s done
anything even this basically physical with another person, and the shock of it-
- the sizzle of it through his nervous system-- burns hotter than he’d
expected. And he knows that if this is almost overwhelming for him, it must be
for Tony, new and massive.
Bruce slows the kisses to a slow trail of lips and breathes in the scent that’s
so uniquely Tony. His glasses get in the way as he traces his nose across
Tony’s jaw line, bumping against his skin. Bruce holds him close, letting the
warmth of Tony seep into his cheek as he presses one final kiss just behind his
ear.
A shiver runs through Tony, and he reaches up to trail his fingers down the
curve of Bruce’s jaw line, expression open and disbelieving, like he never
thought he’d actually get this. His fingers are unsteady where they scrape
against Bruce’s stubble.
Bruce catches Tony’s fingers between his palms, and no, the slight tremor
wasn’t his imagination. "You're trembling," he observes with some alarm. "Tony,
if you're afraid--"
Tony shakes his head emphatically. "Just nervous," he says. “I’m afraid I’m
going to screw something up.”
And Tony actually admitting he's nervous is startling in and of itself. For
years he's perfected the bravado of his father, and seeing such a large crack
in the facade is simultaneously alarming and reassuring for Bruce. At least it
doesn't seem like Tony is set on pushing things beyond what they're both
comfortable with.
“This is something you should wait until you’re ready for,” Bruce says, and the
words are an effort. Tony’s warmth in his arms is like a drug. Even having just
this much of Tony, it’s hard to contemplate letting him go again. But Bruce
will. If that’s what it takes to keep Tony’s heart and well-being intact, he
will.
"I want to wait until I'm ready with you." Tony leans his head on Bruce’s
shoulder, and Bruce’s loose embrace turns into a hug. “This-- what we were just
doing, it’s not too much. It’s just a bit new.”
“If we’re going to do this-- if we’re really doing this, there are things you
need to know,” Bruce say. He swallows hard. This is a discussion they have to
have now before this can get out of hand, because it has to be said. “It’s
alright if you want to call this-- whatever it is between us-- off. If you ever
don’t want to do this anymore, it’s alright. I’ll never be mad. Please, know
that.”
Tony sighs against Bruce’s neck and nuzzles closer. “I’m not going to want to.”
“Tony, please look at me. I need to know that you understand.”
Tony pulls away to meet Bruce’s gaze. “I understand,” he says with a nod.
“I also need you to understand that even if we’re doing this, we’re not doing
it all at once. We’re taking this slow. Very slow. Glacially slow.”
Another nod of understanding.
“In the future there might be some things that you’re ready for but I’m not,”
Bruce continues. “And yes, that is partially because of your age. I’m not going
to risk doing anything that could put either of us in a bad mental state.”
“I’m over the age of consent in New York State,” Tony says.
“Not with someone more than four years older than you,” Bruce corrects.
Tony levels a flat look at him. “If I’m old enough to build weapons and go to
college, I’m old enough to consent.”
“Your age isn’t the only reason,” Bruce says. “I haven’t had anything
resembling a relationship since before you were born. Maybe all those teenage
hormones make it hard for you to empathize with me on this one, but it’s going
to take time for me to be comfortable, both with our age gap and with romantic
physicality in general.”
“I get it. I won’t push,” Tony says. Bruce gives him a disbelieving look, and
he bites his lip to hide a smile. “Fine, I’ll trynot to push.”
Bruce resigns himself to the fact that that’s the best he’s going to get.
“Okay. One last thing,” he says softly. “I’m never going to tell you you can’t
sleep in my room, but if you’re going to continue to, we have to set
boundaries.”
“Yeah, that-- makes sense,” Tony agrees reluctantly.
“For now let’s just act like nothing has changed. If that doesn’t work, we’ll
reevaluate where the boundary needs to be.”
“Is it okay if I kiss you sometimes? In bed, I mean?” Tony asks. “Not like
heavy petting or anything but just-- kiss you.”
Bruce wants to say yes-- wants to so badly, but he thinks maybe that’s exactly
why he needs to take a step back and consider this. They’ve been sleeping like
a pair of lovers for longer than he wants to think about, and as soon as they
add kissing to that, all traces of plausible deniability go up in smoke. But
then, plausible deniability is already thinner than an overinflated balloon.
When Bruce is quiet for too long, Tony says, “I’m not fishing for anything with
that. Really. It’s just--” He ducks his head in a vain attempt to hide his
blush. “It’s something I think about sometimes, being able to kiss you before I
go to bed and when I wake up. It’s the sort of sappy shit I daydream about when
I can’t sleep.”
“Alright,” Bruce says because he can’t say no to that without a good reason,
and maybe that was Tony’s intention.
“Bruce?”
Bruce hums in acknowledgement.
“Can I kiss you again?”
***** Chapter 16 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is (still) fifteen.
15
Tony is fifteen when Bruce takes him out on their first real date.
It’s a Saturday midway through July, and they’re eating breakfast at the
kitchen table, Tony lounging across both his and Bruce’s chairs in a careless
slouch. One bare foot rests against Bruce’s thigh, making small circles against
the fabric of his sleep pants. It’s the sort of casual intimacy they’ve grown
accustomed to over the month since they started doing this-- whatever it is
their doing.
The light brushes and casual closeness are barely a step beyond what they had
before, but now there’s intent behind it, an acknowledgement of what they both
feel. They kiss now, casual and light most of the time. They kiss in the empty
lab and the quiet stillness of the library.
Bruce is still cagy about anything remotely physical, and he knows it bothers
Tony that he’s “so goddamned paranoid,” but he can’t help it. Physicality feels
new and forgotten and some part of his brain still insists that he shouldn’t be
doing this, that he should leave before they both end up broken. He firmly
pushes that part down, because listening to it now will only hurt them both
more.
“If we’re doing this,” Bruce starts, twirling his fork over his knuckles, “If
we’re really, honest-to-god doing this, then I’m taking you out on a real
date.”
Tony looks up from breakfast. “What, seriously?” he asks around a mouthful of
cereal. “Like, not a science date, but a date, date?”
“We’re doing this right,” is all Bruce says.
“Do I get a corsage?” Tony quips, but his words don’t entirely cover his spark
of interest at the prospect of a real date.
“If you want one,” Bruce deadpans. “But we’ll have to pick it up on the way. I
wasn’t sure what would match your dress.”
Tony laughs around his spoon, and the smile lights up his face. “Come on, you
should be able to guess by now that it’s red,” he says, but sobers as a thought
occurs to him. “So, what? Like an actual date in public?”
Bruce tries to shrug nonchalantly, but the motion comes out stiff and
mechanical. “We’re seen together often enough. I doubt we’ll raise any eyebrows
as long as we keep the public displays to a minimum. I mean, I think we’re safe
to be a little affectionate, just not anything that would--” He breaks off,
unsure of how to finish that sentence with a modicum of tact.
Tony takes care of it for him. “Just not anything that would make the cover of
the gossip rags or get you arrested,” he says, nodding understandingly. “So
keep it to our usual levels of codependent and overly tactile, then.”
“Um, yeah,” The older man shifts awkwardly in his chair, rubbing nervously at
the back of his neck. “I mean, if you’re comfortable with that. I kind of
wanted to do this right considering, you know, you haven’t really had a
relationship before. It’s probably a dumb idea, but--”
Tony cuts off his babbling with a kiss, catching his lips as he leans over the
corner of the table. He tastes like Rice Krispies with too much sugar, and it
shouldn’t, but it makes Bruce smile.
“Did you always ramble this much when you asked people out?” Tony asks against
his lips.
“I wasn’t good at this two decades ago. I’m sure as hell not good at it now,”
Bruce says honestly, leaning his forehead against Tony’s.
~*~
Ten hours later when he and Tony are led to their seats at some French
restaurant in the Upper West Side, Bruce remembers exactly how bad he is at
dating.
They’re both dressed, if not to the nines, then at least presentable enough for
a night out, and the last time Bruce felt this awkward he was the loose dog in
a conference of his peers, trying to make a reappearance in the world of
academia after years of being alternately a recluse and a destructive green
ball of rage.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” the waitress asks perfunctorily.
“Sparkling water, please,” Tony says.
Bruce gives his best I’m-harmless-I-swear smile. “A glass of wine for me.”
“Anything in particular?” she asks patently.
And Bruce freezes. He draws a complete and total blank. Do you order a merlot
or a cab with French food? Hell, do you do red or white? Dry? Or does it depend
on the food? He can’t even remember what the basic French dishes are.
Because this, this is something he’s forgotten. This is something that was
never necessary to survive the past decade and a half of his life. Alcohol is
an indulgence he scarcely allowed himself until the past couple years, until he
was confidante in his own limits and self-control.
“He’ll have Château-Grillet,” Tony says smoothly. His smile is all charm and
competence, and it’s completely and utterly fake.
Bruce’s stomach drops.
Here, now, Tony conducts himself with perfect aplomb, sliding easily into a
veneer of refined manners and superficial charm. It’s alarming how easily he
wears them like a second skin, like armor, while the young man Bruce knows
slips out of sight. Smooth, economic movements replace his normally
enthusiastic gestures, and Bruce can’t tell if he even knows he’s doing it or
if the façade is so practiced that it falls into place naturally.
Bruce rarely sees this side of Tony. He knows it’s there, sees it in still
images from charity galas, but he rarely accompanies the Starks to formal
company events to see it firsthand. It's like the pain of having to watch Tony
at his unasked for and unwanted birthday party all over again.
And okay, this dinner was a horrible idea. Anything that makes Tony wear his
public face unnecessarily is a terrible, horrible, no-good idea.
Because Tony hates schmoozing at charity balls and pretending to welcome the
day he becomes CEO, and right now he’s wearing the exact same expression of
careful reserve. The last thing Bruce wanted was for him to wear a façade.
“Not the kind of place I expected you to pick,” he says, tracing his pinky over
a fork that Bruce can’t name.
“I wanted to take you somewhere nice,” Bruce says honestly. He lowers his
voice. “Somewhere worth going on a first date.”
“You don’t need to try to impress me,” Tony says, understanding in his eyes.
The tailored image slips, and his smile turns genuine and flirtatious as he
leans in closer over the table, forearms folded on the white linen tablecloth.
“I’m basically a sure thing.”
Bruce’s eyes skitter away. “I’m not trying to--”
“Get into my pants?” Tony says, raising his eyebrows. “I know that.”
“Jesus, no,” Bruce says, glancing around hurriedly to make sure no one
overheard. “I mean yes, that’s not what I’m trying to do, but that’s not what I
was going to say.”
Tony gives him a moment, letting him gather his thoughts. And yeah, if Tony is
giving him a moment, then his own discomfort with this level of finery must be
painfully obvious as he fumbles through a menu written in one of the few common
languages he never acquired.
“I’m not trying to impress you,” he says. He clasps his hands and presses his
thumbs to the bridge of his nose. “I’m just trying to, I don’t even fucking
know, keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed.”
Tony laughs at that, and Bruce has the sneaking suspicion it was as much at him
swearing as at the statement’s general ridiculousness. “I’ve followed you into
a literal hole in the wall on St. Mark’s with a B health rating for udon. You
can’t seriously think I care at this point.”
And just like that the tension dissolves. If Tony still sits up a bit
straighter and enunciates a bit too clearly, well, at least his laugh is real
and the shutters over his eyes are gone.
“I don’t dislike places like this,” he says, gesturing at the cloth napkins and
buttoned-up wait staff, “But I’m not particularly attached to them, either.
Like you said, this is what I’m used to, but I like places you take me better.
It’s always something new and interesting and potentially terrible when you
carry me to those dives you like. Exploring word cuisine one dingy restaurant
at a time.”
Their drinks arrive, and Bruce takes a longer sip than is probably publically
acceptable. As soon as he sets the glass down, Tony’s fingers wrap around the
stem, index finger brushing Bruce’s momentarily before he takes a sip.
Bruce levels an amused look, and Tony shrugs. “It’s a French restaurant in
Manhattan. No one actually cares.”
“I know,” Bruce says. He rests his chin in his hand in an attempt to half-cover
his smile.
He must fail, though, because Tony laughs, “What? Why are you looking at me
like that?”
Bruce shakes his head and doesn’t reply. The only response he can come up with
is three words, eight letters, and entirely a bad idea.
He gives up on deciphering his menu, setting it down and resigning himself to
Tony ordering for him. As if summoned, the waitress appears. “Would you like
another glass?” she asks, indicating the now mostly empty glass.
“I’m alright, thank you,” Bruce says, but Tony overrides him, “He would.”
Bruce looks at him, unimpressed, and Tony doesn’t even have the decency to
looks chastised. The waitress giggles into the back of her hand. “The two of
you are adorable,” she says, looking between them.
Bruce’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry?” he says, and he hopes the frantic edge to his
voice is just his imagination.
“I always love seeing parents spending time with their children,” she says
earnestly.
Tony’s controlled façade shatters, breaking into an expression of barely
contained horror. Bruce sighs in resignation, because clearly this date was
never fated to end well.
“You’re not old enough to be my father,” Tony blurts, two steps from frantic.
“My father is, like, sixty.”
“I was twenty-three when you were born, Tony. I kind of am,” Bruce says
thoughtlessly.
He assumed this was something Tony knew, something he accepted as fact. Clearly
not, though, because the younger man looks visibly shaken, like he’s on the
verge of a full-blown freak-out.
Suddenly the warm air of the restaurant feels stifling, like a physical
pressure bearing down on them. Bruce can see that he needs to get Tony out of
here-- get himself out of here, too, if his heart rate is anything to go by.
They both need space to breathe and time to think. He stands and fishes in his
pocket for a wad of crumpled bills. The younger man follows, worryingly silent.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” the waitress says weakly.
Bruce gives her a polite smile and presses the money into her hand. “Keep the
change,” he says in a low voice as they pass. He shepherds Tony out the door,
hand hovering at the small of his back but careful not to touch.
The dank smell of the dank city heat and subway grates and exhaust fumes hits
them like a physical force. It’s still hot, hotter than inside the restaurant,
but at least there’s room to breathe between the press of strangers on the
street. Bruce trails wordlessly as Tony makes his way down the street at a near
jog, trying to give him time and space to process.
They walk without clear direction. They breathe in against the sharp breeze of
a Manhattan summer and cross whichever direction the lights allowed. They're a
dozen blocks south before Tony slows to a more reasonable pace, falling into
step beside Bruce. The frantic edge is gone, now, replaced by a thoughtful
expression.
“Maybe you’re old enough to be,” Tony says at last, “But you're not. You never
have been, literally or figuratively.”
“I know. We wouldn’t be doing-- whatever this is, if that was the case,” Bruce
says. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looks around, absorbing the
influx of sensory input as twilight creeps over the city. “This wasn’t how I
pictured this evening going. Maybe we should call it a night.”
Tony looks sideways at him. “That’s not what I want,” he says, and Bruce is
pretty sure they’re not just talking about giving this night up as a bad job.
Bruce falls silent, considering how to phrase what he wants to say next. “We
can wait,” he says finally, words kept secret by the mass of tourists and
business men. “I can wait. I’ll wait if you want to give it couple years and
try the whole-- us thing again once you’re older.”
“Is that what you want?” Tony asks, expression unreadable.
“This would honestly be a lot easier if you were three years older,” Bruce
says, and Tony looks a little hurt but entirely unsurprised.
“Yeah, I know,” he says softly.
“But,” Bruce forces himself to continue, “I like what we have. Maybe I
shouldn’t, but I do. Tonight hasn’t gone as smoothly as I hoped, but--”
“You’re not ready to give up, and neither am I.” Tony pins him with a sharp
look. “No way I'm letting this be how our first date ends.”
Bruce knows that’s his answer. They’re doing this, awkwardness and sore spots
aside. Tony bumps his shoulder playfully, and Bruce nudges him back, hands in
his jacket pocket. It’s a small comfort, but it’s reassurance enough that maybe
this night isn’t a complete waste of time.
“Do you have any clue where we’re going?”
“Not really,” Tony says as he loops his arm through Bruce’s. “But I’m still
hungry, and you look like you could use some food and a beer, so here’s an
idea: How about you take me somewhere you’ll enjoy, too.”
Bruce gives a weak shrug. “None of the places I like to eat are exactly first
date material.”
“Fuck first date material,” Tony says vehemently. “Give me Bruce and Tony
material.”
“Okay, okay," Bruce says. "I think I know a place.”
He leads then through the streets, taking them further and further into the
thick of the crowd. As they circle ever closer to 42nd and Broadway, Tony gives
Bruce a dubious look. "If you're taking me to the Time Square Olive Garden, I
might have to reconsider my decision to continue this date."
Bruce laughs at that even as he folds his shoulders in to avoid the brush of
strangers. "I thought you had more faith in me than that," he says. He pushes
open a poorly marked door, and immediately they're enfolded by the scent of
fresh ramen and shouts in Japanese.
"Two?" a bustling waitress calls as she passes, the word lightly accented.
Bruce nods, and she points them to an empty table on her next dash past.
As they sit, Tony looks around the small restaurant with muted interest. It's
small, but not unmanageably so. The cooks and wait-staff call orders back and
forth over the kitchen counter, and haggard-looking businessmen perch around
the bar, nursing beers and slurping down ramen like it'd been their only
motivation to get through the day.
"This," Tony says eyeing a ramen bowl the size of his head, "is more like it."
It’s dark by the time they leave the restaurant-- or, as dark as it ever gets
in Midtown-- and the radiant heat of the city has turned more pleasant than
stifling. They walk, not really having a goal but not ready to call it a night.
They talk. They talk about nothing and everything. They talk about the weather
and politics and the mortality of advanced artificial intelligence and what
makes humans human. After ten years together Bruce wonders that they haven't
exhausted every possible topic, but they always find something to talk about.
He never finds the conversation dull or boring or repetitive the way he would
with most people.
They drift down 6th Avenue until they reach Bryant Park, its trees aglow with
strings of lights and filled with the hum of carousel music.
"God I love this place at night," Tony says, and Bruce has to agree. Bryant
might not be the biggest or the most interesting of the New York parks, but
there was something captivating about it at night. They stand for a minute,
watching a dad jog around the carousel to take pictures of his twin daughters
as they pass.
"You know I've never been on a carousel before?" Bruce says idly. That was one
of many things that got lost in his childhood, along with sleepovers (too many
bruises), lemonade stands (not that kind of neighborhood), and pickup soccer
(required both teamwork and athleticism-- no).
Bruce glances over to find Tony wearing his best "plotting" expression.
“Tony, no,” Bruce says, backing away even as a grin breaks over his face. “The
only people on that thing are kids with their parents, couples on cheesy dates,
and stoned college students. No.”
Tony’s look of malicious glee only intensifies. “Oh, we’re doing this,” he
says, catching Bruce’s wrist. “We are so doing this.”
Bruce digs in his heels. “You don’t want me to be mistaken for your father, and
I can guarantee you that that’s the only way us getting on that thing can end.”
"Fuck it. Let 'em think what they want."
And that is how Bruce ends up seated on what might possible be a donkey. Or
maybe just a rabbit with hooves? He can't tell, but it was worth it for the way
Tony grins. He willingly leans in when Tony holds up his phone to take a
picture. Bruce takes the phone from him, using his longer reach to get them
both in the picture. There's some amnesty granted by them looking like
relatives. No one notices the way Tony leans in a little too close for the
picture or how Bruce's hand lingers on Tony's shoulder.
Tony looks young and happy as the carousel turns, and Bruce finds himself
caught up in the expression, captivated by its openness. This is something most
people don't get to see-- the Tony Stark buried under the glitz and snark.
When they stumble away laughing, heady with the silly romance of the night,
Bruce wraps an arm around Tony's shoulders, because fuck it. They’re just two
more nondescript faces in a sea of thousands.
Tony tosses him cheeky smile as they climb the steps to Stark Mansion. “So, are
you going to invite me up to your room for coffee?” he asks.
“That’s not what I’m-- Tonight wasn’t a ploy to-- to--” Bruce’s stuttering gets
cut off as they enter the house. He’s still not even comfortable thinking about
them having sex as an eventuality.
“I know that,” Tone says, voice not nearly quiet enough with the echo of the
hall. “I was just messing with you. Does thinking about me like that really
bother you so much?”
Bruce sucks in a breath through his teeth. “It bothers me that it doesn’t
bother me more,” he says. “It’s something I do want, eventually, and I don’t
know how to be comfortable with that yet.”
“I want a kiss goodnight, at least. We can start with that,” Tony says,
following Bruce towards his room. “If you really want to be weird about it, I
can leave after, but I’m getting my kiss.”
Bruce suppresses a sigh. “You know I’m not going to make you leave.”
“Yeah,” Tony agrees, shutting the door to the room. Its click sounds like a
promise Bruce doesn’t know how to accept. “I know.”
Bruce hesitates, wary to make the first move, but Tony doesn’t. He crosses the
distance in two short strides and pushes up on his toes, catching the older
man’s mouth in a heated kiss. It’s not slow or reluctant the way most of their
kisses are, and that catches Bruce off guard.
He opens his mouth automatically, letting Tony kiss him as if he’s starving for
it. Bruce forces himself to stay passive, not to push too far. He reminds
himself not to kiss too hard or ask for too much. He’s gone so many years
without this that he’s almost forgotten what to do, but his body hasn’t.
Whatever reservations Bruce has about Tony’s age, his body has no such
compunctions, and he has to fight the muscle memory that tells him to pull, to
push, to hold too tight and not let go.
Tony presses closer with a breathy sound of encouragement, a hand threading
into Bruce’s curls as he leans more of his weight into him. Bruce wraps both
arms around his waist instinctively, and the warm sensation of Tony against him
from thigh to chest sends a shiver up his spine.
Tony licks into his mouth with shameless strokes, coaxing the kiss deeper, and
Bruce’s tongue slides against his tentatively. Tony’s gotten so much better at
this-- at melting Bruce’s good sense into a puddle at their feet with
searingkisses. He's gone from kissing like he barely knew what he was doing to
kissing like he knows exactly how to drive Bruce insane, and Bruce has to fight
to keep his own instincts in check, because no matter how confident Tony may
seem, he’s still new to all of this.
Abruptly, Tony breaks the kiss, eyes fluttering open as he frowns up at Bruce.
“You’re holding back,” he says, looking perturbed. “I can feel you keeping
yourself reigned in.”
“I-- What?” Bruce manages, head still fuzzy.
“You. You always let yourself be kissed. Take control. I’m not going to fucking
break.”
Bruce shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I can’t-- I don’t
want to push this too far.”
“I’ll stop you if it gets to be too much,” Tony says, voice lowered to a
whisper. His eyes soften, and he leans in for another brief kiss, barely more
than a press of lips. “Please,” he murmurs against Bruce’s mouth. “Kiss me like
you’re not afraid to.”
And Bruce says the only thing he can say to that: “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”
The arm around Tony’s waist tightens as Bruce’s other hand comes up to cradle
the back of his neck, tilting his head back for better access. This time it’s
Bruce’s tongue that dives into Tony’s mouth, sliding and licking possessively.
He steals the younger man’s breath until there’s nothing left but the scrape of
Tony’s hands as he clings to Bruce’s shoulders for purchase.
Bruce systematically undoes everything he’s done to keep Tony in control, off-
balancing him and drawing himself up to his full height. Bruce might still be
physically taller, but he always made an effort not to seem so. Now, however,
he shifts his stance, still holding Tony’s weight until he has to wind his arms
around Bruce’s neck for balance.
They’re presses together from chest to ankle, and that’s new, too. Usually this
is the point where Bruce pulls away, slowing things down when he feels the burn
of arousal low in his belly. This time, though, Tony shifts one foot between
Bruce’s, and the sudden feel of Tony’s erection against his thigh almost makes
him gasp.
It sends a jolt of hot arousal through Bruce. He wants to arch, to press, to
take, but he allows himself none of that. He shifts his grip on Tony, pressing
their torsos closer together, but angling their hips apart. He basks in the
warmth of the young man in his arms, not asking for more but also not pushing
him away as he has before.
Tony takes a blind step back, and Bruce instantly loosens his grip, worried he
pushed too far. But Tony doesn’t let go, instead pulling Bruce back with him
until the backs of his legs hit the bed and they toppled backwards.
One of Bruce’s hands disentangles from Tony’s hair in time to stop his full
weight from landing on him. Bruce braces his knees against the side of the bed,
doing his best to keep his growing hard-on from pressing against the young man
beneath him.
Tony keeps kissing him, and Bruce kisses back for a long second before his
better judgment kicks in. He breaks the kiss, and Tony tugs on his shoulder in
an effort to get him further on the bed rather than just half-kneeling on it.
Bruce pulls back, realizing what Tony wants.
“We shouldn’t do this on a bed. The implications--”
“Fuck the implications,” Tony says vehemently.
Bruce shakes his head emphatically. “Tony, I’m not comfortable with the idea
of-- of us-- now.”
“Hey, hey. I know that. It’s okay.” Tony brings a hand up to cup Bruce’s jaw,
thumb grazing lightly over the stubble there. His glasses are smudged and
fogged, and Bruce is relying mostly on sound and touch to confirm that yes,
that moving blur is indeed Tony. “We can slow down if it’s too much-- I’m not
trying to have sex with you. I just want to keep kissing you, and that angle
was starting to make my neck hurt.”
A choked laugh escapes Bruce. “How-- How do you want to do this?” he finds
himself asking.
In answer, Tony reaches up take Bruce’s glasses, setting them carefully aside
on the night stand. He maneuvers them until Bruce is sitting on the edge of the
bed. Bruce thinks he sees what’s coming next, but it still surprises him when
Tony swings one agile leg over his thighs, settling easily on top of him.
“Tony,” he starts to protest. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“It’s fine,” Tony murmurs, pressing a brief kiss to Bruce’s cheek. “You’re
fine. This is good. You can let yourself have this. I just want to kiss you-
- nothing else.”
Bruce thinks it should be humiliating that he knows exactly the right thing to
say. He stares at Tony for a long minute, just taking in the curve of his jaw
and the sweep of his lashes where he’s perches above him. Bruce runs light
fingers over the patchy stubble on Tony’s cheeks. He’s so beautiful, even if he
would be annoyed at Bruce for thinking it. Bruce can feel himself falling
further, wrapping his heart even more securely around this brilliant young man.
Tony leans in to kiss him again, and this time it’s slower, more exploratory as
Tony runs searching fingers over his neck, chest, and shoulders. They catch on
the curve of Bruce’s collarbone and the rise of his Adam’s apple. Bruce lets
him explore at his own pace, keeping the pace languid. Banked embers still burn
in the pit of his stomach, but Bruce lets himself enjoy the feeling.
He basks in the near-physical burn of it. It’s been so long since he’s wanted
anything this much--- viscerally, almost painfully-- so long since he’s wanted
anything for himself. It's not just the physicality, though that desire burns
like a brand, bone-deep and aching like he’d forgotten lust even could. No,
it’s also the desire to keep Tony by his side, and the possessive pull of that
scares him even more than the physical longing.
Because that? That’s how stalkers and madmen are created and how a man like
himself is broken so thoroughly that there's no hope of being glued back
together again.
He feels himself teetering on the edge of something terrifying. He’s loved
before, love deeply and passionately, but he’s never loved like this. He’s
given himself away before in careful hands sewing stitches under tin-roofs and
in soft whispers between sheets, but some piece of his heart was always his.
Loving so wholly, so completely feels like it has as much of a chance of
breaking him as it does at remaking him.
Tony shifts closer, moving from straddling Bruce’s thighs to straddling his
hips, and a gasp escapes him. Bruce knows he must feel the growing bulge in his
slacks, and he presses a hand to Tony's chest. He means to put some space
between them, but he can’t make himself push Tony away, palm resting warmly
over the rabbit-fast thump of his heart.
“Sorry. I’m sorry,” Bruce breathes against his cheek. He places a soft kiss
just below his ear. “It’s just a physical response. It doesn’t have to mean
anything.”
Tony kisses him in reply and loops his arms around Bruce's neck so they're
pressed flush from hips to chest. It takes all of Bruce's effort not to rock
into the contact, and that, he thinks, is definitely a sign that they should
slow this down. Tony must be in agreement, at least to some degree, because he
breaks the kiss to rest his face against the crook of Bruce's neck. He places
damp kiss on the skin there but doesn't make an effort to do anything more.
Bruce kisses his cheek, warm and affectionate as he cards fingers through his
tousled hair. Tony moves in for another kiss, but this time Bruce doesn't let
him deepen it. Tony takes the hint, allowing Bruce to cool them down. He pushes
himself back to standing with a graceless ease that still manages to hold
Bruce's gaze, and Bruce can't help but notice the the tent in his pants.
Tony grins shamelessly when he catches Bruce staring.
"I'm going to take a shower. A longshower. You should do the same, not sit here
and angst." He leans in to mutter in Bruce's ear. "And I'd like to think of you
thinking of me and know that you're getting off on it."
With that, he turns to leave the room, smirking back at Bruce over his
shoulder.
And Bruce-- Bruce thinks he might just take him up on that advice.
***** Chapter 17 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is fifteen.
15
Tony is fifteen when Pepper says, "Tell me you want Italian. You want Italian,
right?"
"I, what?" Bruce asks, looking up from his paperwork as she enters the lab.
"You want Italian," she says with a firm nod. "Howard is being insufferable,
and Tony is in Albany for that-- that genius thing."
Pepper flaps her hand to punctuate this statement, and Bruce can't help his
smile. "Young engineers conference," he provides.
"That," she agrees. "I want Italian from that little place on 24th, and I want
someone with discerning taste in wine and decent social skills to go with me."
Bruce takes a moment to process this, but apparently a moment is too long,
because Pepper adds, "I will go alone if I have to, but a thirty-two year old
woman finishing a bottle of pinot noir on her own at lunch is just pathetic,
and you probably haven't eaten in at least twelve hours without Tony here."
Bruce raises his hands in mock surrender, because really, he was on board at
'pinot noir'. His weekly lunches with Pepper remind him that there is a world
outside of Tony and work.
An hour later he is sitting across from Pepper, pleasantly relaxed from half a
bottle of wine, and animatedly telling a story.
"--so then Tony goes on to pretend that he only speaks French and looks at me
expectantly, but I only know how to do three things in French: order food,
count to twenty for the sole purpose of ordering food, and ask someone to sleep
with me," Bruce says, counting off on his fingers.
Across the table, Pepper's hand comes up to cover her smile. "You did not say
'voulez-vous coucher avec moi' to a reporter."
"Oh god no," he says. "I asked her for the number seven and a bowl of soup."
That startles a surprisingly indelicate laugh out of her. She rests her hand on
her chin and looks at him, considering. Over the course of their conversation,
her expression has become more and more speculative. She still laughed in all
the right places, but there was something under it.
"Bruce," she says, and it comes out gentle enough that he tenses instantly.
"Tony is fifteen and leaving for college in less than a month. You remember
that, right?"
Bruce forces his breathing to stay even. "I can't exactly forget, considering
I'm the one driving him to Massachusetts."
"Please don't insult both of our intelligence by playing dumb," she says, still
gentle. "I know Tony's not the only one with a crush."
Bruce sucks in breath to protest, but she cuts him off.
"I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just saying be careful," she says.
He looks away from her to trace the lines of a spare fork with his finger. He
considers denying it, just for a second, but he doesn't. Pepper doesn't know
that he's involved with Tony already; that much he can tell. All she suspects
Bruce of is having feeling for him.
He looks back at her, a wry smile twisting his lips. "Is it that obvious?"
Pepper must have expected a fight or a denial, because she relaxes back into
her chair. "Only because I know you. Or like to think I do after nearly two
years," she says. "I know you want what's best for Tony, but I also know you
forget that he's barely more than a kid. We all do.
"But he's fifteen. Don't let his crush or your own make you do something you'll
both regret," she says. "I'm telling you this as your friend and as someone
with a vested interest in your well-being. Please be careful."
The words hit like a body blow, preying on his insecurity about his
relationship with Tony, but he forces himself to hold her gaze. It's nothing
Bruce hasn't thought himself a hundred times, but he knows with a terrifying
conviction that whatever this thing is between Tony and himself, it is much
more than a 'crush.'
No matter how well she knows him, Pepper is missing vital pieces of their
story. Bruce doesn't care to fill her in, not least because it would entail
admitting that his relationship with Tony has progressed far beyond what she
suspects. All he says is the truth.
"I would never do anything to hurt him, not on purpose."
She takes a steadying breath and says, “It’s not just Tony I’m worried about
getting hurt.”
~*~
15
Tony is fifteen when he throws a folder at Bruce’s feet, scattering its
contents across the floor of the lab.
“Have you fucking seen this?” Tony all but shouts. "Obie has really outdone
himself this time."
Bruce stoops to pick up a page that's lodged itself under his foot. It takes
him less than thirty seconds to understand what he's looking at.
The page stares up at him accusingly. "This is..." he starts.
"Surveillance," Tony spits. "Reports from fired nannies. Pictures. Psych evals
from when General Ross had you. Anything that slippery bastard could trump up."
Tony looks ready to kick the nearest stationary object. Instead, he clutches at
the lab table with white-knuckled fingers. "He shouldn't even be able to get
his hands on those. SHIELD had your military files sealed, considering they
were complete bullshit."
"This is bad." Bruce picks up another sheet, this one a full page gloss photo
of him and Tony-- dancing, he realizes. It must have been taken the night of
Tony's birthday party, through the window of the little storage room, from the
look of it. The photo shows the pair of them pressed unmistakably close, Tony's
nose tucked into the curve of Bruce's neck with clear intent.
"No shit." Tony runs his fingers through his hair. "Sorry, it's not you I'm mad
at."
"Maybe it should be," Bruce says. He can't tear his eyes away from the damning
tableau, black and white evidence of the true nature of his relationship with
Tony. Pepper's warning echoes in his head. "I knew this was going to happen,
but--"
"No. Don't start that," Tony says. He begins pacing, strides long and angry
even in the confined space. "Not now."
Protests hang on the tip of Bruce's tongue, but he holds them in. Right now
dealing with this comes first. Later can come the panic and the guilt. He
reaches down to gather the rest of the scattered pages.
"Stane is planning to burn you, and he's going to use me to do it," Bruce
murmurs as he thumbs through the rest of the pages, almost without thinking.
Tony halts mid-stride.
"What?"
Bruce looks up at him, at a loss for what to say. Obadiah Stane never made a
secret of his disdain for Bruce, but he has at least put up an amicable front
around Tony. Still, Tony has never exactly been fond of Stane, not since he
accused Bruce of having malicious intentions toward him when he was ten, but
Bruce doesn't think Tony knows about the crux of that argument all those years
ago, how Stane belittled Tony and made him out as nothing more than an asset
for company.
Now, Bruce doesn't know what to say or how to explain. He doesn't want to be
the one to tell Tony how Stane views him, how Stane despises him for things he
can't help. Tony puts on a strong front, but having someone out to get you for
no apparent reason hurts, even as an adult. Tony is a teenager, and for the
first time in a long time, Bruce feels their age difference.
"He wants to discredit you," he says at last, "make it look like you're unfit
to run the company."
Betrayal flashes across Tony's face before anger takes its place. "Why? Why
would he--?" He breaks off. "Because he's next in line to take over if I
can't," he says, voice flat.
Reluctantly, Bruce nods. "He never wanted you to take over. I--" Bruce swallows
past his protective urge to keep the truth from Tony. "I've known for a long
time, but I never thought he'd do something about it."
"You knew," Tony says almost in monotone. "You knew, and you never said because
you didn't think I was capable of running the company to begin with."
"I never said anything because I knew you could," Bruce says. "You've always
been capable of taking over Stark Industries. Whether or not you do is your
choice. And now Stane sees that-- sees that you're fully able to take your
father's place-- and he's going to use me against you to make sure you don't."
In some sick bout of hindsight, Bruce wonders if that hasn't been Stane's plan
for the past five years.
"What the fuck did I ever do to him?" Tony spits. Despite how angry he sounds,
his eyes reflect the hurt he's never learned to hide from Bruce.
"You're everything he's never going to be," Bruce says. "You're smart and
capable and rich and happy. If you choose to, you're going to inherit SI
because you earned it, not because of nepotism, and that eats him up."
"But what does he think he's going to gain?" Tony asks before shaking his head.
"You know what, it doesn't matter. If it's the money or the power or if he just
wants to fuck me over, it doesn't make a difference."
"Tony, he's made the connection between us, and he's not going to quit making
it as long as we keep doing this."
"Doing what?" Tony asks stubbornly.
Bruce suppresses a sigh. "You know what."
"Nothing has changed on the outside."
"Yes, it has. You're just too close to see it. The more Stane looks, the more
dirt he's going to find." He takes a deep breath and adds, "The more dirt we're
going to hand him gift-wrapped."
Tony's lip curls in an unintentional imitation of his father. "What we have
isn't 'dirt'."
"Every day I spend with you is more ammunition for him," Bruce says, and the
words hurt. "Maybe we need to take a step back.”
"Do you want us to?"
"It doesn't matter what I want. This is your future we're talking about."
"Do you want to or not?" Tony shouts, fists clenched at his sides, and it's the
first he's ever yelled at Bruce.
"NO!" Bruce shouts back, temper flaring. Not flaring like when the Other Guy is
close to at hand, but the sharp, bright spark of normal human temper. Bruce
always had a short fuse before the accident; ironically, he's much more even
tempered now, no longer able to afford the slips in his control. Even when rage
bubbles just below the surface at ridiculous thing like a forgotten mug of tea
or the maids moving his shower gel, he keeps his calm on the outside.
It's been long years since he's felt a surge of anger without the accompanying
rage.
"No, okay? Of fucking course I don't," he says. He takes another steadying
breath. "But this is your life and your future, and you leave for college soon.
I'm not worth risking everything for when you have a new chapter of your life
ahead of you. If Stane plans to use me to damn you, that means we need. To
take. A step. Back."
"I'm not going to let this be the excuse you're looking for to run away." Tony
shakes his head. "Like you say, this is my life and my future we're talking
about, and you belong in both of those. As my lover, as my friend-- either way,
you're there.
"I'm not letting you go because I'm leaving for college, and I'm sure as hell
not doing it because Obadiah Stane is stupid enough to try to use you against
me. What he's doing to us is his own mistake-- and it will be a mistake; I'll
make sure of that," Tony says vehemently. "If you regret getting involved with
me, or if you're too scared and want out, then say it. Say it, and I'll drop
it. But until you decide that we're not what you bargained for, that I'm not
what you bargained for, stay with me.
"Obadiah can't touch us. And if he does, if he so much as tries, I'll burn
Stark Industries to the ground match by match myself before I let him have it.
SI is mine to run, and I'm going to do it with you at my side for as long as
you'll stay."
Silence rings through the room following Tony's words. His chest is heaving by
the time he finishes speaking, and his hands are in fists at his sides.
Bruce takes a moment to appreciate the fact that by trying to prevent Tony from
taking over SI, Stane has set Tony on the path to do exactly that. Before now,
Tony has never sounded sure about running the company, like it was something he
had to do, rather than wanted to do. This is the first time Tony has sounded
like he wants to run SI-- possibly, Bruce suspects, because it's the first time
that he's been told he might not.
Tony isn’t a child any more -- not that Bruce has thought of him as one since
that night in the Catskills, but this is the proof Bruce hadn’t known he
needed. This is Tony taking control of his future, irrespective of what Howard,
Obadiah, and even Bruce himself think he should do. Bruce can’t help but see
how much he's matured in the past year, and for better or worse, he knows he’s
part of the reason.
"Tony..." he says at a loss. “I'll be with you for as long as you want me
here."
"Then quit trying to convince me to abandon you," Tony says. "I know you don't
trust that this won't fall apart around you, but trust me even if you don't
trust anything else."
Bruce doesn't even register the intention to move before he's crossed the space
between them, hands on either side of Tony's face. The kiss is deep, a heady
mix of sweet and hot that makes Bruce's head spin. Tony's hands find his ass
through his slacks, and instead of making him falter, the touch makes Bruce
grin into the kiss.
Bruce feels drunk on Tony, reckless and stupid because god, he loves him. He
loves Tony like he's never known it was possible to love, and he wants him so
viscerally that it's almost a physical ache.
And maybe, just maybe, the thought of wanting Tony doesn't scare Bruce as much
as it once did.
Before he can over-think it, Bruce grasp Tony by the back of his thighs and
lifts until he has Tony up on one of the lab tables. Tony's legs hitch up
loosely around his waist, just enough to press them together from hip to
sternum.
Something tumbled to the ground with the crack of breaking glass, but neither
of them pays attention.
Tony fumbles blindly at the top buttons of Bruce's shirt, deftly opening the
first three. Bruce pulls back from the pale length of Tony's neck to catch his
wrist in warning.
Tony rolls his eyes. "Oh come on," he wines. "Is this a thing? Like, is this
some sort of hang up of yours?"
"Tony," Bruce says, unable to hide the smile in his voice. "We are A, not
having sex; and B, definitely not having sex on a lab table."
"So, if there's no 'definitely' attached to stipulation A, does that mean--"
"We are definitely not having sex, period," Bruce amends, before rethinking his
pressing. "We are definitely not having sex any time soon."
"Fine," Tony says, sounding exasperated but not surprised. He runs his
fingertips through Bruce's exposed curl of chest hair. "But the top buttons
stay undone. You have very nice clavicle. Is that weird to say?"
Tony cocks his head to the side, considering, before leaning down to nip at
said clavicle.
"Tony," Bruce repeats, but this time the name comes out on a poorly suppressed
moan as Tony finds a particularly sensitive spot. Without thinking, he presses
on the back of Tony's head, encouraging.
Tony leans up to grin at him, more similar to the Cheshire Cat than should be
possible. "I'm going to go with not weird," he says.
Rather than dignify that with a response, Bruce presses closer, basking in the
warmth of Tony's thighs at his hips. He's glad for the cold edge of the lab
table, both relieved and-- in all honestly-- frustrated to be pressing his
growing hard-on into it rather than against Tony.
Bruce trails his nose along the line of Tony's neck, and the familiar scent of
Tony's skin fills Bruce's nose, instantly recognizable from all the years Tony
has spent curled by his side at night. It's so painfully familiar but somehow
also so foreign, mixed with the tang of arousal and breathed through kiss-
swollen lips.
Bruce gives into the urge that's itched at him since that night in the
surveillance photo now crumpled under Tony's thigh and kisses at the side of
his neck, open and messy. He tastes salty with sweat and so, so perfect.
The sound that Tony makes is indecent and loud,low and pleading as his legs
tighten at Bruce's waist. He weaves his hands into Bruce's curls as Bruce
kisses up the column of his neck with single-minded focus.
"Leave a mark," Tony murmurs against his ear, and Bruce is too lost in the
scent and taste of his skin to do anything other than comply.
He sucks at the side of Tony's neck, grazing his teeth over the spot when Tony
wraps encouraging arms round his neck to pull him closer. The younger man
arches into the contact, breath warm against Bruce's ear. He leans fully
against Bruce, and his legs wind more securely around his waist, hips coming
off the lab table as he tries to get closer.
That's the moment it registers for Bruce that this is getting out of hand.
He takes an unthinking step back, away from the press of Tony's hips. Tony's
legs grip tighter for purchase, but it's not enough. The grip only serves to
drag him forward off the counter. He clings to Bruce's back with blunt nails
even as he slips down, back knocking harshly against the edge of the table. He
gets his legs unwound just in time not to land on his ass on the concrete
floor.
They stare at each other for a beat of stunned silence before they both lose
it. Tony hiccups with it as he winds his arms around Bruce's waist, pressing
his face against the other man's chest to muffle his laughter. Bruce's
shoulders shake as he laughs, and it feels cathartic.
"That's going to leave a bruise," Tony says. He squeezes Bruce's waist
reassuringly.
Bruce tries to quit laughing; he really does. "Are you okay?" he asks even as
another bubbles up.
"Fine," Tony says, and he snorts into front of the other man's shirt. "The
bruise on my neck will probably be worse, by the feel of it."
Bruce squints through smudged glasses at the mark livid against Tony's skin.
It's not a hickey, singular, but a series of spectacular red and purple marks
running the length of Tony's neck. Most of the red one will fade in a couple
hours, Bruce knows, but there are at least three purple splotches that are
going to stick.
"Oh god," he manages, still trying to suppress a laugh. "It looks like I tried
to maul you."
He pulls off his glasses to wipe them on his shirt before replacing them,
finally managed to reign in his laughter. The marks somehow look worse with
clear vision. The wild, possessive thing that lurks in his chest purrs at the
marks, at odds with the protective instinct still crying for him to get as far
away from Tony as possible.
In the end, he runs careful fingers over the line of bruises, and Tony turns
his neck obligingly to let him inspect the damage. Bruce swallows as he traces
the edge of the marks. "Okay?" he asks.
"Better than okay," Tony says, leaning into the touch. He tips his head back to
meet Bruce's eyes. "Now what?"
"Well," Bruce starts, "Now that we've talked out my commitment issues and
flaunted lab safety protocol, we need to suck up what's left of our bruised
pride."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we have to talk to Howard."
Tony groans, a very different sound from the ones he was making only minutes
before. "Can we not?"
"As much as I truly relish the thought facing your father after I've spent the
past five minutes kissing his underage son," Bruce says, voice dripping
sarcasm, "we've got to. If Stane is in contact with Ross, this means trouble.
We need to talk to Howard before this can get any more out of hand, especially
if you don't want it to end with me in prison."
In answer, Tony leans up to catch Bruce's lips in a brief kiss. "I know," he
says, sighing against Bruce's lips. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."
"You don't have a turtleneck you can put on, do you?"
Tony stares at him blankly. "Do I look like I own a turtleneck? No one except
librarians and middle-aged professors own turtlenecks tall enough to cover
this."
"A scarf?"
"It's the middle of August," Tony says. "Besides, he'll know. He just sort of
knows shit like this. He doesn't know when my birthday is, but he's got some
freaky sixth-sense for me trying to seduce you." He pauses, considering. "Plus
you look like we've been fucking on a lab table."
Bruce ducks from Tony's embrace to catch his reflection in a nearby monitor.
His lips stand out brilliantly kiss-swollen, and his curls stick up in a
frizzed cloud. He's happy, so unspeakably happy, that Pepper is out of town on
business for the next four days, because he has no doubt she'd put the pieces
together instantly.
General Ross is still haunting him, Obadiah Stane is out for blood, and Bruce
does indeed look like he's been fucking a teenager on a lab table.
All he can do is start laughing again and hope the hysterical edge is only
audible to his own ears.
***** Chapter 18 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is fifteen.
15
Tony is fifteen when Bruce drops him off at college in Massachusetts.
The summer feels interminable, like a hormone-fueled dream that will never end.
Bruce hasn't felt this reckless in-- well, ever. He's never been one to be
ruled by his desires, but something about Tony makes him break every rule he's
set for himself.
He knows the sweltering months will live in his memory as a series of freeze-
frames-- Tony, blinking awake first thing in the morning; Pepper, threatening
them at heel-point to come out of the lab for food; himself; himself, flooring
the accelerator like a showy teenager just to make Tony whoop.
They go on the occasional date, and they bicker over coffee in the lab, and
they just sort of work. They work together in a way Bruce never imagined
possible. It's not simple, but it's as close to perfect as Bruce has ever had.
He can't remember ever having been this happy, not even at the height of his
manic, research-fueled years just out of grad school when military research
grants buoyed his conviction in his own brilliance.
That, more than anything, is what terrifies him-- the fear that the happiness
can't last, the paranoia that he doesn't deserve it-- but he pushes it aside.
Losing himself in self-pity and fear will do nothing for Tony and only serve to
topple the very happiness he fears losing.
Some days Bruce forgets altogether why Tony's age is a problem or how college
looms ever closer. Slowly, the guilt and hesitation are fading. Waking up to
Tony snuggled against his side or finding him eager for a kiss when an
experiment meets success makes Bruce's chest tight with affection rather than
worry.
But the end of August does come, and Bruce soon finds himself loading a car in
preparation to drive Tony to MIT for his freshman orientation.
"No REM," Tony says as he stows his bag. "Seriously, driver picks the music,
and said driver vetoes any damn more REM."
"We're listening to my music precisely because you're driving," Bruce says,
tossing Tony the keys. "Driver doesn't pick the music when Passenger has a
volatile relationship with stress. There's a very good reason why I wasn't the
one to teach you to drive. A very good, very green reason that doesn't want to
listen to Guns N' Roses all the way to Massachusetts."
Tony sighs as he starts the car. "Fine, but if I've got to drive in Boston
traffic, you gotta' give me anything except REM," he says, then adds as an
afterthought, "Or U2."
Bruce doesn't protest. Instead, he plugs in his mp3 player-- a 38th birthday
present from Tony-- and holds the display up for Tony's approval.
Tony grins and throws an arm behind Bruce's seat so he can back the Audi R8 out
of the garage. The low chords of "Wheel In the Sky" thrum through the
impressive stereo, and Bruce settles in for the ride.
"That's more like it," Tony says. "Road trip music."
It's barely seven AM as they make their way out of the city. Bruce tenses every
time Tony has to stop for a red light, foot instinctively slamming on an
imaginary brake peddle. He's almost regretting the decision to drive rather ran
fly by the time they hit the interstate. Almost, but not quite. Bruce plus a
pressurized metal tube thousands of feet above sea level just sounded like a
horrible idea, even if the SI private jet is an option. Most of Tony's things
have already been shipped; he could have easily flown on his own, but Bruce
couldn't stomach the idea of sending Tony away to college alone.
The four hour drive passes quickly-- quicker than it should and quicker than
Bruce wants it to. Tony drives with a lead foot as they belt along to Journey
and the Eagles, astonishingly off-key in Bruce's case, but Tony doesn't seem to
mind. He just drums along on the steering wheel, his singing voice more than
making up for Bruce's lack thereof.
When they pull up to the hotel where Bruce has a room for the night, less than
fifteen minutes from MIT, he resists the urge to tell Tony to keep driving. If
they keep going, they can make the Canadian border before nightfall. For a
second, there in the parking lot of the Sheraton, Bruce toys with Tony's old
fantasy of them running away together, changing their names and living like two
regular people.
Instead, Bruce guides Tony as he parks and opens his door with less relief than
one would expect given that he's been riding with an adrenalin-junkie fifteen
year old.
"I'll be right back," he says, hoping the implicit 'wait here' comes across.
If it does, Tony chooses to ignore it, because he hops out the driver's side
and follows Bruce through the lobby. At the reception desk, Bruce fights the
urge to sigh.
"Um, hello," he says awkwardly to the receptionist. "I'm needing to go ahead
and check in."
"All right. Name, please?" she asks smiling, professionally indulgent of his
awkwardness.
"Banner. One night."
She types something into the computer then pauses, the hitch of movement so
subtle it's almost imperceptible. "A single?"
He nods curtly. "Correct."
Her eyes flick to Tony, who's bouncing on the balls of his feet as he fiddles
idly with the business cards stacked on the counter. She hesitates, assessing,
and Bruce decides to head her off.
"He moves into MIT this afternoon," Bruce says. He's aiming for 'proud parental
figure,' but the words come out sharp and discordant under the forced
enthusiasm.
The receptionist blinks once but remains otherwise unfazed. She nods in
acceptance, handing Bruce a keycard as if he didn't just have to reassure her
that he isn't a sexual predator picking up an underage boy. How far from the
truth but close to home that is forces him to take a deep breath through his
nose.
"What was that?" Tony asks as soon as they're back at the car.
"That," Bruce says, hefting his overnight bag from behind his seat, "is what
happens when a single middle-aged man tries to check into a single with a minor
in tow."
Tony snorts. "At least she didn't have us tailed because she was 'concerned for
my wellbeing,'" he says, giving the words his best imitation of Stane.
Bruce scoffs in response. When they went to Howard with the surveillance Stane
gathered on them, Howard had been duly irate. He'd been swift in ensuring that
all evidence of Tony and Bruce's relationship was destroyed, but the troubling
part was that he seemed to believe Stane's insistence that he only had Tony's
best interest at heart.
Stane fed him some line about being concerned for Tony's wellbeing, and Howard,
apparently, believed him. More than anything, that sets Bruce's teeth on edge.
Howard is edging ever closer to eighty, and despite some disparaging remarks
regarding his sanity when he condoned Bruce's relationship with Tony, Bruce has
always believed he was in full control of his faculties. But now, for the first
time, Bruce is starting to question that, and the worst part is that Tony is,
too.
There hadn't been a fight when Howard called the pair of them into his office
to tell them that he'd had words with Stane. Tony had been unusually quiet,
only nodding in acceptance. It was only once they were back in the privacy of
the lab that he looked at Bruce and said, "He believed him. Bruce, Dad actually
believed Obadiah without question when he said he was worried about me." Tony
bit his lip. "If Obie can convince him of this, what else has he made him
believe? I mean, if Dad believed him on this, how many other things is putting
under Obie's control? What is he trusting Obie with?"
There was genuine fear under the words, but whether it was fear for his
relationship with Bruce of fear that Stane might be pulling the company's
strings from the shadows as Howard got older and drunker, Bruce didn't know.
"I know," was all Bruce said. He couldn't offer more reassurance than that.
This mess with Stane would be something they would have to keep an eye on,
especially since General Ross had gotten involved.
The hotel elevator dings, dragging Bruce back to the present, and he follows
Tony down the hall.
"Stop it with the worrying," Tony says, shouldering open the room door. "I can
hear you over-thinking."
Bruce flips on the light. "One of us has to."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you have to do enough thinking for both of us."
To make his point, Tony takes the duffle from Bruce's hand and sets it on the
dresser before taking a step closer. He places a hand on the back of his neck,
combing his finger up through the hair there. His eyes meet Bruce's, gaze
searching and warm. Apparently satisfied by what he sees, he hums through a
small smile and pulls Bruce down for a kiss.
It's slow and sweet, and Bruce tries not to think of how it feels like a
goodbye. He wraps an arm around Tony's waist and brings him closer until
they're sharing body heat in the over air-conditioned room. Taking this as
permission, Tony leads them back towards the bed without breaking the kiss, and
this time Bruce doesn't protest when he's pushed down onto the edge.
The kiss takes on a desperate tinge as Tony climbs into his lap, and Bruce
knows he isn't the only one who feels it. He sucks at Tony's bottom lip until
the younger man groans and shifts closer, hips rocking.
Bruce gasps in surprise and pushes on his hips until there's space between them
once more. "Tony," he says, aiming for warning but ending up closer to
breathless.
Tony sighs in exasperation. "Do you ever intend to touch me, or are we both
going to have a perpetual case of blue balls until I turn eighteen?" he asks.
"Because I can feel that you want this just as much as I do."
To illustrate his meaning, he looks pointedly down at the erection obvious
through Bruce's pants.
Bruce starts to reply, but Tony overrides him. "It's not going to make a
difference, you know," he says. "It's not like some magic switch flips when I
turn eighteen. 'Age is just a number'-- that's a cliché for a reason."
Bruce sighs and leans his forehead against Tony's shoulder. "It's not just
that," he confides. He looks back up to meet Tony's eyes. "This isn't somewhere
I want to go before you leave for college because you're about to start a whole
new chapter of your life. You're going to grow so much and learn so much about
yourself."
He swallows hard before continuing, "And you might find that I'm not what you
want, anymore. Maybe you'll find someone closer to your own age, or maybe
you'll just get tired of the distance."
Tony starts to protest, but something in Bruce's expression silences him.
"Either way," Bruce says, carefully pronouncing every word. "I don't think I
can handle never having this again once I know what it's like to be with you
like this."
He runs a gentle hand down Tony's side and hopes that Tony understands what he
means under the words, how it might just break him to have Tony as a lover only
to lose him over distance or fickle teenage hormones.
Tony's expression softens. "Whether it's now or when I'm eighteen, I'm going to
want you just as much," he says. "No one could ever replace you, and I'm never
going to get tired enough of the distance to give this up." He smiles before
adding, "No matter how bad the case of blue balls."
"You can't know that."
"Maybe, but what I do know is that I love you, and that's not going to fade so
easily," Tony says. "You know this isn't just a crush. You wouldn't be doing
this if you thought it was."
Bruce has nothing to say to that, so the wraps his arms tighter around Tony's
back, holding him close. Maybe it's selfish, but he's going to take this much
for himself.
Tony kisses his forehead. "I'll prove it to you," he promises.
Bruce looks away sharply, unable to meet Tony's eyes. He thought he'd lost the
ability to cry by the time he turned thirteen, but the stinging in his eyes
tells him otherwise.
"Hey," Tony ducks his head to catch Bruce's gaze. "What's the matter?"
"I'm just going to miss you; that's all," Bruce lies.
Tony's arms squeeze him tighter. “Do you have a clean button-up you can wear
tomorrow?”
“Um, yes?” Bruce’s brow furrows in confusion at the non sequitur. “Why?”
In answer Tony leans down to suck at the juncture of Bruce’s neck and shoulder.
He nips and sucks until Bruce has to bite back a noise of pleasure. When he
shifts back to look at his handiwork, a purple-red bruise discolors Bruce’s
skin, tingling pleasantly.
"Souvenir to remember me by." A pleased smirk turns up Tony’s lips, and he
leans back in to start on a spot on Bruce’s shoulder. It hits Bruce that Tony's
never done this before-- left a mark on a lover. The feel of Tony
experimenting, figuring out what works, sends a thrill through Bruce.
Tony gives an experimental nip with teeth, then another, and when Bruce shifts
encouragingly under him, he bites down harder than should be pleasant. The gasp
Bruce lets out is entirely involuntary and absolutely obscene.
Tony hesitates. “Good or bad?” he asks, leaning back to catch Bruce’s eye.
“Good,” Bruce says, reluctantly honest. “Very good.”
Tony grins before leaning in to bite his way up Bruce's neck, teeth pulling at
the delicate skin there. Bruce makes a noise more like a growl than a moan as
Tony returns to sucking the mark just above Bruce's collarbone. He places a
feather-light kiss on it, followed by the lightest of licks.
Bruce takes a hysterical moment to wonder if prolonged blue balls can cause
permanent physical damage before embarking on the Herculean task of convincing
Tony to tone things down.
~*~
It's six in the afternoon by the time they get Tony situated in his dorm, and
there's nothing more Bruce can do to help. Tony has boxes to unpack, and that's
something Bruce can't help with without looking like the helicopter parent-- a
term that Tony throws out with a sarcastic smirk.
Bruce has already made two coffee runs, a trip to Bed, Bath & Beyond, and
written instructions on how to properly do laundry, but there's nothing more he
can do to stall. Outside the entrance to the dorm, Tony faces him, MIT student
ID clutched in one hand. Bruce tries not to see how glassy his eyes are.
Abruptly, Bruce has no idea how he's supposed to tell Tony goodbye. He wants to
kiss him, to hold him, but he can't. Instead, he pulls him in for a brief hug,
just long enough to whisper "I love you" against his cheek.
"Love you, too," Tony says, wrapping his arms around Bruce's neck. "I always
will." He pulls away to stare Bruce down with sharp brown eyes. "I'm going to
prove it to you," he reiterates before turning to walk back into the building
with one final hug.
And just like that, the chemical makeup of Bruce's world shifts. Watching Tony
walk out of reach feels like watching his world stop spinning.
Bruce feels the hollow ache of depression and desperation, and he has to close
his eyes against the force of it. It's like the ground is opening to swallow
him, dragging him lower than he's been in years, and he wants to dive into it,
to go down willingly before it pulls him down.
And that, that right there is the line. Even as he waves goodbye to Tony's
retreating figure through the glass door, he fumbles his cell phone out of his
back pocket. He has one friend on whom he doesn't feel as guilty inflicting
himself-- one friend aside from Tony who seems to genuinely enjoy his company
outside of work. She knows him well enough not to ask too many questions. He
knows too well that he shouldn't be left alone tonight to wallow in his own
haunting thoughts.
Pepper answers on the third ring. "Hello, Pepper Potts."
"Hey, Pepper." Bruce sucks in a breath. "I need a favor."
~*~
15
Tony is fifteen when he stops calling Bruce.
Maria looks at Bruce over a steaming cup of tea, her face drawn and pale but
her brown eyes just as sharp as they've always been. It was his mistake to
think Tony had inherited Howard's eyes. He resists the urge to shift in
discomfort under the too-familiar gaze.
"I thought I was never going to pry you out of the lab," she says, taking a
delicate sip.
Bruce's answering smile is apologetic. "I keep losing track of time," he says,
half-truthfully. "The work I'm doing with SI has the potential to help so many
people."
"Your work has always been important," she says, "but you're worse now than
when Tony was here."
Her sharp gaze tells him that her bluntness isn't unintentional. He kicks self-
preservation to the curb and asks what he's been wondering for the past month.
"Have you spoken to Tony lately?" He tries to sound casual, but the words come
out stilted and choked.
"We spoke on Monday." Maria hesitates for half a second. "He calls every week."
The words knock the wind out of Bruce.
It's mid-November, and it's been nearly a month and a half since he's exchanged
more than a cursory text with Tony. His first month away, Tony had called twice
a week and texted multiple times per day. Bruce expected that number to taper
off as Tony adjusted to college and the homesickness faded, but he hadn't
expected all communication to end, full stop.
He'd suspected that he was the only one being cut out of Tony's life. He'd
suspected, but he hadn't known for sure until now.
If you'd asked him two months ago, he would have said that even if Tony could
get over his romantic interest in him, their friendship would last a lifetime.
Bruce had, in all honesty, assumed he wasn't so easily forgotten. A worse
possibility echoes through his head-- the all too real possibility that Tony
has finally come to his senses and realized how fucked up is is that Bruce is
in love with him.
And Bruce is in love. In the week after he got back from dropping off Tony,
he's watched the red-purple bruise on his shoulder fade day by day in the
mirror. Sometimes he's pull the collar of his shirt aside, run his fingers over
the discolored skin and wish there was some way to make the mark stay. It would
be one mark of good memories among so many of bad on his body. He's so in love
that sometimes it burns when he breathes, sharp and searing. The loss of Tony
feels like fire in his chest, as likely to consume him as it is to keep him
moving forward.
"You haven't done anything wrong," Maria says, too accurate to Bruce's thoughts
by half. "Tony's infatuation with you isn't something you can help, and you
can't take it personally if he's trying to get over it."
Bruce drains the rest of his tea, ignoring the stray leaves.
"I've got to go," he says. He sets down his empty cup with a clatter of china.
"Time sensitive experiments, and all that."
Maria's eyes are sad as she watches him leave, but he can't look at them right
now. They're too familiar.
Bruce is out of the house and into the nearest subway tunnel before the despair
and panic has time to paralyze him and trap him in the lab for another endless
blur of time. He's on the train before he even thinks to send a warning text.
To Pepper:
            20:21 Movie night tonight?
            20:22 Preferably something mindless with explosions.
The pair of messages sit on his phone, unsent, until he hits a spot of service
somewhere around the Time Square stop. As soon as he sends them, he rests his
head against the cool of the support pole as the train sways. She'll know the
plea for help when she hears it.
His phone buzzes with the response.
From Pepper:
            20:37 Sure.
            20:37 As long as you don't expect me to put on real clothes.
Bruce smiles almost against his will, forehead still pressed to metal.
The drive back from Boston had been torture. While the drive up had given him
more time with Tony, the drive back to New York felt interminable. He drove the
four and a half hours through the night after he left Tony, unable to bring
himself to stay in an empty hotel room even if it was already paid for. He'd
had to remind himself to breathe through the crush of depression in his chest,
the way it stole his breath and hope all at once.
Twice he'd had to pull into a gas station and call Pepper. She hadn't said
anything when his voice broke as he described how shitty Boston traffic was,
just for something to say, and she didn't complain when he called again close
to midnight, needing to hear a friendly voice along the endless stretch of dark
interstate.
When he shows up the doorstep of her apartment holding popcorn and a six pack
of beer fifteen minutes later, she steps aside to let him in.
"You could at least pretend you sent that text before you were halfway here,
"she says, but she's already reaching for one of the Heineken. She's in her
pajamas, worn tartan pants and a Garfield shirt that would be too large on him.
"Hey, I at least stopped off at a bodega to kill six minutes."
"Such thoughtfulness." She tosses him the bottle opener, and he catches it on
instinct. "Too bad you've already learned that beer and Movie Theater Butter is
the way to this girl's heart. Or at least her TV."
In the living room Crankis already queued up to the menu. Bruce sinks into the
corner of Pepper's lumpy, stained sofa and folds his legs under himself. He
suspects that she can afford to buy a new couch, one that looks less like it
belongs to a college student, but the overstuffed burlap monstrosity is comfy
enough to make up for its ugly.
Pepper flips off the overhead light before splaying on the couch next to him.
She takes up two-thirds of it, her bare feet pressing against his thigh. She
shovels popcorn into her mouth by the handful, messy and inelegant, and it's
almost enough to make Bruce smile as he watches her out of the corner of his
eye.
The glow of the TV illuminates her in faint blue. Her strawberry hair is pulled
back into a messy bun, and the peak of her breasts makes it clear that she
meant what she said about not putting on real clothes.
She's beautiful.
It's not the first time he's realized it, but here, now-- loose and relaxed in
her living room, inhaling popcorn like it's going to run away-- she seems real
in a way that she usually doesn't in mascara and heels.
Bruce swallows hard and looks back at the screen.
The self-destructive part of him wants to see if she's still as interested in
him as she was a year and a half ago. He idly wonders if she'd kiss back if he
leaned over, if she'd pull away from his touch on her neck, his lips on her
skin. He wonders, but he cares for her too much to find out.
He wishes he could feel that kind of desire for her. Maybe he would, if he
tried, but Pepper is too smart to let him get away with that. Too smart and too
kind. She won't let herself be the tool by which he destroys what's left of his
hope. He hasn't given up hope, not completely, that Tony is just busy and that
things will go back to normal once he's home for winter break.
"Are you sleeping here tonight?" she asks. There's no judgment under the words,
just the offer of a friend. He's barely slept in the months since Tony left,
only sleeping soundly on the nights he passes out in the lab from exhaustion.
Even then, his dreams are haunted by brown eyes and a cheeky smile.
"Yeah," he says, and the word comes out rough. "Thanks."
Pepper has become one of his closest friends. Maybe his best friend if Tony's
radio silence is anything to go by. She didn't say 'I told you so' when he
sobbed into her shoulder in late September, lower than he'd been in over ten
years. She didn't point fingers or look at him strangely for being depressed
over a fifteen year old, even if maybe she should. All she said was, "You
really loved him," as she twirled one of his curls around her finger.
It was true, so Bruce hadn't bothered replying. He hadn't bothered to correct
the past tense, either.
So, she invites him over for dollar pizza and reruns of shows she's almost too
young to remember and that he grew up on. Some days it feels like she's all
that's keeping him together since Tony left. Bruce never knew he could be so
wrecked over one person. He was so afraid that he would accidentally break
Tony's heart that somehow he forgot about his own.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is fifteen.
Chapter Notes
     Two things:
     A) This is your friendly reminder that there is in fact an Archive
     warning on this fic.
     B) I updated the earlier chapters to match my masterfile. It was
     mostly to fix typos, but there are some minor plot-irrelevant lines
     changes in a couple places.
15
 Tony is fifteen when he sees Bruce for the first time in four months.
 Maria and Bruce sit at the kitchen table anxiously awaiting Tony's arrival
home for winter break. They trade mundane conversation, but Maria's easy speech
belies the anxious tic of her finger against her cup, while Bruce's tea remains
untouched. When the front door opens, they both spring up from the table, Maria
moving to the foyer as fast as her weakened state will allow. Bruce trails
behind her, trying for a leisurely pace but giving off a distinct woodland-
creature-peering-out-from-behind-tree-and-waiting-to-be-shot vibe.
 There, in the Stark's foyer, stands Tony. He's knocking the grey city snow off
his boots on the mat when he looks up at their approach. He's a little taller,
a little thinner, and his hair is in severe need of a cut, but it's still Tony.
 There's a moment of stillness before Tony drops his bag at his feet to enfold
Maria in a hug.
 "Mom," he says through a warm grin.
 "I missed you," she says against his mop of hair.
 "Missed you, too."
 At last he turns his gaze to Bruce, and Bruce's stomach bottoms out. Tony
might as well be looking at a stranger. There's no warmth in his eyes, no sign
of anything other than cursory recognition, and Bruce already knows what to
expect before he opened his mouth. "Hello."
 "Hey," Bruce manages. He fights back the instinctive urge to hug him, knowing
for the first time in nearly a decade that it wouldn't be welcome.
 Tony reaches down to grab his bag and holds it with both hands in a way that
confirms a hug isn't on the table. Whatever hopes Bruce held about Tony's
distance being a misunderstanding are dashed against the insincerity of Tony's
smile.
 ~*~
 Three days.
 That's how long Tony drifts through the mansion like a particularly antisocial
ghost. He never shows up up in the lab, never sets foot in Bruce's room. Once,
Bruce comes across him in the library, but other than that he does a remarkable
job of making himself scarce, at least where Bruce is concerned.
 It's almost ten o'clock on the third night when he finally visits the lab. His
steps falter as soon as he sees Bruce hunched over a stack of paperwork, but be
crosses the room in several long strides.
 "Sorry, I just need--" He gestures vaguely to the tornado-aftermath that is
his desk, untouched since he left. He fishes through it, shifting screws and
circuits and tools until he digs out the red handled set of trackable pliers
identical to the purple pair he gave Bruce so many Christmases ago. He turns to
go without another word, and Bruce watches him walk away with mounting
desperation.
 "You need a haircut," he says before he loses the courage.
 Tony halts in his retreat. "What?"
 Bruce pointedly looks him over, brow furrowed. "A haircut. You're a step away
from impersonating Cousin Itt."
 "Oh, fuck you," Tony spits, indignant color rising. "I'll grow it out to my
shoulders if I want to."
 "You  did not  just have an 'I do what I want' moment," Bruce says
incredulously."What, are we in the seventh grade?"
 "Look, what you think about my hair matters fuck-all to me."
 Bruce's face crumples in confusion. This isn't about hair anymore, but hell if
he knows what they're really talking about. "Grow a mullet, for all I care. All
I'm saying is that you've got a halo of frizz from all the split ends."
 There's a long, still pause because yes, yes indeed. That might just be the
gayest thing to ever come out of Bruce's mouth, and he's been known to sing
"Relax" at inappropriate times.
 Tony makes a noise like he's trying to swallow a laugh whole. It doesn't work.
 "Says the master of the ignored-curls afro. You used to only cut your hair
once it started obscuring your vision," Tony manages. "Have you started
watching TLC while I was gone or something?"
 "Oh,  What Not to Wear  is my favoritest show," Bruce says, giving it the
affectation of a pre-teen girl and swaying slightly, hands clasped in front of
him.
 The huff Tony gives might be a laugh or it might just be exasperation at
Bruce's brand of humor. Bruce can't tell anymore, and that makes his throat
feel tight.
 "It's been a while," he says quietly.
 "Yeah," Tony says, voice distant. "Sorry I never made it home for fall break.
I got wrapped up in work."
 "Work, right." Bruce doesn't try to hide the dryness in his tone, lets the
dryness hide the myriad of emotions cycling through him-- disappointment, that
Tony's feelings for him really were so short lived; grief, that possibly the
best relationship of his life is over; fear, that their friendship is lost as
well.
 "How've you been?" Tony asks. It's stilted, forced in a way it never would've
been four months ago.
 "Been keeping busy," Bruce evades. "I've started making Pepper come out to eat
with me. She doesn't have quite the tolerance for low health scores you do,
though."
 "That's good," Tony says, and he sounds even more distant now. "How are you
guys doing? You and Pep, I mean."
 "Good, I guess," Bruce says, furrowing his brow at the collective. "We've
watched a lot of action movies since you've been gone."
 "That's good," Tony repeats.
 They lapse into awkward silence.
 "I went on a date," Tony says abruptly.
 Bruce thinks that the pain in his chest might be his heart hitting the floor.
He'd guessed as much, but having it dropped into conversation so flippantly
stings even worse than he'd braced for. A wave of sorrow washes over him, and
for one wild second, he considers running, throwing away everything he's built
for himself, because if this is what Tony can do to him, maybe this isn't where
he needs to be anymore.
 But he's done running from his choices. He made the decision to get
romantically involved with a teenager, and now he has to live with the
consequences. Knowing how far down rock bottom is still scares him, but in the
end, he thinks that maybe the happiness that came with loving Tony is worth the
low of losing him.
 "That's good," he says and even manages to force a smile.
 Tony nods, not making eye contact. "I thought you'd think so," he says, but
Bruce can hear the forced nonchalance in his voice.
 "Tony, I won't-- I don't expect anything from you," Bruce says, aiming for
reassuring but ending up closer to pleading. "I don't blame you, and I'm not
angry. You've grown out of your feelings for me while you were at school, and
it's good that you found someone. I can't say I didn't expect it. I just hope
we can go ba--"
 "' Grown out of  my feelings.' You think I've ' grown out of ' it?  Tony
interrupts, face contorted in a pained sneer. It's the most emotion he's shown
since the conversation moved away from hair. "I'm trying here, Bruce, I really
am. I want us to still be friends, and I'm trying to drop this shit in a box
and duct tape it shut and shove it under the bed and ignore how much I want
your arms around me again--"
 Tony's voice cracks on the last word, and he looks sharply at the other side
of the room. "But it fucking hurts, okay? I didn't need to find someone because
I already had someone. Or at least that's what I though. You think I  want  to
see you and Pepper together? No, but I want you to be happy, and if she's what
does it, fine."
 "Hang on, hang on." Bruce holds up both hands in a 'stop' gesture. Somewhere
along the way he's completely lost the thread of this conversation. "Let me get
this straight, you think I'm what? Dating Pepper? Fucking her?"
 Tony shrugs and shoves his hands into his pocket in a convincing imitation of
a careless teenage slouch. "Pick one. Or both."
 "Pepper and I aren't together."
 "Look, it's fine. Really. Can we just not talk about it?"
 The pieces slot into place with horrifying clarity. "Why didn't you come home
from fall break?"
 "Like I said, I was busy."
 "The truth," Bruce orders, voice brooking no argument. "All of it."
 Tony slouches even further. "I was busy, and you had Pepper. I didn't want to
be some obligation that you had to worry with or listen to you try to explain
things."
 "I told you, I'm not  with  Pepper. I've never been  with  Pepper," he says,
letting his incredulity seep into his tone.
 "But you were sleeping together," Tony says, sounding less sure of himself
now. "I called at, like, one AM, and when you answered, she was in the
background half-asleep asking who the hell was waking her up."
 Bruce blinks. He remembers the night in question, right before the distance
between them grew larger than the space between Boston and New York.
 "That's why you stopped returning my calls. You thought she and I-- We
weren't--" Bruce struggles to find the right words. "I went to her apartment to
watch a movie, and she fell asleep next to me on the couch."
 Tony looks skeptical, but Bruce can tell he wants to believe.
 Bruce takes a deep breath and decides to lay all his cards on the table.
"After you left, I... had trouble coping. It's not your fault," he adds
hurriedly. "I've had trouble with depression for as long as I can remember.
It's been awhile since it was so bad, but I still know the rodeo. I knew I
shouldn't be alone, but I didn't tell you because-- because I didn't want you
to feel like you had to stay romantically involved with me."
 Bruce takes another steadying breath. "So, I hid it," he admits. "I should
have told you, but I didn't want to put you in that kind of position. I
couldn't stand the idea of giving you one more thing to worry about. So, I went
to pepper. She didn't ask many questions and let me practically live off her
couch for the first week you were gone."
 Tony deflates like a punctured balloon, and without the indignation to fuel
him, he looks painfully, wretchedly tired.
 "Oh," is all he says. "Well, I'm a moron."
 Bruce wants to be happy, wants to feel relieved that Tony still wants him, but
he can't. Instead the hollow ache in his chest just gets bigger.
 "So you thought I was dating Pepper, and now you're dating someone." Bruce
swallows hard and nods to himself. "A fine mess."
 "I had  a  date, singular," Tony says, "One lousy, uninteresting date that
ended when I headbutted the guy in the nose because he tried to kiss me while I
was caught up thinking about you."
 Hope swells in Bruce's chest, drowning out the anger at the thought of someone
else trying to kiss Tony. "Does that mean you still want--"
 "Yes."
 "--us?" Bruce finishes.
 He can't tell if he wants to laugh or cry. He nearly lost the best thing in
his life over bad communication and a night spent on Pepper's couch. He was so
convinced that Tony wouldn't want him after he gained the clarity of distance
that Bruce never even considered the possibility that maybe he wasn't the only
one with insecurities about their relationship.
 He feels ashamed of himself for putting someone so young in such a complicated
position, but that's not enough to stop him right now.
 There's so much Bruce wants to say, like that he loves Tony or that he missed
him, but all he says is, "I'd really like to kiss you, if that's okay."
 "Oh god yes," Tony says, and his smile is still tired, but it's real. He holds
out a hand in invitation.
 Bruce steps forward, takes it, and interlaces their fingers. For a moment
that's their only contact, the warm caress of a thumb over his palm, before he
brings a tentative hand to Tony's waist.
 Carefully, Bruce places a feather-light kiss on Tony's cheek, and Tony
practically falls into him, burying his face in Bruce's collar and wrapping his
free arm around his neck. He's at height with Bruce now. He's still smaller,
slender and thin-shouldered with youth, but having Tony enfold him so
effortlessly feels surreal.
 Bruce thinks that he could stay just like this-- nose and lips tracing Tony's
cheekbone, one hand intertwined with Tony's while the other anchors him close-
- but Tony has other ideas. He cups the back of Bruce's neck, guiding him until
their lips meet.
 Tony doesn't close his eyes, just holds Bruce's gaze with soft brown eyes as
his lips tease Bruce's. It could be awkward or hot, and maybe on some level
it's a bit of both, but Tony's open eyes feel more like a plea for Bruce not to
leave him, for all the world like he expects him to disappear if he closes his
eyes.
 So, they kiss, open-mouthed and open-eyed.
 Tony leans further into him until Bruce is taking all of his weight. With a
pang Bruce realizes just how tired he is, how tired they both are. His arm
secured around Tony's waist is all that's keeping the younger man on his feet.
 "You're exhausted," Bruce says, pressing kisses to the shadows under his eyes
to soften the words.
 Tony huffs a tired sound that wants to be a laugh. "I've barely slept for four
months," he says.
 "We should start a club," Bruce says, then snorts. "Or a support groups."
 "CSA-- Codependent Sleepers Anonymous." Tony nods sagely, then runs a hand
down Bruce's chest. "   How about you take me to bed and see if we can fix that
?"
 Bruce chooses to ignore the double entendre, even if the blush spreading
across his cheeks undermines the effort. He resists the urge to ask if Tony is
sure. The rapid swing of emotion tonight has left him feeling wrong-footed,
skeptical of where they stand even though Tony's hand in his answers that for
him.
 Tony must read something of this in his expression, because he says, "If you
say you've got more work or some other dumbass excuse not to come to bed, I'm
going to knock your crap off the lab table and and sleep there. I  will  use
your file folders for a pillow, just watch me."
 That gets a real laugh from Bruce.
 "No, I--" he starts. "I'd like that."
 Sleep-- real sleep, not unconsciousness brought on by thirty-six hours spent
working-- sounds unspeakably wonderful. He squeezes Tony's hand and doesn't
object when Tony leads him towards the stairs. As they make their way to his
room, Bruce feels like he's forgotten how to do this, like he has to relearn
intimacy all over again, both emotional and physical.
 But for all Bruce feels lost, Tony apparently doesn't. He kisses him, warm and
yielding, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to follow him
when he backs onto the bed. Bruce lets himself he pulled forward, one knee
landing on the mattress between Tony's.
 Tony pushes himself up the bed and pulls Bruce along with fingers twisted in
the hair at the base of his skull. He follows, kissing the delicate skin of
Tony's neck as they go until he's braced on his forearms above him. It's the
first time he's let himself be over Tony like this, and the heat rolling
between them is intoxicating.
 Even so, it doesn't feel like it's leading towards sex. They're both
exhausted, near delirious with it, and right now Bruce wants nothing more than
to bury his face in the familiarity of Tony's scent and fall asleep like that.
 Bruce sits back on his heels, Tony's thigh caught between his knees. "Tony, I
don't know if--" he starts, and it comes out breathless, halting. "What is
this? What're we doing?"
 "Just this," Tony says softly, propping himself up to run a careful finger
over the shell of Bruce's ear. He gives a tired chuckle. "Pretty sure we're
both too tired for anything else right now."
 Bruce's stomach flips at the implications of that, the idea that when they're
not both shaky with lack of sleep, 'anything else' is on the table. There's no
hesitation from Tony, no uncertainty that this is-- that  they  are-- what he
wants.
 "Yeah." Bruce swallows hard. "Yeah."
 Tony reaches out to tug at the hem of Bruce's shirt. "Off."
 "But you just said--"
 "I said we're not having sex tonight," he says. "That doesn't mean I'm ready
to stop kissing you."
 Bruce raises skeptical eyebrows. "And that requires my shirt to come off?"
 "I want to touch you," Tony says. He skims the hem of Bruce's shirt up just
enough to trace circles into the skin above his waistband, and damn if that
doesn't send heat rocketing up Bruce's spine, exhaustion or no.
 Still, he says slowly, "I'm not sure if that's a good idea."
 "Would you stop trying to preserve my virtue?" Tony says, clearly going for
mock-outraged but sounding legitimately put-out.
 "I'm not," Bruce says.
 Tony looks disbelieving.
 Bruce runs a tired hand down his face and makes a note to shave in the
morning. "Really, I'm not. I just-- I think maybe you're forgetting that me
shirtless isn't the most appealing sight."
 Bruce isn't self-conscious about his scars, not exactly. Whether or not people
find him attractive hasn't particularly bothered him since he was in his early
twenties; he just knows that some people are more put off by scars than others,
and eleven at night when they're both drop-dead tired isn't the best time to
figure out if Tony is among that number.
 Tony blinks, hand stilling in its caress. Bruce expects him to back off, to
reconsider, to dismiss the subject. What he doesn't expect is for Tony to lean
up, strip off his own shirt, and says, "Tell me no if you don't want me to."
 He grip the edges of Bruce's shirt, giving him just enough time to understand
what he intends, then tugs his off over Bruce's head.
 Tony looks him over with dark eyes and a-- most likely unintentional-- lick of
his lips. After an endless second, he brings up both hands to run over Bruce's
chest. They skim over the line of his shoulders and down his sides, feeling the
curve of Bruce's ribcage under curious fingers.
 Bruce, meanwhile, is too distracted by the sight of Tony's bare chest to even
remember why this was supposed to be a bad idea. Tony shoulders are corded with
lean muscle tapering to a narrow waist, something Bruce has only felt through
clothes up until now. He's seen Tony shirtless countless times over the years,
but not since they started this, not really. Ever since the bloom of his
attraction to the younger man, Bruce always guiltily averts his eyes at the
slightest hint of bare skin.
 Now, though, exhaustion wars with arousal as he allows himself to look for the
first time. His breath catches at the dusky nipples and the sparse chest hair
adorning Tony's olive skin.
 Tony watches Bruce watching him, patient with his hesitation. Finally, he
takes one hand off of Bruce's chest to curl around his wrist, guiding it to the
bare plane of his chest, just over one nipple.
 "Touch," he says, and Bruce does. He runs a tentative hand down Tony's front,
stopping just short of his waistband. He pulls Tony closer with his other hand
on his bare back. His fingers trail over the divots of his spine and around to
the curve of his waist.
 He's half-kneeling over one of Tony's thighs, legs shaking with the effort of
holding the position with tired muscles as he leans in to kiss the side of
Tony's neck. Tony tilts his head, back arching, and brings his free leg up to
Bruce's waist.
 He's gorgeous, asking without words for Bruce's touch, but Bruce makes the
command decision to rearrange them before one of them loses their balance and
they go crashing down in an unsexy tangle of limbs. He guides Tony's back down
to the mattress with a steady hand and the press of his body, finding him
surprisingly pliant for someone who's usually anything but. Bruce moves to lay
on his side so they're lying next to each other, his body curving around Tony's
like it has on so many decidedly more platonic occasions.
 "Wait," Tony says when he sees what Bruce is doing. He plants his shoulders on
the bed, hips arching up as he works on the button of his pants. "I'm not
sleeping in jeans, and I'd prefer it if you didn't, either."
 Bruce doesn't have it in him to protest. Tony in boxers isn't a new sight, far
from, even if Tony half-hard in boxers is. Bruce rolls off the bed to shuck off
his own slacks, lacking the energy for Tony's level of flexibility. He folds
his glasses, already smudged beyond visibility, and places them on the bedside
table.
 He stands next to the bed in black boxer-briefs for a moment, caught in
indecision. He feels like he should so put on some sort of sleep shorts,
something to add another layer between them, but that idea is almost laughable
at this point. They've come this far, and Bruce is too tired to actually give
that much of a fuck. And if he's honest, he doesn't want to. He  wants  this
level of intimacy with Tony.
 Bruce crawls back onto the bed with less grace than he would like, and Tony
takes the opportunity to ogle him shamelessly, eyes roaming over the stretched
black fabric. Bruce lays out along his side so they're pressed together from
ankle to chest, one forearm resting above his head, and Tony inches closer
without waiting for an invitation.
 They lay side by side, legs intertwined but hips apart. Tony curls his fingers
in Bruce's chest hair, much more liberal than his own, and Bruce arches into
the tough with a pleased hum.
 "God you're gorgeous," Tony says.
 Bruce raises an disbelieving eyebrow, but he's not vain enough to argue for
the sake of having Tony elaborate-- though he's sorely tempted. 'The heart
wants' and all that, and if Tony wants a rapidly-approaching-middle-aged
scientist with old scars and enough chest hair to twine his fingers through,
well, who is Bruce to argue?
 Bruce skims a delicate finger over Tony’s collarbone. He traces the dips and
hollows of his clavicle almost absentmindedly, marveling at Tony’s skin under
his fingers. Tony’s hands roam over the ridges of Bruce’s ribs and down his
side. He caresses a pale scar, face clear of any reserve. There’s none of the
hesitation Bruce remembers from previous partners. The exploration is languid
and relaxed, the intimacy burning without the expectation of sex.
 Bruce runs his hand up the side of Tony's neck, feeling the curve of it under
his palm. He knows he doesn’t have to be this delicate with Tony, but the
intimacy warms him more than the arousal. Bruce cups the back of Tony's head,
and the tousled hair tangles under his fingers. Tony’s wide pupils shine in the
low light, and his breath puffs warm against Bruce’s lips for just a moment
before he leans in for a kiss.
 Tony anchors Bruce against him with an arm around his bare waist. He kisses
Bruce slowly, tongue coaxing, and Bruce can feel how tired he is as he sags
against his chest. Tony shifts closer still, like a cat curling for warmth. He
presses their hips together but doesn’t ask for more, physically or verbally.
Bruce can feel the hard line of his erection pressed against his own, but it
feels more like intimacy than sex. The kiss breaks, and Tony’s eyes stay
closed. Bruce cups his jaw, tracing his sharpening lines with his fingers, and
says, “Sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
 Tony buries his face against Bruce’s neck. “M’kay,” he says. “Night. Love
you.”
 “I love you, too,” Bruce says, almost so soft as not to be heard.
 Tony’s slight smile says he heard, anyhow.
 ~*~
 Bruce comes back to consciousness gradually after the best night's sleep he's
had in four months. He wakes warm and safe and cocooned in the scent of Tony's
skin. He doubts he's ever woken so tangled with another person before. They're
pressed together from ankle to chest, still shirtless from the night before,
and Tony is spooned back against him. One of Bruce's arms is slung around
Tony's waist, the other cradled under his neck. They're close enough that his
breath ghosts over Tony's bare shoulder.
 Bruce wants to lay like this indefinitely, holding Tony as close as they can
physically get. He wants to peel away the layers between them until they're
skin to skin and he can feel the warmth of Tony radiating from his toes to his
head. It's not even sexual, just intimate.
 Okay, well, maybe it's a little sexual. Admitting that to himself doesn't
scare him as much as it once did.
 Bruce knows Tony's awake by the speed of his breathing and years of
experience, and the desire to kiss him almost overwhelms Bruce. Then he
realizes, he can. This is something he's allowed to have. Maybe it shouldn't
be, but for once Bruce is determined to take what life has offered.
 He barely has to lean forward to place an open-mouthed kiss at the base of
Tony's neck. Tony makes a low, content sound, and Bruce takes it as
encouragement. He kisses up Tony's neck with slow, damp kisses that make Tony
squirm closer, closing the non-existent space between them. Bruce noses at the
hollow beneath his ear and leans up slightly to kisses his jaw. The patchy
stubble there scratches against his lips and makes him smile.
 "You're hard," Tony says, shifting his hips back against Bruce to make his
point.
 Bruce resists the instinct to grind his hips forward. He's probably been hard
since he woke up, but Tony's words make him suddenly aware of his own body with
aching clarity.
 "Sorry," Bruce murmurs into Tony's hair. He shifts on the mattress in an
attempt to put some space between them, but Tony reaches blindly back to catch
his hip under the covers.
 "Don't," he says. "You're fine."
 Tony punctuates the statement with a less-than-subtle roll of his hips, and
it's an effort for Bruce to hold himself still and not rock against the curve
of Tony's ass.
 "Tony," Bruce warns, but he thinks it might come out half as a groan.
 Per usual, Tony does the exact opposite of listening. He rolls so they're
facing one another on the bed, breathing the same air. He twines their legs
together, and Bruce can feel that Tony is just as hard as he is where his
erection presses to the hollow of Bruce's hip.
 Bruce's eyes search Tony's sleep-slack face, watching for any sign of
discomfort or unease, but Tony only looks back through dark eyes, black pupils
almost entirely consuming the brown of his irises. His neck and cheeks are red
with stubble burn, and Bruce slowly rubs the pad of his thumb over kiss-swollen
lips.
 Tony looks thoroughly debauched, and knowing that he did that makes something
primal in Bruce purr possessively.
 Bruce wants to kiss Tony's lips but holds back out of consideration. Instead,
he leans forward to press a careful kiss to his forehead. Tony tilts his face
up, asking without words, but Bruce murmurs, "Morning breath. You really don't
want to kiss me right now."
 "I don't care," Tony says with a certainty that betrays his inexperience, but
Bruce is rescued from further thought by lips soft against his. They kiss
slowly at first, just the press of morning-chapped lips, before Tony deepens
the contact. Objectively, the sleep-stale kiss should be disgusting, but it's
Tony -- his Tony, close and warm, and the kiss is perfect.
 Still sleepy and relaxed, Bruce doesn't bother trying to keep their hips
apart. He arches into the hand on his neck and the erection riding against his
thigh. He's less reserved this morning, and maybe it's a function of not being
fully awake yet, or maybe he's just past caring about propriety. He breaks the
kiss to lick down Tony's neck, sucking as he goes, and Tony tilts his head for
better access as a low moan escapes him.
 The noise sends a shiver of arousal up Bruce’s spine.
 Suddenly, he's desperately aware of the aching need of his own body, shaking
with it and desperate for contact. It's been so long since he's been with
anyone like this, and now it's Tony arching into his every touch. Tony, who
he's loved all the way from boy to teen.
 And that thought right there is what halts Bruce. Tony is still a teenager,
and this is the first time he's been in a situation like this--  been with
anyone like this .
 "Wait," Bruce says, putting a firm hand against his chest when Tony does
anything but. "This is going..."
 "I know exactly where this is going," Tony says, voice tinged with both
desperation and frustration. "And it's not 'too far,' if that's how you planned
to end that sentence."
 "Tony."
 "I turn sixteen soon," Tony says, like that’s a viable excuse.
 Bruce runs an absent hand down his arm. "That’s not nearly as reassuring as
you seem to think it is."
 "The age of consent in New York is sixteen." He sounds like he thinks this is
news that Bruce might have missed. Or might now have googled quite extensively.
 Bruce doesn’t bother wasting his breath on the fact that that only matters if
the other party is under twenty-one.
 "The legality of this is what concerns me least," he says on a sigh. "Your
well-being and the situation I'm putting you in are what worry me."
 "You’re not ‘putting’ me in any situation. That implies that I wasn’t the one
who started this. I know that I could tell you no," Tony says. "But it doesn't
matter how old you are or how young I am; I know what I want, and I want you. I
want  this  with you."
 Bruce knows he should protest, knows that he should put up more of a fight and
end this altogether before it goes somewhere they’ll both regret, but instead
he says, "You say stop, and we stop. I won't be angry, not about this. Never
about this, okay?"
 "I know," Tony says. He's already in the process of insinuating himself
impossibly closer. One hand is fisted between Bruce's shoulder blades, keeping
them pressed chest to chest, and the other comes up to rub the stubble on his
jaw against the grain.
 Bruce pulls back to look into Tony's eyes, checking for any doubt. When he
finds none, he runs a hand over Tony's ribs, feeling each ridge and still
marveling that this is something he gets. He reaches between them and rolls one
nipple lightly between his fingers, only the barest of pressure as his eyes
track the movement, and Tony makes breathy noise deep in his throat.
 Bruce glances up. "Do you like that?"
 And god, he'd meant that as an objective question, but it comes out low and
rough, like it's halfway to dirty talk.
 "Yeah," Tony says, equally breathy. "Yeah, keep doing that."
 Bruce complies, increasing the pressure just to feel the way Tony presses into
the touch with his whole body. His leg curls up around Bruce's, and Bruce can
feel the press of Tony's erection against his own. Bruce considers for a moment
before ducking his head between them. The angle is hell on his neck, but he's
got just enough room to suck Tony's other nipple into his mouth.
 The noise Tony makes is obscene. He hitches his hips impossibly closer as
Bruce swirls his tongue around the nub. He rocks rhythmically against Bruce's
hipbone, and there's no longer any doubt of where this is headed, if there ever
was before.
 Bruce rolls onto his back beneath the sheets, letting the momentum carry Tony
with him. His legs splay open to accommodate Tony between them, and they shift,
searching for purchase, until Tony is half-straddling Bruce's thigh. He urges
Tony's weight down onto him with a hand at the small of his back.
 Tony takes the hint immediately and without hesitation. His hips rock into
Bruce's with abandon, and "Bruce" falls from his lips on a low exhale. His
fingers curl over Bruce’s shoulder, his biceps, his forearms, tracing the
muscles in each spot like he’s looking for a place to hold on. Bruce can feel
Tony learning as he goes, finding the right rhythm of his hips and discovering
how his hands curve perfectly along Bruce's body.
 Bruce almost feels ashamed at the jolt of heat Tony's youthful exploration
sends through him, but he's too far gone to linger on it. There will be time to
freak out later. The thin stretch of their underwear is the only barrier left
between them, but he thinks that without it    he might lose his grasp on good
sense completely.
 Bruce angles his head to catch Tony's mouth with his and lets out a breathy
hiss as Tony's pace increases. There's little finesse, but Bruce can't remember
ever having enjoyed another person so much. He savors the feel of Tony's mouth
against his, warm and slick, as he strokes the flat of his tongue against
Tony's.
 When the kiss breaks, a red flush not entirely from arousal dusts Tony's neck
and cheeks. He trails his nose down Bruce's neck before pressing his face into
his shoulder, successfully hiding his face as he loses himself in the
sensations. Bruce lets him for several long seconds, almost getting lost
himself in the press of their bodies, before he nudges insistently at Tony's
head with his chin, arms still wrapped around Tony's back.
 "I need to see you," he says. And he does need to, both for his own peace of
mind and out of selfish desire to see Tony's expression.
 Tony tilts his face up. Desire is writ plainly on his face, and his lips are
parted wetly. His glazed eyes hold Bruce's for an intense second before
flicking away, unable to hold his gaze in the face of embarrassment and the
overwhelming intimacy.
 Bruce understands the response instantly, and it's almost enough to make him
hesitate. Tony hasn't been with anyone before, doesn't know how to let another
person see him like this. He's trapped between desire and the instinctual shame
of sexuality handed down at an early age.
 "Hey," Bruce says. He slows the steady rock of his hips and cups Tony's face
in his palms, forcing him to meet his eyes. Bruce wants to tell Tony that he
doesn't need to be embarrassed and that he's beautiful, but he doubts the
reassurance would be welcome. "It's okay. If you want to stop or keep going,
either way it's okay."
 "Keep going," Tony says, and now he holds Bruce's gaze without reserve, as if
the words have anchored him. Bruce reminds himself that some degree of nerves
is natural and that they don't negate the consent Tony is giving. The
enthusiastic, rather wiggly consent.
 Slope of Tony's shoulders and toned lines of his muscles are more pronounced
than ever as he moves against Bruce, and Bruce thinks he could easily spend
days on end watching him lose himself to pleasure. He's beautiful-- beautiful
in a way that has nothing to do with age and everything to do with him being
Tony.
 One particularly perfect roll of Tony's hips brings makes Bruce bites down on
a moan.
 "Don't," Tony says, kissing the underside of his jaw. "Let me hear. I want to
know when I do something you like."
 Bruce thinks that what he likes amounts to just about everything at this
point. The rough drag of Tony's cock against his is intoxicating, even through
the layers of fabric. He knows he isn't going to last much longer, but neither
is Tony, if the breathless abandon in his voice is anything to go by.
 As if in conformation, Tony's rhythm starts to fall apart. His body presses
harder into Bruce's, seeking release with wanton abandon
 "Bruce,  ah -- Bruce--" The words spill over Tony's lips, rough and desperate.
 Bruce's name on his tongue is so painfully familiar, but hearing it said like
that , so desperate and trusting and wrecked, shreds what's left of Bruce's
reserve.
 "Yeah, Tony," he encourages, gripping Tony's ass and pulling him tighter.
"That's good. So good."
 Tony ruts against him, wordless nonsense falling from his lips as he hurtles
towards the edge. When he holds Bruce's gaze with adoration in his eyes and
moans, " Bruce ," one final time, it steals the breath from Bruce's lungs.
 Tony stills under his hands. He sucks in ragged, open-mouthed breaths as
pleasure washes over his features. His eyes flutter shut, and he rests his head
against Bruce's neck while his breathing evens back out. Bruce holds him close,
hands skimming reassuringly up and down his back.
 Bruce can feel the dampness of more than sweat seeping between them now, and
it sends a heady jolt of arousal coursing through his body. He did that.
 There's an ache of guilt buried somewhere under the rush endorphins, but he's
too turned on to pay it much heed.
 Bruce backs his hips away as carefully as he can so as not to overstimulate
Tony lying spent and loose-limbed against him and places a feather-light kiss
on Tony's forehead. He’s not sure where to go from here. He wants to get off-
- wants to more than he’s wanted in at least a decade-- but he doesn’t want to
push Tony any further, and he’s not willing to move out of Tony’s grasp long
enough to go finish himself off in the bathroom.
 Tony solves the dilemma for him. Clever fingers trail down Bruce's stomach to
his waistband, and Bruce's breathe catches in his throat. He holds perfectly
still as Tony explores teasingly, skimming across the line where skin and
elastic meet. His fingers hook briefly under the edge of fabric and graze just
low enough to reach the top of coarse hair before Bruce grabs his wrist.
 "You don't have to--" he starts, uneasy all of a sudden. Somehow, this feels
like another line in the sand, one he doesn't want to push Tony across.
 "I know I don't have to. I want to," Tony says. He twists his hand to grasp
Bruce's wrist in return, steadying and grounding. His eyes meet Bruce's without
reserve. "Can I?"
 Bruce releases his wrist before he's fully processed the intent to do so.
"Yeah, Tony," he says, low and dry. "Yes."
 A shiver runs up Tony's spine at the words, and he presses his hips to Bruce's
thigh, even if there's no hope of his cock regaining interest so soon.
 "You're voice is--" Tony cuts off, swallowing hard. He pressed his forehead to
Bruce's chest as if trying to find equilibrium.
 "What?" Bruce asks, looking down at him.
 "Nothing, it's just-- y   our voice is always hot. I don't know if you know
that, but it is.    But god, you sound amazing like this." Tony presses a kiss
to one pectoral. "I've spent years imagining what you sound like in bed,    and
it's amazing   . Say my name again?"
 "Tony," Bruce agrees. He peppers kisses along Tony's hairline. "Tony, Tony,
Tony."
 Bruce repeats the name like a prayer and a plea and a mantra all in one as
Tony's hand dips lower over the fabric of Bruce's briefs. Tony moves slowly as
if not to startle Bruce. His palm is flat and his fingers splayed, and he
doesn't try to dip beneath the fabric again, as if sensing that might be too
much for Bruce.
 Finally, after an agonizingly slow journey, Tony cups Bruce's erection through
his underwear. The warmth of the touch radiates through the thin cotton and
makes Bruce gasp. There's barely any pressure at first, just Tony feeling
Bruce's weight against his palm.
 Tony's nimble fingers skim lightly over him, unaccustomed to touching another
person, and fuck if that isn't almost enough to finish him off. Tension thrums
through the older man's body, not all of it the good kind.
 "Relax," Tony breathes in his ear.
 Bruce huffs a laugh, shoulders loosening. "I thought you were supposed to be
the nervous one here."
 "I am," Tony admits, and the tension in Bruce ratchets back up. Feeling the
sudden shift, Tony elaborates, "The more nervous you get, the more I'm afraid
I'm doing something wrong. So, just relax, kiss me, enjoy it."
 Bruce tackles the easiest on the list and leans up to meet Tony's lips. Tony
hums into the kiss, pleased, and that goes a long way to draining Bruce's
tension. When Tony starts moving his hand again, applying pressure in all the
right places even through the fabric, Bruce doesn't stop his hips from bucking
up into the touch.
 " Tony ," Bruce says, letting gravel slip into it just to feel Tony shiver. He
tightens his hold ever-so-slightly, and it's enough to push Bruce over the
edge.
 His orgasm crashes over him in breathtaking waves, pleasure stronger than it's
been in so many years. It washes through him and steals his breath. His hand at
Tony's back clenches, dragging them impossibly closer just to feel the slide of
Tony's skin against his own.
 Tony is murmuring an incoherent garble of reassurance and praise, for all the
world like Bruce is the one experiencing something entirely new. Then again,
maybe he is.
 In the aftermath Tony lays with his head pillowed on Bruce's chest, one of
Bruce's arms thrown around his leanly muscled shoulders. He tilts his head up
to catch his eye. "Are you freaking out?"
 "A little bit," Bruce admits and forces a smile. "I'm trying not to, though."
 There's silence, and Bruce lets his fingers comb through Tony's hair.
 Finally, he says what he's wanted to say for so long. "I love you."
 "Love you, too," Tony says automatically.
 "No, I mean--" Bruce stumbles. He swallows past his nerves. "I'm in love with
you."
 Bruce knows that Tony knows as much-- has known since he was fourteen-- but
saying the words aloud, distinguishing them from all of the other I-love-you's
they've shared, feels like giving away the last piece of himself he's held back
for fear of losing it.
 There's still so much for them to learn and explore with one another, both
physically and emotionally, but for now, this is Bruce laying all of his cards
on the table.
 He doesn't know what he's done to deserve this-- suspects, privately, that he
could never do anything to-- but he knows now that he's going to fight to keep
it for as long as he can. For better or worse, he's done second-guessing this.
 Bruce has made his choice; now it's time that he sticks to it.
 The compassion in Tony's eyes says he understands the significance, even if he
doesn't know everything Bruce is thinking. "I know you are," he says, taking
Bruce's hand once more. "But thank you-- for saying it."
 The cooling mess is going to get amazingly uncomfortable in about two minutes,
Bruce estimates. They're both sticky and really need to clean up, but Bruce
can't bring himself to care. He just wants to keep Tony in his arms for a
while, mess be damned.
 So, that's what he does. He ignores the nagging worry that he's fucked up and
the anger at himself for not being able to stop worrying and the worry that he
should be worrying more, and just holds Tony.
 Or maybe Tony holds him.
 Probably, they hold each other.
***** Chapter 20 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is sixteen.
16
Tony Stark is sixteen when Bruce's phone rings.
Bruce fumbles his phone until it's trapped between his ear and shoulder.
"Hello?"
"Did I catch you in the middle of an experiment?" Tony asks, hearing the strain
in his voice.
"Of sorts," Bruce answers. He hesitates for a moment before stepping onto the
moving sidewalk, the lurch of motion disorienting for a moment before he
regains his stride. "I can talk. Hearing you helps, actually."
A pleasant chime sounds. "The local time is 10:45 PM," the overhead announces
in a smooth female voice.
"Bruce, where are you?"
"I," he says, readjusting his duffle and backpack so he has a hand free for the
phone, "am in the Minneapolis airport."
A beat of silence hangs over the line.
"Why?" Tony asks carefully.
"There's a conference." Bruce chuckles low in his throat. He's well and truly
exhausted from the flight, but he's too happy with himself to be grumpy. "No, I
didn't decide to run away to Minnesota. The Other Guy isn't the only one who
prefers warm climates."
"A conference," Tony echoes, and his voice is heavy with the significance of
that. "You're in an airport. You flew coach!"
"Business class, actually, but yes, I took mass transit."
The flight had been an almost empty red-eye, but it still counted. He suspects
Howard's hand in the distinct lack of passengers on the common connecting
flight, but he doesn't say as much.
In the months since Tony came home for winter break and-- his stomach still
flips at the thought, even if they've repeated the experience a couple times
since-- they became intimate on whole new level, Bruce has found some semblance
of balance in his life. He's driven to Boston no fewer than four times over the
past months, and even if that's less frequently than he'd like, it's still
infinitely better than the physical and metaphorical distance of last semester.
Bruce still worries about Obadiah's apparent interest in their relationship,
but he's given up second guessing Tony's decision to stay with him. If he's
what Tony wants, then he's in this for the long haul, because Tony is what he
needs.
"Cap says hi, by the way," Tony adds.
Bruce grins at that. When Tony came home for spring break, Bruce gave him a
Captain America plushie he'd seen in the window of a children's consignment
store. Its colors were muted pastels and its features just distorted enough to
land on the right side of cute. He can almost see Tony sitting on his dorm bed,
knees and plushie pulled up to his chest.
"Give him a hug for me," Bruce says.
"I'll do you one better and give him a kiss." There's the sound of an
overdramatic smooch over the line.
"Hey," Bruce says in mock-outrage. "Those are mine."
"Well, you're not here to claim them," Tony says. "But I guess a conference is
a good enough excuse. Why didn't you tell me you planed to go on an adventure
without me?"
Bruce hears everything Tony isn't asking-- the offer for support being
extended. "I was afraid I'd lose my nerve at the last minute, and I didn't want
to disappoint both of us." Bruce says honestly. "Besides, you'll be home for
the summer in two weeks."
"Yeah, but it's been almost a month since I've seen you. You know I'd jump at
the chance to get out of Boston for the weekend."
Bruce huffs a laugh as he joins the queue for a taxi. "And I'm sure your
eagerness to get out of the city has absolutely nothing to do with your finals
next week."
Tony groans. "Don't remind me. I'm trying not to think about it."
"Too stressed to sleep?"
"Yeah. Babble me to sleep?" Tony asks on a sigh, always loath to ask for help.
And that's just what Bruce does. For the whole ride to his hotel, he tells Tony
about his research and lunch with the other SI employees and Allen's daughter's
dragon-themed birthday party.
They've fallen into a routine of sorts. When Bruce sent Tony back to MIT at the
end of January, he did so with an order for Tony to call any time he wanted.
They discovered more or less by accident that the same banal talk that
comforted Tony when he missed Bruce could also put him to sleep.
When the car stops in front of his hotel, Bruce takes his bags with a mouthed
'thank you' and tips the cab driver generously for tolerating his incessant
yammering. Tony has fallen silent, and Bruce pauses outside the revolving door
for a moment to listen to the soft rustle of his breathing.
Finally, he makes himself break the spell by saying, "I kind of need to go
check in to my room."
"Bruce?" Tony murmurs, just at the edge of sleep.
"Hmm?"
"I'm proud of you."
The words settle like a warm weight on Bruce's chest, and he can't help the
small smile that settles over his face. "Goodnight, Tony."
~*~
16
Tony is sixteen when he, Pepper, and Bruce sprawl over the Stark's couch for
movie night.
"I'm going to go get more popcorn. Who wants what?" Bruce asks, pushing to his
feet.
"White cheddar," Pepper says.
"Same," Tony puts in.
Bruce shakes his head disparagingly as he disappears into the kitchen.
"Heathens, both of you."
The three of them are settled into the Stark's living room, Chronicles of
Riddick playing on the ridiculously large tv that rarely sees use. They learned
that Pepper's apartment doesn't work for hosting movie nights with all three of
them. Two weeks and one minor fire was all it took for Pepper to put her foot
down.
At least she finally has an excuse to buy a new couch.
Bruce zones back in time to realize that he's almost forgotten about the
popcorn. He opens the microwave before the last pops fade, duly pleases when
nothing smells burnt.
This week they're at the mansion for "Mandatory Movie Mondays," as Tony had
taken to calling them. Secretly Bruce is grateful, if for no other reason than
because the AC at Pepper's place has trouble keeping up with the June heat.
Well, that and the fact that he and Tony tend to get more affectionate as the
night wears on, and if they stay at her place until two am again, they're
likely going to give themselves away.
Bruce was pretty sure that Pepper knows, on some level, that he and Tony were
involved. His sudden mood shift after last December was probably the last
evidence she needed, but Bruce wants to give her all of the plausible
deniability he can.
"Tony, you have no idea how relieved I am that you're home for the summer,"
Pepper says conspiratorially when Bruce reemerges with two bowls of popcorn.
"I mean, that's natural, but why, specifically?" Tony asks with a-- hopefully-
- mock preen that's eerily reminiscent of his father.
Pepper laughs. "Because with you here Bruce will watch something other than
rom-coms. I swear, if I have to see one more Ashton Kutcher movie, I'm going to
smother him with a pillow."
That startles a laugh out of Tony. "The real question is, Bruce or Ashton
Kutcher?"
"Bruce." Pepper continues, "If it was anyone else, I'd feel like I'd been on a
dozen failed dates with disappointing endings."
Bruce tense for a moment, afraid the joke will hit too close to home, but Tony
just laughs harder. He throws Bruce a conspiratorial look. "I bet."
They watch the rest of the movie in silence, due mostly to Pepper's strict
policy on no talking during movies she hasn't seen before. Tony is situated
between Pepper and Bruce, and they're two-thirds of the way through when Bruce
has to flatten Tony's hand against his thigh to keep it from wandering.
Tony, far from being perturbed, shoots Bruce a smirk.
Bruce pulls out his phone and opens a text to Tony. Pepper's stance on monastic
movie silence means that the workaround is common enough not to look
suspicious.
To Tony:
            22:07 No wandering hands.
            22:07 Terrible time for inappropriate erections.
It takes less than thirty seconds for Bruce's phone to buzz with a response.
From Tony:
            22:08 Why?
            22:09 Because mother bear is watching?
Bruce snorts.
To Tony:
            22:09 She will have you for dinner if she finds out you called her
that.
            22:10 But yes. Pretty sure this is what it feels like to have adult
supervision while watching a movie with your boyfriend.
From Tony:
            22:12 Does this mean we get to roll around on the couch after she
goes to bed?
Bruce stared blankly at the movie for a minute to compose himself. Finally, he
types,
To Tony:
            22:15 We are not sexting with Pepper in the same room. No.
He slips his phone back into his pocket, willfully ignoring the buzz of the
incoming response message.
Before long, the credits roll, and Bruce has absolutely no idea what just
happened on screen. He's about to suggest a second movie when Tony drags one
knee up on the couch, spinning to face Pepper while keeping contact with Bruce
for support. Support for what, though, he doesn't know, but he recognizes the
signs of Tony gearing up to say something.
Bruce hopes to god Tony isn't about to out them, because Pepper might just beat
the Other Guy out of him with the nearest blunt object.
"I need your help," Tony tells her frankly.
"Okay," Pepper says slowly, more an acknowledgement than an agreement. "What
with?"
"I need to take the company back from Obadiah Stane."
Pepper blinks. "Stane doesn't run to company; your father does."
"No, you run the company. My dad just signs what you put in front of him," Tony
says. "I couldn't figure it out at first-- why an Ivy-educated woman with a
specialization in project management is working as an assistant."
"But you're not just an assistant," Bruce finishes.
"I am," Pepper insists, then admits, "I'm just an assistant with slightly more
power than most."
"Obie has been gradually taking more and more power for himself within the
company. I thought Dad hadn't noticed or minded because he's so caught up
worrying about mom and, let's face it, he's not a young anymore. I had my
suspicions about who was actually running Stark Industries, so I wrangled my
way into SI's central database.
"I expected to find Obie's executive access all over the things Dad clearly
isn't doing," Tony continues. "But loandbehold, what I find is that there's a
third person with executive access I never knew about-- you."
Tony leans forward towards her, like this is a conspiracy meant to stay between
the three of them. But then again, maybe it is.
"Obie still has his fingers in too many company pies for my liking, but you're
the one doing the heavy lifting. You've been taking control of things where my
father can't anymore to keep those tasks from falling into Obadiah's hands, and
I think you've been doing it on purpose," he says. "You know something. Or at
least suspect."
Pepper hesitates, and Bruce knows the look of someone weighing their options.
Finally, a sigh escapes her, and she visibly resigns herself to the truth.
"Howard authorized me to. Obadiah--" She breaks off, shaking her head. "I don't
trust him, and I'm not sure Howard does, either."
Bruce sits back as that sinks in. He tries to piece that together with Howard's
response to Stane's surveillance of them. He'd assumed Howard was taking Stane
at his word out of a sudden bout of gullibility, but Bruce should have known
better. Howard is too much of a cunning old fox to be fooled so easily.
Tony's expression reflects the relief Bruce feels. Howard isn't losing control,
isn't placing loyalties where they shouldn't be. He has an endgame, and all
three of them are too close to see it.
"Why doesn't he just cut Stane if he's so concerned?" Bruce asks. He knows
there must be a reason, but he can't parse it.
"If anything were to happen to Howard before you're ready to take over the
company, Obie would take over as acting CEO in the interim. Without proof
against him, there's nothing to be done about that," Pepper says. "Right now,
no one else is capable of bridging that gap, and the board adores him."
"So help me," Tony says with an almost fevered look in his eyes. "Help me fix
that. Teach me what I need to know. I already have the experience with R&D; I
need you to teach me what it takes to run Stark Industries from a business
standpoint.
"I know I'm asking a lot of you, Pep, but I need to be able to take over as
soon as I turn eighteen, in case Dad decides to step down to be with Mom. You
said it yourself-- the board adores Obadiah, and they're not going to want to
choose a kid as CEO over him. But let's give them no other option. Obadiah will
never be able to design like me, and if I have the business skills to match,
the board won't have a choice."
Pepper runs a hand back through her hair. "Why are you asking me this now?"
"Obadiah doesn't plan to cede power when it comes time for me to take over,
probably never has. He wants to discredit me so I never get the chance. He's
trying to use Bruce against me. He's trying to--" Tony flatters momentarily
before continuing, "--make my relationship with him into something dirty."
Bruce has to cough to hide an ill-timed smirk. It was a masterful evasion, he
had to give Tony that. Tony never denied having an inappropriate relationship
with Bruce, but rather only that it was dirty.
Pepper, for her part, looks entirely unsurprised.
"Not news to you, I take it?" Bruce asks with raised eyebrows.
"It's not much of a stretch," Pepper says with an apologetic glance between
them. "If he's trying to oust Tony, you're the obvious soft spot."
"Oh, it gets worse," Bruce says with a sardonic smile. "Stane seems to have
gotten in contact with an army general known as Thunderbolt Ross and dug up the
details of my past. Ross is an old ghost of mine who would've been more than
happy to scoot Stane some classified files under the table if it means screwing
me."
Bruce still feels a sharp stab of anger at the thought of Stane planning to
bury Tony under the weight of Bruce's past. They'd found Stane's data on them
hidden on the SI servers when Tony went looking for which operations Stane was
overseeing.
Accessing the SI servers without leaving digital footprints everywhere required
a direct link to the company's system, so less than a week after he returned
home for the summer, Tony had made his excuses to visit the New York offices-
- alone, much to Bruce's irritation. In the process of parsing out what tasks
Stane had diverted to his own control, Tony stumbled across what they suspected
was only a fraction of the information Stane had gathered on them. Stane
undoubtedly had more copies of the information squirreled away, so destroying
them would only tip their hand.
In the two weeks since Tony described the level of detail in the surveillance
files to Bruce, Bruce has taken to combing the lab and his-- their-- bedroom
for bugs. AT this point there's nothing he wouldn't put past Stane.
Pepper does look perplexed this time. "What would classified files have to do
with your past?"
Bruce realizes abruptly that Pepper doesn't know. Despite having worked for
Howard Stark this long, she's still wholly unaware of Bruce's history and
condition. He hasn't had an incident since she came along, so she wouldn't know
if Howard hasn't told her.
Guilt sinks into Bruce's stomach.
She's been a friend to him-- cared for and laughed with and comforted him, all
while being oblivious to the existence of the Other Guy and the danger Bruce
was putting her in.
He feels dishonest, like he's lied to her through omission. His meaner, greener
half isn't something he ever forgets about, not entirely. His control over his
condition has gotten better, sure, but the nag of irrational rage is always
there. He still has to take a deep breath when Tony scrapes the kitchen chair
across the tile or walk away when the payroll staff get that poor-pitiful-
agoraphobic-scientist look when he reports the number of hours he works from
home.
For one long moment Bruce considers telling her everything, but it's already
edging towards eleven. This is a discussion that requires more suspension of
disbelief than Pepper can likely muster so close to midnight.
Bruce licks his lips. "Straight out of grad school I got recruited for a
military project meant to recreate the super-soldier serum used on Captain
America. We-- I thought radiation might be the key."
Pepper's eyebrows arch. "You worked for the military? You, Mr. Do Not Use My
Innovations For Weapons Tech?"
"I was barely more than a kid," Bruce says, even though he doesn't believe
that's an excuse, not anymore; can't let himself believe it, not now that he
has Tony. He holds her gaze steadily. It's an old debate between them-- the
military's place in the world. "I was twenty-two and high on my own genius. I
honestly thought I could make the world a better place. That was before I had
the foresight to think about what an army of super-soldiers would mean to the
world."
"I take it by the lack of super-soldiers that you failed?" Pepper asks, clearly
aiming for humor.
"Failed explosively," Bruce agrees. "Ross never liked me, and when the project
almost literally blew up in our faces, he pointed all of the blame in my
direction, saying that I lied and manipulated him. We all shared the blame-
- the whole team-- and me more than most, but that doesn't change the fact that
he pushed an over-eager twenty-something for impossible results at threat of
discreditation.
"He demanded a human test or my job, but I wasn't willing to put anyone else in
that situation. I was so sure it would work, but even I wasn't overconfident
enough to jump right into human testing." Bruce rubs his palms on his slacks,
trying to dry the sweat that was gathering at the memory. "So, I made myself
the guinea pig."
Pepper's hand comes up to cover her mouth. "Bruce."
"I know, it was stupid, but I was so convinced I had the answer," Bruce says
with a slow shake of his head. "The resulting failure left me-- changed."
Beside him, Tony's eyes are wide. He's read the files, bland and emotionless
and to the point, but he's never heard Bruce talk about the accident.
"There's an issue in my life that still haunts me because of the decision I
made that day. I can't go into detail about the ramifications, not right now,
but the results of the accident are why I came to live with the Starks eleven
years ago."
Pepper leans back into the couch, processing the sudden influx of personal
information. She looks shocked and borderline disbelieving, but she knows Bruce
well enough to realize he's telling the truth.
"I'll help Tony prepare to take over the company," she says at last. "You know
I will. There was never really any question in that. God help me, but the pair
of you are two of the closest friends I have."
"You're going to be the next target if you help," Tony warns. "Dad won't let
him fire you, but--"
"But Howard has made it very clear that if he keels over sooner than expected,
I'm to be your assistant, not Stane's," Pepper interrupts.
That halts Tony. "Come again?" he asks, bewildered.
"Once Howard realized I was good for more than filing paperwork and bullying
vendors, he rewrote my employment contract. I'm still considered an SI
employee, but I'm employed solely under him. He wrote the contract so that in
the event of his death or incapacitation, I report to you, not SI or Stane."
A grin spreads across Bruce's face. "So no one else can fire you."
"Exactly," she says with a nod. "I do have one question, though."
"You're allowed more than one," he huffs.
"Why does this general have it out for you?" Pepper asks. "Obviously this is
about more than a failed military project."
Tony's brow furrows, and he glanced at Bruce. Clearly this isn't something he
ever thought to ask.
Bruce scratches the back of his neck. "I-- well, I kinda' almost, um, eloped,"
Bruce says, making a face. "With his daughter."
"You eloped with Thunderbolt Ross's daughter?!" Tony screeches.
Bruce thinks as he covers his ear with a pained wince. "Almost eloped with," he
corrects.
Tony gives him a look that very clearly says 'We Are Talking About This Later'
as they lapse into silence. All three of them radiate exhaustion, thoroughly
drained by the night's conversation.
"Another movie?" Tony asks without much hope.
Pepper gives a tired snort. "Not for me," she says as she begins gathering her
things. "I still have a train ride back to my apartment and work tomorrow."
Bruce stands, stretching with a wide yawn. He ejects the DVD from the player
and hands it wordlessly to Pepper. She waves goodbye at the front door and
kisses each of them on the cheek in a sudden burst of affection. "I'm glad
you're doing better. Both of you," she says before taking the front steps at a
steady trot.
"So," Tony starts as he and Bruce climb the stairs. "Thunderbolt Ross's
daughter."
"Betty," Bruce provides.
"Betty," Tony echoes, and Bruce hears the jealous note he tries to suppress.
"What's the story?"
Bruce waits until the door to the bedroom clicks shut behind them to answer.
The whole truth is what Tony deserves, even if it makes him envious of a lost
love from a decade and a half ago.
"I was twenty-three, twenty-four years old. I met her a couple months before
you were born," Bruce says quietly. "It was a whirlwind romance-- those kind
you see in the movies where people fall in love so fast you doubt it's even
possible. Two months in, and I was crazy for her."
Bruce sits on the edge and tugs Tony towards him. Tony goes willingly enough,
letting Bruce skim him out of his shirt with fingers that only shake a little.
The idea of being the one to undress him still scares Bruce, but this much he
can do.
"But not every romance is like the movies," Bruce continues, and he hears the
sorrow in his own voice.
He traces a kiss along Tony's shoulder and lets himself get caught in the taste
of Tony's skin. His lips on Tony's skin and his hands on Tony's waist say the
things Bruce doesn't know how-- that Tony is his love now, that how much he
loved Betty doesn't change the ferocity with which he loves Tony now.
"Ross never approved of me," Bruce says into Tony's neck, breath ghosting warm
across his skin. "Didn't want his daughter spending time with 'some brainiac
coward who never learned how to throw a punch.'"
Tony twined the fingers of one hand in Bruce's curls and scritches. "You have
your merits," he says in a low voice that promises things that send a shiver
down Bruce's spine.
"We were going to elope after the final test for my serum," Bruce says. "I had
one last demonstration for the military, and then she and I were going to make
a break for it."
"You make it sound like a prison break," Tony scoffs.
Bruce looks down at his hands resting at the waistband of Tony's jeans. "It
practically was," he says softly. "As much for her as for me."
He doesn't elaborate, doesn't explain how Ross slowly took control of Bruce's
life, how he tried to rule Betty's and was thwarted by her willful streak, but
he suspects Tony understands.
"You know how that test ended. Betty--" Bruce swallows around the tightness in
his throat before continuing, "Betty got hurt in the process. I don't remember
it, but apparently I-- the Other Guy broke her arm."
Tony visibly is at a loss for what to say, so he lays his head on Bruce's
shoulder, anchoring him with an arm around his waist.
"I still don't know how. I think-- I hope it was collateral damage and not--
" he stammers, "not intentional."
"It wasn't," Tony says fiercely.
"Tony."
"No," he says. "I've met Hulk, and he's big and angry and likes smashing
things, but he's not bad. He wouldn't hurt someone you love, not on purpose."
Bruce wants to believe him. Wants to, but isn't willing to take that risk.
He gives Tony a quick kiss on the lips. "Go brush your teeth," he says when he
pulls away.
Tony pushes out of bed with a halfhearted grumble. "It's not your job to remind
me of stuff like that anymore, you know"
"Tony, if I have to remind you, it's still my job, even if by choice."
***** Chapter 21 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony is sixteen.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
16
Tony is sixteen when he joins Bruce for yoga.
Bruce tried yoga in the nineties, back during that brief period when VHS tapes
of tie-dye-clad hippies saying 'om' got inexplicably popular.
While he was on the run, yoga had never been entirely satisfying. The slow
movement and deep breathing had proven more boring than relaxing or physically
strenuous enough to calm him. Bruce had found himself zoning out to unsavory
thoughts more often than banishing them.
However, when Pepper convinced him to join her for her daily routine several
months ago, desperate for anything that would calm his Tony woes, Bruce
discovered that he must have been doing something wrong back then. Discovered
it painfully.
By the time they finished the workout, Pepper had been glistening attractively
with the excursion while Bruce panted for dear life and tried to get his heart
rate back under control. She was kind enough to wait until he caught his breath
to rib him about the sweat matting his curls and pooling in unattractive
stains. Even in the near-perfect climate control of Stark Mansion, the
Manhattan heat was something to be reckoned with.
"Is this right?" Tony asks, snapping Bruce back to the present.
Bruce takes in Tony's attempt at bridge pose, shoulders on floor, back arched,
and swallows hard.
"Yeah," he says roughly before averting his eyes. "That's it."
With Tony, the same beginner's poses Pepper had walked Bruce through feel
decidedly less innocent. Bruce can't help the way his eyes and mind wander,
taking in the breathtaking curve of Tony's body and conjuring all the other
ways in which that same pose could be used.
After Pepper's introduction and a month's worth of tutorial sessions, Bruce had
taken to practicing on his own when Pepper wasn't available. He does it as much
for the exercise as the relaxation, because while he's not that out of shape,
he's as fit as he once was. And really, if there's one thing keeping up with
his teenage-- friend? boyfriend? lover? Tony.-- requires, it's keeping in
shape.
And god, that thought came out dirtier than he intended.
Of course, the image of Tony bent double with both hands on the floor and one
leg stretched out behind him wasn't helping anything.
As Tony's summer break draws to a close, both of them are desperate to eke out
every second of time together they can reasonably manage. After skipping his
routine three days in a row and feeling sluggish and off-kilter because of it,
Bruce invited Tony to join him without much hope he would be interested.
Instead of giving the bemused scoff and rejection Bruce had been prepared for,
Tony had been more than happy to don painfully short--for Bruce-- running
shorts and a too-tight black shirt made of sort of space-age fabric that clung
to him flatteringly. Only now as Bruce watches Tony mimic his own pose with his
ass in the air does Bruce understand why Tony agreed so enthusiastically-- the
tease.
Bruce swallows forcefully as he takes a deep breath and switches positions to a
pose that put less pressure on is faintly interested cock.
He and Tony haven't progressed any further than that hazy morning over winter
break. They've had stolen moments together when Bruce visits Boston for the
weekend or when Tony finds an excuse to spend a couple days in New York under
the pretense of learning the company's ropes, but underwear and often the rest
of their clothes have always stayed on.
Nudity isn't something that's ever bothered Bruce before now, his own or
others'. He knows keeping layers between them makes him no less culpable for
getting off with a teenager, but somehow that one last barrier feels
insurmountable, like total nudity is a line he doesn't know how to cross.
When Bruce's phone chimes pleasantly to mark the end of an hour, Bruce isn't
sure if he's relieved or disappointed.
Tony's eyes roamed over Bruce shamelessly as he straightens, catching on the
slight tent in the fabric of his shorts. "I need to start doing this more
often. I'm not nearly flexible enough to keep up with you."
His slow drawl leaves no doubt in what he means.
Bruce ducks his head. "Thanks for joining me today," he says awkwardly. "I'm
going to go take a shower."
"No, no." Tony smirks. "Thank you."
He watches Bruce as he makes his way towards the en-suite bathroom, a
considering look in his eyes. Bruce tries to ignore it and not hunch over as he
walks. The idea of Tony knowing just how badly he want him still terrifies
Bruce a little, but he made his decision. It's Tony's right to know, and
clearly the information doesn't scare him as much as it does Bruce.
As soon as he's in the bathroom, Bruce strips out of his clothes and lets them
fall in a careless and vaguely smelly pile on the tile. He sets his glasses on
the counter with a click and kicks on the shower, adjusting the temperature
until it's nearly scalding. Once upon a time not so long ago, he would have
turned the water to freezing rather than run the risk of encouraging his body's
desires, but his self-punishing routine helped no one, least of all himself or
Tony.
He's about to step under the water when the bathroom door opens and Tony peers
around it. Startled, Bruce grabs at a towel in a pointless attempt to preserve
some modesty as Tony slips the rest of the way in and shuts the door.
"Is everything okay?" Bruce manages, clutching the towel to his front.
Tony hums in asset as he crosses the room. "Give me that," he says softly,
covering Bruce's hands with his own. Bruce staunchly refuses to release his
white-knuckled grip.
"I-- what?" he asks dumbly, because hello-- gorgeously disheveled Tony in his
personal space while he's lacking clothing.
Tony sighs and gives up on trying to wrest the towel from Bruce's hands.
Instead, he shucks off his own shirt and pants, and oh god, he wasn't wearing
anything under those too-short shorts.
Bruce looks quickly away before he can notice anything other details.
"Tony, what are you doing?" he asks the far wall.
"Joining you for a shower," Tony says, then hesitates. "If you'll let me."
Bruce is instantly torn between pointing out how much of a terrible idea this
is and saying of course he'll let him. Instead he settles on leaving the choice
with Tony. "Are you sure?"
Tony huffs. "If you're not going to Hulk-out from embarrassment."
The towel slips through Bruce's fingers to the floor, a silent answer, and Tony
smiles, genuine and bright.
Bruce turns his back to check the water, still resolutely not ogling Tony and
the gorgeous picture he presents. As he steps under the drizzle of the rain
shower head, he's unsurprised when Tony follows him. Still, the warmth at his
back and hand on his shoulder are a reassuring presence.
"Hey," Tony says, lips moving against Bruce's shoulder as the water coats them
both. "We don't have to do this if you're too uncomfortable."
And oh, Bruce is plenty uncomfortable, but he wants this intimacy with Tony
enough to ignore it. He makes himself turn to face Tony, and the water
gathering on his lashes only highlights his eyes.
"I'm fine," he says. His eyes catch on Tony's Mediterranean skin and linger on
the water droplets pooling at his collarbone. He watches, transfixed, as a drop
slides over the plane of his chest, down past his navel, tantalizingly closer
to dark curls of hair and--
Bruce averts his eyes, suddenly finding a spot on the ceiling very fascinating.
"Then look at me," Tony says. He puts a steadying hand on Bruce's lower back
and lets his fingers trace circles just above the curve of his ass. "You don't
need to keep looking away. I wouldn't have followed you if I had a problem with
you seeing me naked."
Hesitantly, Bruce does. He takes in Tony as a whole, letting his eyes roam over
strong thighs and sharp hips and a half hard cock. Opposite him, Tony is
studying the new view of Bruce's skin with just as much intensity.
Bruce feels painfully exposed and vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do
with nudity and everything with the emotion in Tony's eyes. He looks curious
and wanting and borderline overwhelmed, but under all of it are love and
devotion and trust the likes of which Bruce doubts he could ever deserve. But
god, he'll try. For Tony, he'll try.
Arousal and nerves suffuse Bruce when Tony's hand curls around his hip, thumb
tracing the seam of his thigh as his eyes wander over Bruce's cock. It hits
him, as it periodically does, how new this is for Tony. It's the first time
he's seen another man naked in a semi-sexual situation outside of the free
internet porn he watched for 'research', as he puts it.
Bruce's hands flutters over the younger man's shoulders, unsure how far Tony is
comfortable taking this. In the end, Bruce settles on cupping the nape of his
neck and letting his fingers rub water into his skin.
"You can touch me," Tony says, eyes fluttering shut. "Anywhere-- everywhere. I
want you to."
"We're supposed to be taking a shower," Bruce murmurs even as he leans in to
kiss Tony's temple.
Tony tilts his head into the contact when Bruce noses along his hairline. "We
are."
"With soap," Bruce adds. He runs his hands down the curve of Tony's back, water
trailing his fingertips, and cups Tony's bare ass with only minimal second
guessing. The skin under his hands is soft and yielding, muscular without
losing its curve.
Tony groans encouragingly.
Bruce's fingers knead as he allows himself a moment to be greedy. Tony has a
gorgeous ass. Even through layers, Bruce has thought so for as long as he's
allowed himself such thoughts-- and perhaps a little longer-- but seeing it
like this, without the layers of fabric, makes his knees go soft and his cock
go the exact opposite.
He guides Tony forward until they're pressed together from knee to shoulder.
Fire ignites in his belly as Tony's bare cock brushes his upper thigh. Then,
one very purposeful cant of Tony hips later, their cocks are brushing between
them. Tony's is velvety and solid against his own, and the intimate contact
staggers Bruce for a moment. He has to put one hand on the wall behind Tony for
support.
A gravely humm escapes him, and he buries his face against the Tony's shoulder,
feeling younger man's wet hair sticking to his forehead. Tony's breath comes in
warm bursts against Bruce's neck, and it's the heave of his chest that finally
brings Bruce back to the task at hand.
"Showering," he says nonsensically. "With soap."
Tony lets out a noise halfway between a laugh and a groan of frustration, but
he pulls away, anyhow. "Who knew: all it takes to make the great Bruce Banner
go stupid is getting him naked."
"No," Bruce says with a wry smile as he reaches for the shampoo. "All it takes
is getting you naked."
Tony makes grabby-hands for the bottle. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You take everything as a complement."
"I resent that. That was most definitely a compliment, no doubt about it," Tony
says. "Lean down."
"Why?" Bruce asks, but does do obligingly. In answer, Tony squeezes a dollop of
shampoo into his hand before transferring it to Bruce's hair. Bruce huffs a
half-laugh. "You know the whole bathing each other thing isn't nearly as sexy
as the movies make it look, right? Someone's always either cold or falling on
their ass."
"Let me have my fun," Tony says. He scritches lightly at Bruce's scalp, and
Bruce has to close his eyes to keep out a drip of bubbles. "You already vetoed
sex on a beach."
"A, You only do that once before you learn your lesson, and I've already had my
once," Bruce says with a hum of approval. Despite his objections, Tony's deft
fingers carding shampoo through his hair do feel wonderful. "B, You have to be
having sex, first, to have sex on a beach."
"Are we not?" Tony asks, genuine curiosity under the slight belligerence in his
voice.
Bruce bites his lip and immediately regrets it when he tastes soap. "That...
depends on your definition."
"So where's the line? Is it not sex until I bend over for you?"
"Tony!" Bruce admonishes.
"I'm just saying--" Tony amends. "Whether we're having anal sex or just rubbing
off together, it's the same. Call it sex, call it fooling around; we're still
doing this-- us."
"It's not about that," Bruce says as he lifts his head to rinse out the
shampoo. "It's just semantics. This isn't be trying to make myself feel better
about having sex with a minor."
And that's maybe the first time Bruce has admitted that aloud while not in the
midst of a moral crisis. But then again, if he's admitting it, the time for
moral crises probably passed three exits ago.
"Do you consider what we're doing sex?" Bruce asks. At risk of being too
cliché, he gives into temptation and sets about returning the favor of hair
washing.
"I mean, I guess, but maybe that's because I don't really have any experience
to compare it to." Tony shrugs. "I think it counts as sex as long as you're not
a Catholic school girl abstaining until marriage."
"I did go to Catholic school," Bruce admits with a sheepish smile.
Tony blinks. "Well that explains a whole fucking lot."
"It really does, doesn't it?" Bruce says. He brushes Tony's bangs, white with
suds, back out of his face and holds his gaze. Once hand cups his cheek, palm
warm against his skin under the spray of water. "Can I ask you something?"
"No," Tony says, and the sarcasm comes out as hardly more than a whisper.
Bruce kisses the cheek not cupped in his palm. "Do you feel like you've lost
your virginity?" He swallows hard, adding, "To me?"
For once Tony hesitates.
"I don't know," he admits at last. "I've had so many firsts with you, but
things start to get-- fuzzy when it's two guys. There's no dividing line, you
know? No clear sign saying 'cross here to lose virginity!'"
Tony breaks Bruce's hold to rinse his hair. "I don't... I don't really feel
like anything's changed, but maybe it's like turning sixteen-- not everyone
feels it the way they expect," he says. "All I know is that whatever
constitutes a loss of virginity, I want it with you. I want all of my firsts to
be with you."
Bruce wants to say something poignant back, he really does, but he's rarely
that eloquent when it matters. Instead, he joins Tony under the spray and
admits, "I want that, too."
He wraps his arms around Tony's chest and waist from behind. Tony's hands come
up to cover his own as he relaxes back into the hold, and they stay like that
for a long minute under the water, swaying slightly. It's so warm and intimate
and perfect, and Bruce is tries not to breathe too hard for fear of breaking
the spell.
Tony doesn't seem bothered by the partial erection nudging at the backs of his
thighs, so Bruce doesn't let himself be, either.
Silently, Bruce snags a bar of soap and turns it between his hands until
they're thoroughly soaped. He starts with Tony's neck and shoulders, massaging
lightly as he goes. The contrast of their skin is hypnotizing, olive hands on
soft skin that rarely sees sunlight. Slowly, methodically, he lets his lathered
hands drift over Tony's chest and stomach and thighs, scrubbing gently-
- touching everywhere apart from exactly where Tony wants him to touch.
Finally, Bruce sucks in a bracing breath and ghosts his hand over Tony's mostly
hard cock. He doesn't try to get him off, but his movements aren't exactly
economical, either. He washes the length of Tony's cock lightly, letting his
fingers linger momentarily on the smoothness of the head.
Tony is beautiful, so beautiful that Bruce wonders what he sees when he looks
at their bare bodies so close together.
When Bruce takes his hand away, there's a slight tremor to his fingers. Tony
catches it. "You're shaking," he says, an echo of Bruce's own words from so
long ago.
Bruce lets out a long breath and blinks water out of his eyes. "I'm nervous."
"Don't be." Tony turns in his arms. "I'm not. Excited, yes. Jittery, yes.
Nervous, no. Not with you."
He kisses Bruce's lips before reaching for a travel-sized bottle of unscented
lotion that's found its way in among the myriad other shampoos and soaps. Bruce
eyes him, aghast.
"You planned this," he accuses.
"I planned for it," Tony agrees cheerfully. "And fantasized about it."
He holds up the partially empty bottle for emphases, and Bruce only boggles
harder.
"What do you expect? I'm sixteen and one of the few college students not
fucking every other member of their friend group," Tony babbles, then tilts his
head. "Not that Rhodey or Carol is interested. Not sure either of them bats for
my team--"
Bruce cuts off the avalanche of words with another kiss, deftly silencing Tony
with a nip at his bottom lip. Without looking, Tony uncaps the lotion and
squeezes some into his palm. What little doubt Bruce had had about the purpose
of the bottle is instantly erased as Tony maneuvers a hand between the press of
their bodies.
Tony breaks the kiss to watch his own progress, leaning his head against
Bruce's clavicle as his eyes track the movements of his hand. At the first
touch of graceful fingers to his cock, Bruce lets out a stuttering half-moan
against Tony's ear.
Tony's hand is curious on his cock, running up and down the length before
circling the head. He holds the weight of it in his palm, letting the warmth
seep between them. Bruce knows he's feeling how it differs from his own,
thicker and circumcised-- and, the reluctantly honest part of brain adds, a
grown man's cock rather than a teenager's.
Bruce brings them closer with an arm looped around Tony's shoulders and rests
his other at his hip.
Tony strokes down the length of Bruce's cock several times, testing more than
trying to finish him off. His hand drifts away to ghost over Bruce's inner
thighs and run light fingers through the dark curls of his pubic hair. From
there the hand moves to cup his balls, feeling their weight and tracing them
with maddeningly slowness.
The languid exploration leaves Bruce breathless and wanting and desperate to
give Tony every piece of himself he's kept guarded for so long. He murmurs
encouragements and reassurances into Tony's skin, even though he's sure Tony
needs neither.
Tony's fingers drift to the cleft of Bruce's ass, curious. He looks to Bruce
for permission through bashful lashes, and Bruce nods his approval. Emboldened,
Tony skims his fingers further down between Bruce's cheeks and presses into the
sensitive skin behind his balls. Deft fingertips skate over the surface, only
the barest of pressure, and Bruce resists the instinct to press back into the
touch. He forces himself to let Tony explore at his own pace.
Tony's chest heaves with quick breathes, and his cock nudges insistently at
Bruce's upper thigh. Bruce moves a hand towards it but freezes the instant
fingers snatch his wrist, afraid he's pushed too far.
Tony evidently reads this on his face. "I definitely want that, but you first
this time, okay? I want-- I want to see."
Bruce makes a noise somewhere deep in his throat at that, and Tony takes it as
the approval it is. The finger leave the space between his cheeks to circle his
cock once more. This time, Tony is done teasing. He strokes Bruce with
confident, sure strokes even as he tries to find the right angle.
Bruce gives into it, canting his body to give Tony better access and relaxing
into the sensation with a moan he doesn't even try to stifle. Tony's eyes
follow every movement, as if he doesn't want to miss a moment, and Bruce
understands completely. The view between their bodies somehow manages to be
both pornographic and too beautiful for words.
Bruce reaches down, taking hold of Tony's wrist. He adjusts the angle before
interlacing his fingers with Tony's around his cock. He tightens the grip and
shows him without words how to make it better. At that, Tony breaks his
observation for long enough to capture Bruce's mouth in a searing kiss.
Tony thrusts against Bruce's hip in time with the tug of his hand. It’s
devastating and massive and shattering in the best way, like Tony is remaking
him with every press of his hips and curl of his fingers.
Bruce's breath begins to hitch audibly as he feels himself coming closer to the
edge. "T-Tony," he moans, all reserve abandoned. "Oh, yes, Tony-- that-- that's
it. Like that. Just like that."
His words fail him as pleasure stiffens his muscles. He wants to close his eyes
on instinct and let the pleasure wash over him, but instead he forces them to
stay open, watching himself finish in Tony's grasp. He coats their tangled
fingers, a brief, obscene display before the mess is washed away by the water.
Tony looks up at him, lips parted for breath and eyes bright with desire as
Bruce's cock begins to soften between them.
Bruce ducks his head, embarrassed at the momentary lapse of control. It's been
a decade and a half since anyone has seen him like that, and he feels suddenly
exposed under the want and love of Tony's gaze. He untangles his fingers from
Tony's, thankful they're not shaking this time.
Rather than let go, Tony continues to cup Bruce's now fully soft cock even as
his own nudges insistently between them. He nuzzles at the underside of Bruce's
chin until Bruce obligingly tilts his head, allowing Tony to mouth at his neck
even as his eyes drift shut.
Tony's fingers delicately trace the over sensitive skin. He holds Bruce's cock
in his palm, exploration more careful now than it had been earlier, and the
quiet intimacy of it makes Bruce's throat tighten.
"Okay?" Tony asks.
"Perfect," Bruce admits. "So perfect."
Tony takes Bruce's hand in his free one and guides it downwards. Seeing his
intentions, Bruce says, "Wait, wait. Like this."
He maneuvers then so Tony's back is pressed to his chest, careful to keep
either of them from slipping. He braces his feet on either side of Tony's for
better balance and holds him with an arm across his chest. Tony hums breathily
and bucks his hips at the air in front of him.
"Oh god, I love it when you do that," Tony says, voice in tatters
"Do what?" Bruce asks.
"Hold me tight when you already know I'm not going anywhere," Tony says. He
brings a hand up to the muscle of Bruce's forearm for emphasis. "I love the
strength hiding under that nerdy exterior."
Guilt rises in Bruce's throat. "You shouldn't. You know why it's there."
"The Other Guy's not going to come out to play," Tony reassures. "He probably
finds all of this squishy human stuff very boring."
Bruce wants to object, but he really can't-- mostly because he has a hunch that
Tony might be right. The Other Guy has more reasoning ability than Bruce used
to give him credit for, and as long as there's nothing exciting to smash, he
doesn't seem to want to get involved.
Bruce pushes those thoughts aside when Tony gives an insistent gyration of his
hips. He takes one last deep breath and slides his hand down over the flat of
Tony's stomach, feeling the way the underlying muscles contract at his touch.
He rests his chin on Tony's shoulder and watches as he takes Tony in hand.
His grip is loose at first, hardly more than a teasing brush. Bruce feels more
reluctant about this now that the burning arousal has dissipated slightly, but
no matter how nervous he feels, he still wants to make this good for Tony,
still wants to feel Tony fall over the edge under his hands and make sure Tony
knows that he'll be there to catch him.
Tony is beautifully responsive, arching and moaning as Bruce learns the lines
of his cock. Even standing back to front so the angle is more natural, it takes
Bruce a few moments to even out his stuttering strokes. As he gains confidence,
he can't stop cataloging every feature of the skin under his fingers-- the slim
shape, the slide of Tony's foreskin, the smoothness of the head.
Bruce mouths along the soft skin of Tony's shoulder, sure there will be a line
of marks there but unable to care. It's been nearly two decades since he's had
the kind of refractory period necessary for two goes right in a row, but a low
thrum of desire hums through him even if there's no chance of him getting hard
again. Tony is perfect under his lips and finger, and he tells him so in a low,
rough litany as he coaxes him closer to the edge, remembering what Tony said
about liking his voice.
It only takes a handful of strokes before Tony stutters out, "Close."
Bruce chuckles throatily in his ear. Despite everything, Tony still has the
stamina of a teenager. "I've got you. I'll always have you. Let go. I'm right
here," Bruce says. As he speaks, he brings the hand at Tony's waist to cover
the head of his cock while his pace increases.
With a jerk of his hips, Tony leans his head back on Bruce's shoulder, choking
out "Bruce" on one final moan. Bruce watches, rapt, as Tony spills into his
hand. He cups his release in his palm for moment, keeping it from the shower
spray, his own private pleasure.
Bruce breaths against the tightness of his chest at just how much seeingthe
evidence of their actions turns him on. It feels selfish, wanting Tony's
pleasure for himself. He opens his hand and lets the water wash it clean before
Tony regains enough coherence to notice.
Tony is putty in his arms, and Bruce kisses up the back of his neck, nosing at
the hollow at the base of his skull. Tony's eyes flutter open, and he lolls his
head back enough to catch Bruce's eyes. "That was amazing," he says, a broad
smile blooming over his features.
Bruce cracks a small smile in return as he cuts off the water, still not
letting go of Tony. "It really was, wasn't it?"
Tony looks down at his hands, then examines Bruce's in turn. "God, we look like
a pair of prunes."
"I feel like your father is going to know from the water bill," Bruce says
blandly.
Chapter End Notes
     Just a heads-up, but updates will be slightly more spread out for now
     due to life. However, the story is still being written. It's been my
     labor of love for a year and a half, and is going to be until its
     completed.
***** Chapter 22 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is sixteen.
Chapter Notes
     It's been months, I know. Life has been a bit crazy, but this story
     will always be my baby and thus WILL be finished, even if it takes a
     while. Sorry this chapter is so short. I figured a short chapter was
     better than no chapter.
16
Tony Stark is sixteen when Maria finds out.
"I'm glad to see you," Tony says. He flops back onto the living room couch with
a dramatic huff, suitcase abandoned at his feet. "So fucking glad."
Bruce chuckled warmly where he stands directly in front Tony, shins pressing
into the couch cushions. "I missed you, too."
"God, I can't believe it's only fall break. This has been a long semester.
Good," Tony hastens to amend, "But long."
Bruce reaches forward to run a hand through Tony's travel-mussed hair. "You
need another haircut." It's a parody of the same conversation nearly a year
ago, and Tony clearly hears it, too.
"But that would require time and effort," Tony says, smiling. He catches
Bruce's hand and twines their fingers together. "Besides, Mom will make me get
one before the gallery opening Friday."
Bruce hums noncommittally and holds his ground as Tony attempts to pull him
onto the couch. He can see what Tony's trying to do, and there's nothing
platonic about it. "Tony," he warns. "We're in the livingroom."
"Come on, I haven't seen you in nearly a month."
Bruce is supposed to be the mature one. He's supposed to be the one to call
bullshit on bad ideas, but all that goes out the window when Tony looks up at
him, eyes all but pleading. Against his better judgement, he lets himself be
pulled forward, bending at the waist until he has to brace an arm on the back
of the couch. Tony reaches up and fists his hands in the collar of his button-
up, dragging Bruce down into a searing kiss.
It's slow and deep, and Bruce swears he can taste how much Tony missed this. Or
maybe he's just projecting. The hand not balancing his weight comes up to cup
the back of Tony's neck, tangling in the unruly hair there. Tony's fingers
trace his ear,his jaw, the line of his neck--
A hiss of indrawn breath startles them apart, Bruce half-jumping back from
Tony.
Maria stands in the doorway, eyes wide and face ashen. Bruce doesn't know if
the latter is because of her illness or what she just walked in on, and he's
not sure he wants to think too hard about it. Her hands clench and unclench
rapidly at her sides. For a long moment her eyes hold Bruce's-- shocked and
confused and something that might be betrayed.
"Maria--" he starts, the single word stuttering out like a plea, and the spell
breaks.
Her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and she turns, fleeing the room.
"Fuck," Bruce swears, but the word holds none of the vehemence it should. He
runs a nervous hand back through his hair and tries to think over the den in
his head.
"That's about the measure of it," Tony says, a hint of a tremor under his usual
bravado.
"Stay here," Bruce orders.
Tony pushes off the couch and follows Bruce towards the door. "Like hell."
Bruce doesn't have time to protest, and if he's honest, he doesn't want to face
Maria alone, even if Tony's presence will only make the situation worse. He
strides down the hall and takes the stairs two at a time, Tony trailing behind
him. He hopes Maria is in her room-- preferably not on the phone with the
police or SI security.
"Maria!" Bruce calls as they reach the top of the stairs. The door to the
drawing room is ajar, and Bruce pushes through without waiting for a response.
Maria is hunched over on an ottoman, elbows on her knees and hands rubbing
anxiously at her mouth. She's pale and drawn and looks on the verge of tears.
Her breath comes in short, shallow gulps, and she's swaying side to side as if
trying to hold on to consciousness.
"Mom!" Tony calls. He rushes over to her side and steadies her with a hand on
either shoulder. "Breath steady for me. That's it. Good," he soothes.
Bruce unfreezes from where he's stuck in the threshold. "I'll go get a glass of
water," he says weakly. It feels cowardly, leaving Tony to deal with his
hyperventilating mother, but Bruce isn't at all sure his presence is welcome at
the moment.
Down the hall, he fills a glass with cold water from the bathroom tap, then
sets it aside as the tap continues to run. Bruce splashes his face several
times, trying to regain some semblance of coherent thought between the fear of
losing Tony and his rage at the prospect.
When he looks up in the mirror, his eyes gleam green.
He grips the edge of the marble counter hard enough that he fears it might
crack. It feels like a catch 22-- he knows that if he doesn't go back to that
room and say something in his own defense, he's going to lose Tony. But if he
goes back and loses himself, he's also going to lose Tony. He wants so badly to
be what Tony needs, but doesn't know how to be at times like this-- when being
what Tony needs might cost both of them.
The fear makes him want to run, but it's also fear that makes him stay.
Bruce dries his face on a hand towel and takes a deep breath before making his
way back to the drawing room.
"--'s not hurting me, not pressuring me. I started this. I pushed for it,"
Bruce hears Tony saying. "You have to believe me, Bruce would never hurt me or
pressure me."
Maria gives a weak noise that could be a laugh or could be a sob in response.
Bruce clears his throat awkwardly from the doorway. The look Tony throws him is
at once helpless and pleading, and Bruce makes himself step further into the
room. He kneels down in front of Maria and carefully puts the glass into her
hands. She looks up at him, eyes sharp even under the brightness of unshed
tears.
"I knew... I knew you would, eventually. I just can't--" She takes a shaky
breath only to start coughing.
A wave of guilt washes over Bruce. She's sick, and now he's given her yet
another reason to worry about her son's well-being.
"I saw the way you looked at him, and I knew you would give in. You always give
in when it comes to my son. I thought-- I knew I should separate you, but I
could never bring myself to hurt the two of you like that. I thought maybe I
was wrong. I hoped maybe you'd be able to wait--"
"I'd never hurt him, Maria. I told you that nine years ago, and it's still
true," Bruce interrupts. "I'm not trying to hurt him or use him. That's not
what this is."
"What is it, then?" she asks, voice sharp.
Bruce swallows past the words stuck in his throat and decides the truth might
be their best chance. "I love him; I've always loved him. Maybe not the way I
do now, but I've spent so many years loving him that I don't think I remember
how not to."
That seems to be what finally pushes Maria over the edge. She curls in on
herself, arms wrapping around her stomach as she dissolves into tears.
Tony turns a terrified look on Bruce, and Bruce wishes he knew how to fix this,
how to comfort either of them. Seeing your mother cry is always bad, but
watching helplessly as your mother cries over something you had a hand in-
- well, there's little worse.
"Bruce, you've forced me to have to make a choice that no mother should ever
have to make," Maria says, rough and low. "You're making me choose between
breaking my son's heart and doing what society says a mother should to protect
him."
She watches him, gaze searching, and seems to find what she’s looking for in
his expression. She places one well manicured hand on Bruce's cheek where he
kneels before her. "The way you always looked at each other-- I always knew
we'd end up here one day, but I never thought it would be so soon." She looks
up at her son. "You're so young, Tony."
"You were nineteen when you married dad."
"I was," Maria agrees, "But nineteen is much different than sixteen. Or..." She
takes in Tony's tight expression, so easy to read around her. She audibly
chokes back another sob. "Fifteen, I suppose."
Bruce clears his throat guiltily but doesn’t try to contradict the assertion.
Tony’s expression is just as much of an admission of guilt as his own. “What’re
you going to do?” Tony asks.
Maria smiles, and if it’s tinged with sorrow, well, Bruce tries not to feel any
more guilty. “I’m not going to take him from you, if that’s what you’re afraid
of. How can I after all these years? You would hate me, and it wouldn’t do
anything to protect you.”
Tony takes her hand in his and places the other on Bruce’s shoulder. “Thank
you, Mama.”
"Aren't you going to tell me not to hurt him?" Bruce asks, unable to resist.
"You forget, Bruce: you've always been as good as my son," Maria says. “I worry
for your heart and safety almost as much as his, so I'll advise you to be
mindful-- for both of your sakes. For someone so painfully careful, you can be
remarkably impulsive when it comes to my son."
Bruce is silent, and Maria’s gaze falls on Tony. “I know you hate hearing it,
but you’re so much like your father. He was so impulsive with everything except
me. He treated me like I was something to be approached with the utmost
consideration, just like how you treat Bruce.”
She pets a hand down her son’s curls, flattening out the disheveled patch where
Bruce’s fingers had been tangled earlier.
"Howard is eighteen years older than me. I was a teenager when we met, and I
thought my father was going to murder him before I could make an honest man out
of him," Maria says. "Your grandfather didn't believe I ever would. He thought
I was being duped-- doomed to a life of betrayal and turned into some trophy
for a rich man to show off like a car."
Her brow furrows like something has occurred to her, and she looks between the
two of them. "Does Howard know?"
Bruce and Tony exchange a glance before Bruce hesitantly says, “Yes.”
“Did he encourage it?” Her expression threatens thunderstorms and the murder of
her husband.
“You can’t seriously be surprised by that,” Tony says.
Maria pushes herself to her feet and says, “No, but that doesn’t mean I’m not
going to strangle him.”
***** Chapter 23 *****
16
Tony is sixteen as he stares up at the library ceiling.
"God, I love spring break. Fuck Florida, this is all the view I need," Tony
says. His head in Bruce’s lap, feet crossed over the arm of the library couch
and hands folded over his chest as he stares up his lover. An unseasonable heat
wave has overtaken Manhattan, and Bruce’s clothes cling to him where Tony is
pressed to his side.
“Are you worried?” Bruce asks, running the knuckle of his index finger over
Tony’s cheekbone.
“No.”
“You’re awfully quiet for someone who isn’t worried,” Bruce says, stroking the
side of Tony’s neck. He can’t bring himself to care that it’s damp with sweat.
“It’s okay to be nervous. You have your first your first speech in front of the
SI board of directors tomorrow.”
Tony quirks a small smile up at him. “Okay, a little worried.” The smile turns
into a smirk as he turns his head to press a kiss just below the older man’s
navel. “Take my mind off it?” he murmurs into the fabric of Bruce’s button-up.
Tony's fingers curl loosely around the back of his neck, pulling him down
slightly as he runs fingers through the curls at the base of his neck.
Bruce almost protests that they're in the library as a kneejerk reaction.
Almost.
Instead, he leans forward, bending at an awkward angle until he can catch
Tony’s lips in a lingering but light kiss. The fingers at the nape of his neck
tighten instantly, and Bruce pulls back.
“I can’t bend like that,” he says with a wry smile.
In answer, Tony pushes himself up, one hand planted on Bruce’s upper thigh for
leverage. His face tilts towards the older man, but he doesn’t close the
distance, instead looking up at him through dark eyes. It’s an invitation as
much as it’s a test.
Bruce manages to lean into Tony’s lips without over-thinking. The kiss deepens
as Bruce opens his mouth, bolder than he would have been a year ago. He moves
his lips against Tony’s in broad, hot strokes, letting the kiss turn warm and
passionate and reassuring.
He’s getting better at this-- kissing Tony without reserve.
His fingers tangle in Tony’s hair, tilting his head further back and angling
him so he can lick into his mouth. His other arm wraps around Tony’s waist to
keep him from overbalancing from his precarious sprawl across the couch and
Bruce’s lap.
Tony moans throatily into Bruce’s mouth, and the sound sends a shock of arousal
up the older man’s spine. The hand Tony is bracing himself with moves inward,
the very tips of his fingers pressing between the warmth of Bruce’s thighs, and
Bruce is suddenly, achingly aware of his cock straining against his slacks.
Instinctively, Bruce’s legs spread slightly, and Tony pulls back, a mischievous
glint in his eye that can only mean trouble for both of them. He leans forward
to suck at the spot behind Bruce’s ear, and it’s almost enough to distract
Bruce from the hand attempting to unbuckle his belt. Almost.
“Tony--” he starts warningly.
“Just turn that very impressive brain of yours off for a little while, okay?”
Tony looks up at him with liquid brown eyes that are the worst kind of
temptation. “Please?”
Bruce nods wordlessly as Tony gives up on the belt and starts working the
buttons of Bruce’s shirt open. Tony shifts so he’s straddling one of Bruce’s
thighs, kissing lightly over his chest. His tongue traces the curve of clavicle
up so he can scrape blunt teeth over his shoulder.
Bruce leans down to nip at the tempting stretch of neck before him, and Tony
grinds down on his thigh in response, moaning obscenely. He arches back to
better expose the column of his neck, and his eyes flutter shut. He blindly
trails a hand down Bruce’s arm until his fingers circle his wrist.
Tony guides Bruce’s hand to rest over the heat of his denim-covered erection,
and Bruce fights against his instinct to jerk back automatically. It’s not the
first time he’s touched Tony so boldly, but it is the first time they’ve done
anything like this so blatantly in the daylight.
Tony leans forward to rest his forehead against Bruce’s, eyes boring into the
older man’s. He doesn’t ask if it’s okay, and for that Bruce is unspeakably
grateful.
He’s not entirely sure the answer is yes.
Bruce’s heart pounds in his chest, the fear of discovery mixing with his
arousal. Tony’s hand still covering his applies the barest pressure, and Tony
bucks forward into Bruce’s grip.  Bruce swallows hard and leans forward to
catch Tony’s mouth in another kiss. Tony kisses harder as his hips move more
insistently, and the kiss loses finess until Tony is just panting against
Bruce’s lips.
Bruce trails feather-light kisses over his cheek, letting Tony take what he
needs. And Bruce thinks that he’s okay with this, that this isn’t something
he’ll feel guilty about tomorrow. He’s just managing to relax when Tony plants
his hands on the grey fabric stretched across his thighs and slips back off the
couch.
Tony’s intent doesn’t occur to Bruce until he goes for Bruce’s fly.
“We can’t,” Bruce says, catching his wrist.
Tony looks a little hurt staring up at Bruce from the floor, but he covers it
quickly. “If you actually don’t want to-- if you’re too uncomfortably, tell me.
Tell me, and I won’t push, I swear,” Tony says, eyes sparking as he shakes his
head, “But don’t give me some vague, half-hearted ‘We can’t.’”
“You’re sixteen.”
“So what, it somehow makes what we're doing better ifwe’re between sheets? I
suddenly turn not sixteen?” Tony asks with a sharp sarcastic edge. “I’m
emotionally invested enough that giving you a blow job in the library really
won’t make much of a difference at this point. It’s not like we haven’t gotten
off together before.
“I have issues with your whole self denial schtick,” Tony  continues, voice
cutting. “I can’t tell if you’re denying yourself because of my age or because
you think you need to pay some some kind of fucked up penance.”
Bruce flinches as the words hit home.
Tony’s eyes soften, evidently reading the misdirected guilt on Bruce’s face.
“You told me to say if you ever did something that made me uncomfortable. This
is what makes me uncomfortable, this self-flagellating attitude,” he says
earnestly. “Every time we’re together it makes me scared that you’re going to
regret it and leave.”
The open words cost Tony, and Bruce says the only thing he can. “I’m not going
to leave you, not until you tell me to. It’s just going to take me some time to
get comfortable with the idea of usdoing this.”
“And I get that-- I really do,” Tony says. “But you’ve got to give me more to
go on. Tell me what’s going on in that big brain of yours. Tell me what you
need. Tell me no when you want to say no and yes when you want to say yes. I’m
not ashamed that I want you-- fuck what anyone else would think. So either tell
me ‘no’ flat-out like you mean it, or let me suck you off.”
Bruce licks his lips nervously. “Anyone could walk in,” he says slowly. It’s a
token protest, but Tony knows it for the concession it is. Anyone could have
walked in for the past twenty minutes, and that didn’t stop them. Tony swings
himself off the couch with more agility than grace and crosses the room in four
long strides.
The lock clicks audibly across the room.
He turns back to Bruce pointedly. “Feel better?” he asks with an overdone wave
of his hand. He’s standing in the center of the room, hip cocked, in a faded
grey Metallica tee and nicely fitted jeans that do wonders for his ass. He’s
visibly rumpled from the smooshed hair to the kiss-swollen lips to the
partially turned-up cuff of his pants.
And god, he’s beautiful, Bruce thinks. All swagger and confidence with that
edge of vulnerability he never quite loses around Bruce, guard fully down.
Bruce doesn't think he’s capable of speaking, so he nods once. Tony’s ability
to impair his higher brain function still amazes him.
Tony doesn’t so much walk back to Bruce as sashay, easily making room for
himself between Bruce’s knees. The way he’s swaying slightly, Bruce half-
expects him to try a lap dance, but he sinks to his knees without preamble.
And god, Bruce could probably do with a bit more preamble right about now.
Tony looks up at him knowingly. His fingers deftly unfasten Bruce’s pants and
curl around his half-hard cock. He breaks eye contact as he strokes Bruce back
to full hardness, watching his hand sliding over Bruce’s skin.
He leans forward, kissing the line of Bruce’s hipbone before trailing his lips
down over the fabric still covering his thighs. Tony’s palm presses warm
against his knee, and Bruce complies with the silent request to spread his legs
further.
For the first time in all of this Tony looks uncertain, like he’s not quite
sure what angle to approach from, and it hits Bruce full-force that Tony’s
never done this before. Bruce suspects that he’s been hiding whatever nerves he
has under a veneer of bravado.
Paradoxically, that realization dissolves the last of Bruce’s personal
misgivings. If Tony is determined to do this, Bruce is going to be here for
him, guiding him.
He cups Tony’s cheek, tilting his head until their eyes met. Bruce doesn’t say
any of the saccharine reassurances on his tongue, but Tony understands. He
smiles softly, and some of the tension thrumming through his neck and shoulders
drains away as he leans into Bruce’s touch.
Tony trails his lips along the length of Bruce’s cock, and the minimal
sensation is enough to make Bruce gasp. Taking that as encouragement, the tip
of Tony’s tongue appears to test the skin. He tentatively licks up Bruce’s
length before moving to the head. He presses his lips to the smooth skin he
finds there, reveling in the new sensation.
Bruce doesn’t rush him, doesn’t push. He lets Tony explore at his own pace.
The part of Bruce that hasn’t entirely abandoned good decision making prompts
that they really should be using a condom, but the other, larger part that’s
apparently fully committed to doing this all out insists that he wouldn’t be
letting Tony get anywhere near him if he didn’t know exactly what was pumping
through his bloodstream.
He’s run more tests on his own semen than any one man should ever have to-
- tests he really doesn't want to think about and a few he was almost too
embarrassed to record properly. Almost. Needless to say, he’s fully confident
that it’s not dangerous the way his blood is and, more to the point, is non-
toxic.
Besides, the last condoms Bruce bought expired over a decade ago, and he doubts
Tony put enough forethought into this to make a trip to Duane Reade. They could
probably find some in the house if they had a spare hour, but Bruce doesn't
much like the thought of Tony picking through Howard and Maria’s things. Or,
even more mortifyingly, sending Jarvis to the store. That man puts up with
enough without adding two pm condom runs to the mix.
Tony’s eyes flick up to Bruce, not quite questioning, but still seeking
reassurance. Bruce makes himself maintain eye contact, makes himself hold
Tony’s gaze while the beautiful young man’s mouth is on his cock.
It’s obscene, and that maybe makes Bruce want it even more.
Bruce cards his fingers through Tony’s hair, reassuring and encouraging all at
once. Tony licks his lips,eager and nervous, and gives Bruce a wicked smile.
He bends back down until his mouth covers the head of Bruce’s cock, one hand
bracing himself on Bruce’s knee. He sucks lightly, and the warmth and sensation
make Bruce’s breath stutter and his fingers clench momentarily in Tony’s hair.
Tony pulls back long enough to catch his breath, then sinks back down, further
this time.
Once upon a time, Bruce was not unfamiliar with blowjobs. They’d been a quick,
safe-ish way to hookup with men, one that didn’t force him to leave too much of
himself exposed-- physically or emotionally. He’d been decent at giving them,
and he’d gotten a good few fantastic ones in return. But none of that could
compare to the sensation of Tony learning how to give a blowjobon him.
It’s messy, and there’s more teeth than are strictly considered pleasant, but
Bruce is too far gone to care. There will be plenty of time for him to discover
technique later. Right now, this is more than enough for Bruce.
Tony draws back for breath again, and Bruce resists the urge to tell him to
slow down. He doubt Tony would appreciate that, though.
When Tony sinks down yet again, he pushes himself even further down Bruce’s
length. His tongue swipes over the head, but when he tries tosuck, his throat
convilses, and he has to pull back, coughing.
Tony pants, eyes fixed on where he’s kneeling on the rug. His fingers brush
through the curls at the base of Bruce’s cock, but he doesn’t look back up.
Bruce cups his cheek, making Tony’s slightly watery eyes meet his own.
“You’re doing so good,” he says. “Don’t force it. Only take what you can. Here,
like this.”
Bruce guides Tony’s free hand to the base of his cock. He wants Tony to wait
until he’s caught his breath, but Tony being Tony, that doesn’t happen. He
leans back down with no preamble, eager to try out the suggestion. This time
goes smoother, with Tony’s hand covering what his mouth can’t.
“Fuck,” Bruce gasps out. He tries not to think about a time when he did his
best not to swear around Tony.
Bruce cups his cheek, letting himself reven in the way it hollows as Tony
works. He’s close to coming, painfully close. He gently nudges Tony’s head
back, and Tony looks up with an expression of mild irritation, like he’s
annoyed to have been disturbed when he was finally getting the hang of things.
“I’m close,” Bruce mumbles.
Tony gives a pleased smirk and makes to bend back down, but Bruce catches him
by the chin.
“Not today,” Bruce says, because telling Tony that’s too much for someone so
new would only encourage him. He wraps his hand around Tony’s still on his
cock, stroking lightly.
In less that thirty seconds, he comes, spilling over his and Tony’s crossed
fingers. Bruce keeps his eyes open, taking in the sight in all of it’s dirty
beauty. Tony looks up at him, breath coming in excited huffs. In a move
straight out of Bruce’s dark fantasies, he darts out his tongue to taste the
semen covering Bruce’s index finger.
He immediately makes a face at the flavor.
“Okay,” he says, “Pretty glad you didn’t let me try swallowing.”
Bruce laughs a rusty laugh. “That’s me, ever the good sense barometer.” He
leans forward to grab the box of tissues from the coffee table and sets about
cleaning them up. Tony’s hand is still cupping his softening cock, and there’s
something terribly gently in the action.
Bruce kisses Tony on the forehead, then the cheek, then the neck until he
finally catches his lips. The kiss is only a shallow press of damp lips, chaste
compared to their previous actions. Bruce swipes his tongue into Tony’s mouth
long enough to taste himself, long enough to prove that he really was there.
“Come here,” Bruce says, and there’s a warmth under the roughness of his voice.
He stands long enough to shuck is stained slacks before arranging them so Tony
is sprawled against the arm of the couch. Bruce fits himself between Tony’s
knees, hands moving to undo his jeans.
He glances up and asks, "May I?"
Tony huffs. "How long before you learn to quit asking every time and take what
you want? You know I'll always say yes."
"Blanket permission is a dangerous thing," Bruce warns him as he sprips off his
jeans.
"Well, you have it. Dangerous or not," Tony says. He runs a hand down Bruce’s
chest. “So use it.”
Bruce frees Tony’s erection from his boxers, not letting himself second guess
what he’s about to do. He noses at the base of Tony’s cock, taking in the scent
of his lover. And it hits him, not for the first time, that Tony really is his
lover. Even if their intimacy hasn’t moved further than this, they’re lovers,
learning and relearning love together.
Bruce takes Tony into his mouth without any further preamble. He tastes the
salt and the distinct maleness of him, He feels the weight of Tony’s cock on
his tongue, lets it’s size and shape register in his memory.
Tony cries out, reaching back to grasp the arm of the couch. “Bruce,” he pants.
“Oh god, Bruce. That-- ah-- that’s amazing. I’m not going to last-- oh-- last
any time.”
Tony is just as vocal as Bruce always imagined e’d be, when he did let himself
imagine such things. He guides Tony’s hand to his hair, Tightening his grip
until Tony understands. Tony grips the curls uncertainly at first, then rougher
as he loses himself in sensation.
“Bruce,” he warns. “Off.”
Bruce ignores him.
Tony spills over his tongue, bitter and hot and perfect. Bruce doesn’t back off
until Tony’s cock begins to soften in his mouth. He leans back on his heals,
swiping the back of his wrist inelegantly across his mouth.
“Holy shit,” Tony says in a stunned, post-orgasmic haze. “I can’t believe you
just did that.”
Bruce coughs slightly. “You can’t believe it? Ican’t believe it. I haven’t done
that in nearly two decades, and even then, not many times.”
Tony laughs. “Maybe I just inspire you.”
“You do,” Bruce says, and it comes out much more serious than he’d intended.
“We really should have talked about this before, you know, just doing it.”
Tony shrugs. “What’s there you talk about?”
“Condoms.” Bruce raises his eyebrows in challenge. “You actually do need to use
a condom for blow jobs.”
“You’d know if you had anything.”
Bruce sighs, but he doesn’t really have the energy to care. “It’s a bad habit
to fall into. You know, in case you ever--”
“La la la, not listening to your angsty stupid,” Tony says, covering his ears.
“There’s never going to be anyone else, so just suck it up and deal with it.”
Bruce moves so his head is on Tony’s chest. He thinks maybe he’s putting too
much of his weight on the younger man, but he thinks maybe he can take it. “I
love you.”
Tony puts an arm around Bruce’s shoulders, “I love you, too, angst monster.”
***** Chapter 24 *****
Chapter Summary
     Tony Stark is seventeen.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the series of stupidly short chapters. There's just no
     better place to break it without leaving y'all on a cliffhanger.
Tony Stark is seventeen when the peace finally breaks.
“Give it!” Tony yells, standing on tiptoe. He nearly trips over the rug hiding
the ugly carpet of Pepper’s apartment loor.
“Nope.” Pepper twirls so the bottle of red wine is out of his reach. “You have
to earn it first.”
“Pepper,” he whines, drawing the name into four syllables.
Pepper’s smile is gleeful and slightly tipsy. “Not until you tell me! What was
your first kiss like!”
Bruce runs a hand back through his hair. “Pep, he doesn’t have to tell you that
if he’s not comfortable.”
“No, he doesn’t. But he does have to if he wants wine.” Inspiration dawns
across her face. “Or are you telling me the Great Tony Stark kas never been
kissed.”
Heat rises automatically in Bruce’s cheeks, and Tony lets out a derisive snort.
“Oh, I’ve been kissed,” he says.
“Than tell me!” Pepper cries.
“Fine. My first kiss was when I was thirteen in a Coney Island photo booth.
Happy?”
The blood drains from Bruce’s face, but he tells himself that there’s no way
Pepper can know from that little bit of detail.
“Ooooh!” Pepper says. “That sounds like a good one.”
“It was,” Tony agrees. “Now, the wine, if you wil. I believe I’ve earned it.”
Pepper obligingly hands him the bottle, but rather than refilling his own
glass, he takes a large swig directly from the bottle. After a good ten seconds
of Bruce and Pepper both looking on in horrified rapture, he lowers the bottle
and says, “And that’s what I learned in college.”
Bruce can’t do anything except gape like a stunned fish.
“Tony,” he says at last, scandalized.
“That had better not be empty now,” Pepper says.
Bruce, deciding there’s nothing better to do at this moment, takes the bottle
from Tony’s grip and downs the last quarter in one go. “Now it is,” he says.
Tony and Pepper both stare at him in silent shock for a long moment before Tony
doubles over laughing.
“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous,” he says.
“So much for us having a lesson on the business of Stark Industries tonight,”
she says.
Bruce raises his eyebrows. “You’re the one who brought out the wine.”
“ For a glass, ” she emphasizes. “You two are the assholes who decided we
should play truth or dare like we’re in grade school.”
“That would be Tony’s doing,” Bruce says, just as Tony raises his hand and
says, “Me.”
“Look,” Tony says. “We’ve done great. We’re working towards making sure Stane
can’t take over the company. But we’re still allowed to take a night off now
and then.”
Tony has been home from MIT for three weeks, and as of yet his sessions with
Pepper have been a success. She teaches him about things that only an insider
would know-- who is who in the company, what the internal business structure
is, what internal accounting methods are used, where  all  of the debt is-- and
so far, it’s been more productive than any of them could have imagined.
Bruce feels like he’s watching Tony absorb years of college in a record-
breakingly short amount of time. Pepper brings Tony to SI with her most
weekdays for hands-on learning and so, as she puts it, he won’t be an
unfamiliar face who's never worked in the company when he takes over as CEO.
The only downside-- and indeed, it’s a rather selfish downside-- is that it
leaves Bruce and Tony with little time to themselves. By the time they collapse
into bed at night, they’re too exhausted to exchange more than chaste kisses.
That is, what nights they don’t sleep on Pepper’s sofa.
Bruce and Tony didn’t see each other in the month before Tony came home for
summer break, and while they both adore Pepper, she’s not so great to have
around when you want to “catch up,” as it were.
They’ve been half-living out of Pepper’s apartment for nearly three weeks, and
in that time there’s been nothing more than stolen kisses and not-as-platonic-
as-they-look cuddles. The nerves brought on by constant scrutiny are not
conducive to Bruce’s definition of relaxation.
While Tony seems to get a thrill out of the secrecy, the whole thing makes
Bruce feel uncomfortably like a teenager again. Howard and Maria condone their
relationship, and in a place as large as Stark Mansion, getting caught has
never been a worry. But here in the confines of Pepper’s apartment with walls
like cotton candy, getting caught isn’t as much a worry as an inevitability.
“We need dinner. I’m not letting you two drink half a bottle of wine on empty
stomachs,” Pepper says decisively. “There’s nothing but Fiber One, popcorn, and
instant miso soup in this appartment.”
Tony raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like dinner to me.”
Pepper scowls. “I’m also down to only three clean dishes, and I’m not eating
miso soup out of a scotch glass.”
“We don’t all have to eat like we’re in college just because you are,” Bruce
adds with a grin. Just because he’s spent too many years living off quick meals
in labss care about small things like dubiously colored potato chips and a lack
of proper utensils doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate real food when it’s an
option.
“Delivery or picking up ingredients?” Pepper asks.
“Delivery,” Bruce says, because he doesn’t exactly relish the idea of cooking
in Pepper’s four-square-feet kitchen. And he  will  be the one doing the
cooking. He only made the mistake of taking up Pepper’s offer to cook once, but
he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to eat bananas again.
“But Bruce,” Tony whines. “I haven’t had your vodka pasta in so long.”
“It’s nine PM,” Bruce protests.
Pepper shrugs. “You don’t have to cook if you don’t feel like it. It’s
Manhattan-- everything delivers.”
Tony catches his eyes from behind her back and slowly shakes his head. He
mouths, ‘cook’.
“No, wait,” Bruce says, not entirely sure what’s going on. “I-- I can make
dinner. Tony’s right; it’s been a while.”
“We’ll need to go to the grocery store,” she says.
“Not it,” Tony says, putting his finger on his nose. “Plus I’m not old enough
to buy the vodka.”
Pepper gives Bruce a pleading look.
Tony raises his eyebrows. “Bruce is cooking for us, so he shouldn’t have to
go.”
“It’s a block away,” Pepper protests, but she sighs, resigned. “Fine. I hate
you both.”
“But you love Bruce’s vodka pasta,” Tony says, and here’s a hungry gleam in his
eye that has nothing to do with food.
Suddenly, his insistence that Bruce cook makes sense.
“So true.” She grabs her purse and keys from the coffee table. “Be back in
twenty.”
Tony waits one minute exactly after the apartment door closes before he pushes
Bruce back onto the couch and straddles him.
Honestly, he’s surprised Tony had the patience to wait that long.
“She’ll take at least a half hour in the grocery store,” Tony says as he
fumbles with the first few buttons on Bruce’s shirt. “That was genius.
Seriously, I’ve really gotta hand it to myself.”
“I can’t believe you,” Bruce says.
“You played along.” Tony blindly tugs Bruce’s shirt free of his waistband as he
leans in to catch the older man’s mouth. The kiss is open and messy and
contains none of their usual finesse. Bruce pulls back just far enough to suck
biting kisses along Tony’s jaw line.
“What can I say?” Bruce says against Tony’s ear, and Jesus, his voice sounds
ragged. “I’ve been around you too long.”
“Too long, but not long enough,” Tony mumbles into Bruce’s neck before
capturing him in another bruising kiss.
It’s simultaneously weird and wonderful, foreign and familiar. Physicality has
never been quite like this between them before now, hot and rushed and frantic
and so,  so  desperate. Bruce doesn’t think he’s ever felt this young, not even
when he was a teenager. And god, he’s going to try not to think about that
again, because that makes Tony sound like some kind of midlife crisis.
Instead, he catches Tony’s hips and pulls him even closer. He rests his hands
on the younger man’s waist and lower back, letting the warmth seep through his
worn AC/DC shirt. Rather than being in the way, the extra layer between them
seems to add another dimension of intimacy, insulating the warmth of the
contact, and Tony arches into Bruce’s touch like a cat seeking affection.
Bruce thinks that maybe he should tell Tony to slow down, that it's not worth
rushing and pushing him unnecessarily close to The Other Guy, but god, Bruce
doesn’t want to slow down. It’s been a month, and he knows it’s all in his
head, but he swears Tony’s weight sits different on him now, like he’s grown in
the short span of time since they’ve done this.
Part of him aches with guilt at that, the way it always does at reminders of
how young his lover is, but another, more feral, greener part of him purrs
possessively at the thought. And fuck, he really should slow them down.
Instead, Bruce rocks his hips up and lets his hands slide down to the curve of
Tony’s ass. Tony moans in approval and threads a hand in his curls.
The front door slams, and they both freeze. “I got half-way thought and
realized I forgot the company card. Like hell am I putting your groceries on my
accou—”
She comes to a dead stop, one hand still in her purse and mouth partially open.
And yeah. Bruce knows there’s no mistaking what they were doing. Tony is
astride him with one hand halfway up his untucked shirt, and Bruce feels the
way his hair is sticking up at the odd angles and the stubble burn on his neck.
He swallows thickly.
“Let’s be real,” Tony says. “This isn’t the worst thing you’ve caught me
doing.”
Pepper strides into the room, furry lending a terrifying gleam to her eyes, and
snatches a newspaper off the coffee table. She shoves Tony unceremoniously off
Bruce’s lap before hitting the older man over the head with the rolled up
paper.
“You. God. Damn. Idiot,” she yells, punctuating each word with a whack of the
newspaper. Bruce’s arms instinctively move to cover his head, but that doesn’t
slow her down. He has a moment to be unrepentantly grateful that she chose the
paper and not the heavy vase next to it. “He. Is. Six. Teen.”
“Seventeen, actually,” Tony interjects from where he’s still sprawled next to
his boyfriend looking mildly shell-shocked. “And can we maybe, you know, stop
hitting the guy who turns into a giant green rage monster? That’d be lovely.”
The smack of newsprint on skin pointedly doesn’t stop.
“He didn’t coerce me or force me, if that’s what you’re worried about!” Tony
says frantically, ineffectually grabbing at her wrist.
She turns on him now, splotches of angry color high on her cheeks. The
newspaper makes contact with his shoulder with a dull whump.
“You think I don’t know that?! Believe me, I know whose idea this was.” She
swings the paper once more for good measure but with notably less force this
time. “I’d be doing a lot worse than smacking him with the Times if I thought
otherwise. Luckily for Bruce’s balls, I’m pretty sure I know exactly who
started this.”
Without warning, Pepper tosses the paper into an empty armchair and flops down
on the couch between them. An exasperated, exhausted growling noise a bit like
a wounded water buffalo escapes her as she leans her head back.
“Attractive,” Tony remarks, also leaning back into the couch.
“Shut up,” Pepper says, glaring at the ceiling like it threw a rock at a puppy.
“Just don’t even talk right now.”
“Pepper,” Bruce hedges.
“Aah. You, too, Banner. Zip it,” she says pointing one perfectly manicured
finger at him. She takes a deep breath, either gearing up for another round of
shouting or suppressing one. Finally, she says in a voice of barely controlled
calm, “For a pair of geniuses, you two are spectacularly stupid. I mean, I knew
you two had some serious tension going, but I honestly assumed you weren’t
stupid enough to act on it. Apparently I was wrong.”
Bruce sinks further into the couch, feeling like a chastised child.
“Seriously, you’re what, thirty-eight?”
“Forty,” Tony says, still looking at the ceiling.
“Not helping, Tony,” Bruce says.
“You should be way past the age of thinking with your dick,” Pepper continues,
building up to a lecture.
And Bruce can’t help feeling affronted at that. “This has nothing to do with my
dick.”
Tony lets out a graceless snort between them. “I’d say it has at least a little
to do with your dick.”
Pepper and Bruce both glare at him, and he holds up his hands placatingly.
“Sorry, but if we’re talking about my age, I thought I should act it for once.
You know, instead of  trying to finish college and inherit a Fortune 500
company .”
“Message received,” Pepper says. “You’re capable of making your own choices.”
“Really, though,” Tony starts, “I could make worse life choices.”
“And Bruce could make better,” she says, “Seriously, you might be an
emancipated minor but you’re still technically undera—” she breaks off, teeth
snapping shut with an audible click. “On my god. This is why you fell into such
a funk after he left for college, isn’t it? He was  fifteen . Jesus, how long
has this been going on?”
“Pep, don’t ask question you don’t actually want the answer to,” Tony says,
deathly serious now. “I’m happy. We’re happy. Please don’t mess that up.”
And those last five words hold a desperate note that makes Bruce’s chest hurt.
For maybe the first time Tony sees the full legal implications of what they’re
doing. He sees that Bruce could so easily be taken from him, that one wrong
word from Pepper could put his lover behind bars and out of his reach.
“Tony,” she starts, looking more upset be the second.
“ Please , Pepper. Please. I know I ask a lot from you, but please, just this
once. Don’t, okay? Don’t tell anyone,” Tony pleads. He leans back into Bruce’s
side and grasps his hand.
Bruce doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t say he loves Tony. He doesn’t try to
explain that this isn’t about sex or that sex is the part he’s still getting
comfortable with. He doesn’t try to explain the way Tony’s eyes smile first
thing in the morning or how he’d do anything to keep him safe.
He doesn’t explain, but he thinks Pepper might understand anyway, because her
eyes soften and some of the tension drains out of her body.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay, but I still need to know the truth. How did
this start, and how long has it been going on?”
She doesn’t pull the endangering-the-company card, and for that Bruce is
eternally grateful. He’s sure her mind is flitting through the potential media
shit-storm as they speak, but she doesn’t mention stocks or reputation or
coming up with a plan to cover their asses. And maybe she sees it, too-- that
Tony has spent seventeen years coming second to the business he’s meant to
inherit.
Either way, Pepper deserves the truth if she’s putting her neck on the line by
keeping their secret. Wordlessly, Bruce pushes himself up off the couch.
He grabs the worn duffle bag that still holds most of what he owns-- much to
Tony’s horror-- because he never entirely broke the habit of traveling light.
The bag is much fuller than it used to be, difficult to zip now, and some of
his personal effects are still at Stark Mansion, but most of the important
things are here.
Or, well. Maybe that’s not as true as it once was, Bruce realizes. Because he
now has a room that holds the small things he cherishes, because he has a half-
dozen books in languages neither of them speak and a line of colorful, useless
knick knacks on his dresser. Tony learned long ago that the best way to make
Bruce accept a gift was to make it cheap and strange. A Doctor Who novel in
Hungarian; a pair of speckled origami turtles; an eraser shaped like an
erlenmeyer flask; an art nouveau-style coaster of Einstein.
Bruce fishes through the duffel's contents until he turns up the copy of
Cosmos  Tony gave him ten years ago. Inside the front cover, Tony’s slanting
scrawl reads, “ ‘If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first
invent the universe.’  But since that’s not on the table right now, here’s to
another year of working backwards to find the recipe. Happy 30 th , Tony S.”
He’s fairly certain that with every book, every knick knack, every perfectly
cut suit jacket Tony gives him, the young man is trying to stake his claim. He
knows Bruce has money he doesn’t spend, but maybe Tony hopes that if he weighs
Bruce down with enough tiny meaningful gifts, Bruce won’t float away while he’s
at MIT.
Bruce doesn’t know how to tell him that he couldn’t leave now if he tried. He
hasn’t been able to leave since Tony was seven and in the basement turning a
silhouette into papier-mâché.
He flips through the book and pulls a folded sheet of paper from between the
pages before passing it over to Pepper. Tony raises his eyebrows when he
catches sight of the yellowing paper “You’re kidding me, right? You keep your
PhD folded-up in your duffel. Seriously? That shit needs to be framed and hung
somewhere important or something.”
“I keep it somewhere important,” Bruce says with a small smile.
Still visible confused, she gingerly unfolds it to reveal a small square of
photograph. It’s a single frame of he and Tony in a grimy Coney Island photo
booth. “So?” She looks back up at him, brows furrowed. “I’ve seen this at least
a dozen times. Tony keeps a copy in his wallet.”
“You do?” Bruce asks.
A blush creeps over Tony’s cheeks. “Just a photocopy of the first three. I’m
not dumb enough to keep the real thing there.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Bruce gestures for Pepper to pick up the picture, and as she does, it unfolds
accordion-style to reveal the other four snapshots. She smoothes it out on her
thigh, and both men watch anxiously as her eyes track down it, taking in the
shift from innocent to mischievous to kissing.
Bruce doesn’t have to look to know exactly what the picture shows. It shows a
Tony younger than she’s ever seen in-person kissing a Bruce who looks much the
same as the one before her.
Pepper’s voice shakes as she says, “Thirteen. You first kiss happened in a
Coney Island photo booth when you were thirteen.”
She looks up at them, horrified. “You’re telling me this started when you were
thirteen?” she says, splotches of angry red beginning to rise in her cheeks.
Tony tilts his head from side to side. “Sort of. I kissed him in that picture.
It didn’t actually start for another year.”
“So fourteen,” she says, words breathless.
Bruce looks down at his socked feet.
“Yeah,” he says, finally. “Yeah, it did. I could tell you the circumstances,
the series of events, the thought processes we both had, but none of it is
going to change that number. Fourteen.”
Pepper swallows thickly.
“Was it coercion?” she asks, blunt.
“No,” Bruce says, because it wasn’t. His eidetic memory can play all of the
events over again like a movie, and he’s used that to reassure himself of that
fact more than once.
“Only on my part,” Tony says.
“No,” Bruce protests, firmer this time.
“But it was!” Tony shouts. “ I  pressured you.  I  kept pushing.”
“Only as far as I’d let you. I was just as complicit.”
Pepper stands and raises her hands over her head. “I can’t deal with you two
right now. I’m going to bed.”
“Do you--” Bruce clears his throat and tries again. “Do you want us to leave.”
“It’s fine. You’re here; you’re stuff to stay the night is here.” She sighs
heavily. “Just-- give me a while, okay?”
Bruce nods. He watches as she grabs the box of Fiber One from the kitchen, then
retreats to her room with a firm snap of the door.
Tony waits a beat before he says, “I guess that means no vodka pasta tonight.
Can we just drink the vodka?”
Under the attempt at humor, Bruce can hear the way Tony’s voice shakes. Bruce
sits next to him and puts an arm around him, squeezing his tense shoulder
reassuringly. Tony leans into the touch without hesitation. “I’m so sorry,” he
says.
“Don’t apologize,” Bruce says. “We both should have known better. It was
reckless and dumb for both of us.”
“I just--” Tony shakes his head. “Sometimes I wish this could be like a normal
relationship, you know? One where making out on a friend’s couch is and getting
caught is just embarrassing. I hate worrying all the time. I just wish people
could know-- I want everyone to know what you are to me.”
“Tony--” Bruce starts.
Tony thumps Bruce’s knee. “No, no apologizing from you, either.”
Bruce swallows. “Do you really worry all the time?”
Tony shrugs. “Not  all  the time, but a lot. We’re not as careful as we used to
be, and with Stane on the hunt for dirt, well-- I just don’t want anything bad
to happen to you.” His face is crumpled in concern, and he doesn’t look at
Bruce.
Bruce wonders if he means something worse than prison, but he can’t bring
himself to ask. Instead, he pulls Tony down so they’re laying on the couch.
“Look at it this way, at least one of us doesn't have to sleep on the chase
tonight,” Bruce says, and that earns him a tired laugh. “Go to sleep.
Everything will be alright.”
And he doesn't think it’s a lie, either.
Tony’s breathing even out within minutes, but for once his presence isn’t
enough to lull Bruce to sleep in the aftermath of his fear and adrenalin. His
thoughts tumble in anxious circles, considering everything from Pepper’s
initial reaction of frustration to her final resigned look as she fled to the
normalcy of her room.
Normalcy.
Tony is right-- that’s something they could use more of. Their relationship has
lived in the closed world of Stark Mansion for so long that sometimes Bruce
manages to forget how  ab normal all of this is. He wonders how they could ever
go public with their relationship, even after Tony turns eighteen. People will
guess the truth, after they know where to look. Tony would face backlash
personally as well as professionally.
Bruce will gladly stand by his side, if he chooses to make their relationship
public one day, but he thinks he’s also greedy enough to stay there even if
their relationship stays in the shadows. He’s not sure how he feels about
either of those options. The idea of Tony going into adulthood with the stress
and stigma of either option makes Bruce’s jaw clench.
Bruce doesn’t know how long he lays there, basking in the steady rise and fall
of Tony’s breathing as he considers the future-- their future.
Because they do have a future together. They’re irrevocably intertwined as
lovers and friends.
A throat clears.
Bruce looks up to see Pepper standing just outside her bedroom. Instinctively,
the arm around Tony’s shoulder tightens. He thinks of how they must look to
her, Tony asleep on top of him with his face pressed to Bruce’s ribs.
Pepper takes a deep breath. “Sorry to interrupt,” she says, taking a step back
into the doorway.
Bruce wants to stop her from going, feels that if she leaves now, it’s the end
of this-- their easy companionship, their late night movies, their lack of
boundries. Even if she doesn’t turn them in, she’ll never be okay with their
relationship, and Bruce can’t stand the idea of losing her friendship.
He beckons her closer with one hand. “You’re not interrupting. He’s just
sleeping.”
Pepper steps closer, eyes darting around the room to settle on anything other
than the pair before her.
“Are you uncomfortable?” Bruce asks.
Pepper raises her eyebrows. “What gave it away?” she deadpans, then shakes her
head. “I still don’t know how to deal with this. You two getting together had
started to seem inevitable, but--”
“--But you don’t know how to handle the fact that we already are and have
been?”
She runs a hand over her face. “This has been going on almost as long as I’ve
known you. I think that’s the part I don’t know how to handle. I have a lot of
trouble imagining the two of you getting it on.”
“Then don’t imagine it,” he says, more sharply than he’d intended. “This
relationship didn’t start because of sex. The year you first arrived was the
year I fell in love with him.”
“And that rationale was enough for you?”
Bruce laughs, and it comes out bitter and wrong. “No, it wasn’t. I tried to run
once I realized. I would have if it wasn’t for Tony.”
“Oh Bruce,” Pepper says, and there’s so much sympathy in it. She moves to sit
on the edge of the coffee table. After a beat, she reaches to card her fingers
through Bruce's curls. “I know you. I know you’re a good man, I do. I know you
didn’t do any of this to hurt or use Tony. But it’s still going to take me a
while to be okay with it.”
“I know,” Bruce says. “I didn’t expect anything else.”
There’s silence for a long moment. Pepper watches the rise and fall of Tony’s
breathing, her expression between fondness and concern.
“I’ve never seen him like this. He seems so much younger,” she murmurs, then
blanches. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything by that.”
Bruce swallows and shakes his head. “It’s always scared me how young Tony looks
when he’s asleep. He used to sleep on the library couch with me like this as a
kid. He still does it sometimes when he’s stressed.”
Silence falls once more as Pepper considers that. She reaches out to brush a
strand of hair out of his eyes but startles back when Tony nuzzles at her hand.
Bruce chuckles. “He gets affectionate when he’s tired. I’ve always thought he’d
be like that all the time if he wasn’t so busy trying to prove himself.”
“Was he like that as a kid?” she asks.
“Yeah. He was a pretty clingy child. He’d always climb into my lap and insist I
do something more interesting every time he found me doing paperwork.” A smiles
lights Bruce’s face at the memory. “He’s still like that, when no one’s around
to see. Affection isn’t about sex with Tony.”
Beside them, Tony hums sleepily.
“I resent that statement,” he says, voice muffled into Bruce’s stomach. “At
least some of the affection is about sex.”
In direct contradiction of his statement, Tony takes Pepper’s hand and presses
it to his cheek, hugging it like an awkward teddy bear.
Pepper laughs. “I can’t tell if you two are awful or amazing together.”
Tony looks up with her, expression growing serious. “Are we good?”
“Yeah, Tony,” Pepper says, throwing Bruce a small smile. “Yeah, we’re good.”
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