Chapter Text
Tony Stark is a man who likes to be nude.
It simply comes with the territory. He is handsome, well-built, and extremely confident. Tony sees his own nudity as a gift to the universe. As Tony likes to say: he looks good in a suit, but he looks even better in his birthday suit.
Tony paces his penthouse in the Avengers Tower (formerly known as Stark Tower, but Tony is willing to make a sacrifice or two, take one for the team, as it were) sans clothing. After all, no one can see him up here, anyway. He is high above Manhattan, and Tony had specified that there were to be no cameras in his penthouse (and it had been almost no job at all to deactivate the ones S.H.I.E.L.D. had put in anyway.)
“JARVIS, will you have someone bring me my breakfast? I can’t be bothered with cooking today. Too much to do,” Tony says airily as he saunters towards the bar. He pours himself a glass of scotch – never too early in the morning for a nice scotch – and breathes in the rich smell of the alcohol before downing the whole thing.
“Yes, sir,” responds the mechanical voice of JARVIS. “Eggs, sausage, and toast with raspberry jam, sir?”
“No, let’s spice it up today, JARVIS,” Tony says, pouring himself another scotch. “Orange marmalade with the toast.”
“Orange marmalade it is, sir.”
Tony hadn’t really been truthful when he said there was too much to do today. In fact it was the first day in a while that he hadn’t had much to do at all. The suit was running well, the arc reactor was powering the Tower efficiently, and no signs of alien invasion in days. The Tower had been repaired – Tony had paid a lot of money for that to be done in half the time it normally would have been – and all was quiet on the Western front.
For a brief second Tony considers putting on a pair of boxers, maybe, or a robe – but then laughs at himself for even allowing the thought to cross his mind.
* * *
Bruce Banner is not a man who likes to be nude.
Clothing, for Bruce, is a curtain that obscures his true self, a veneer that keeps him hidden. It’s poetic, really. He needs to be covered in every way so that he can keep the Other Guy at bay. One chink in his metaphorical armor and his job becomes much more difficult.
Besides, it has always been Bruce’s belief that the right clothes endear you to people; and God knows Bruce could use some endearing.
Bruce is on his way up to Tony’s penthouse. Tony had his intercom switched off, as usual, so Bruce’s attempts to reach him had failed. The bastard even had his phone off. Bruce needs his help with a bit of technology, a sort of modified Geiger counter that would… well, never mind what it should be able to do, the problem is that it just isn’t working. Usually Bruce has a pretty good handle on this sort of thing, but he’s no electrical wizard like the famous Tony Stark.
Bruce looks around at the interior of Tony’s private elevator. It’s the only elevator in the building that went up to the penthouse, so Bruce has to use it, even though Tony had said (multiple times, and very emphatically) that no one was to use his elevator without his prior consent. Tony wouldn’t mind, Bruce is sure. Besides, it’s near eleven-thirty in the morning, Tony must be awake by now.
The elevator slides silently into position, and the doors open with a slight whir to reveal Tony’s penthouse.
Bruce had seen the penthouse only a few times before – once during the battle with the Chitauri, though Bruce had been… the Other Guy, at that point, and then again on the tour Tony had given Bruce and the rest of the team before they moved into the Tower. The elegance is breathtaking each time.
“Tony?” Bruce calls, glancing around the penthouse. He catches sight of Tony just as he does so. Tony is standing in front of the windows, facing them, with a glass of scotch in his left hand; and he’s not wearing anything.
Tony’s head whips around, and Bruce registers just a bit of surprise on the normally unflappable face of Tony Stark before Tony masters his emotions and Bruce averts his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Tony, I didn’t realize you were – I’ll just – sorry for using your elevator – I – ” he backs towards the elevator nervously. Well it was Tony’s fault he kept his intercom off, if Bruce had been able to contact Tony things like this wouldn’t happen –
“No, no, Banner, stay there, don’t worry about it,” says Tony, reaching for a pair of jeans that are laying on the arm of a huge, gracefully-curving couch, taking care to leave his front facing away from Bruce. “Let me just – I’ll be there in a second.” Tony pulls the jeans on, and Bruce tries to keep his eyes averted, but doesn’t quite manage it.
Tony sniffs and turns to face Bruce. “Well, now that I’m decent, what is it you need, Banner?”
“Well, you know, it’s your fault you keep your intercom off, if I’d been able to contact you things like this wouldn’t happen – ” Bruce stammers, juggling the device between his hands, which are suddenly and inexplicably clammy.
“Yeah, I’m never gonna turn that thing on,” says Tony dismissively, making a sweeping motion with the scotch glass but miraculously not spilling a single drop. “I can’t have people calling me on it, at all hours of the morning, disturbing my beauty sleep. That goes for my phone, too. You want a drink, Banner? I’ve got a really nice scotch you might be interested in…”
“I don’t drink alcohol, Tony. It lowers your inhibitions and I don’t think we want me losing my inhibitions.” Bruce toys with the idea of telling Tony to just forget it. He can always come back another time, when Tony is wearing more clothing…
Tony diverts his course from the bar so that he’s walking straight towards Bruce. “Fine, but you’re gonna have to loosen up sometime, Doc. So, you’ve gotta be here for a reason, so what is it?”
Bruce shifts his weight from one foot to the other and clutches the device in one hand. He keeps his eyes down, trying not to stare at the arc reactor buried in scar tissue in the center of Tony’s chest.
“I need your help with something. I just… I can’t get this thing to work,” Bruce says softly.
“What thing are we talking about here? I’m a genius, Brucey, not a mind reader.”
Bruce holds the small gadget out to Tony. Tony plucks it nimbly out of Bruce’s hands and squints at it. “It’s… it’s sort of like a… modified Geiger counter, I guess. But I can’t get it to work just right. I’m an atomic physicist, not an electrician.”
“Well, you know, I’m not exactly an ‘electrician’ myself,” Tony smirks as he examines the little machine from all angles. He blows forcefully into the sensor, and Bruce flinches slightly, knowing how sensitive the device is (or should be.)
“Oh. Um. I’m sorry Tony, that was the wrong choice of words, I didn’t mean – ” Bruce splutters nervously. It’s hard coming into Tony’s penthouse, Bruce thinks. It’s like walking into a lion’s den – one gets the feeling they’re disturbing the King and any moment he’ll just clamp his jaws onto your throat and –
“No, no, it’s okay, don’t apologize,” says Tony flippantly. “I’ll take a look at your little… thing – now, what are you calling this little gizmo? I can’t just be walking around here referring to it as Banner’s Thing – people will get ideas.”
“I don’t know, I haven’t been calling it anything. You name it.”
“On second thought, ‘Bruce’s Thing’ is kind of catchy. I think I’ll keep it. So what seems to be the problem?”
“It just isn’t detecting what it’s meant to detect. I might have hooked up the sensors wrong, done some bad soldering, I don’t know – ”
“Well, what’s it meant to detect?”
“It uh… well it’s meant to be worn close to the body so it can measure vitals and it ought to work something like a Geiger counter and measure radiation…”
“Sure. No questions asked, Bruce. You know, you should have JARVIS run a diagnostic on it. Like this: JARVIS! Run a full diagnostic on Banner’s Thing – check for faulty wiring, mis-wired connections, and general malfunctions. I’ll take it from there. JARVIS can do a lot of things for you, if you ask him.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to get used to an artificial butler doing all my work for me.”
Tony gasps in faux-outrage. “JARVIS isn’t an artificial butler! He’s an artificial intelligence – very different.” Tony turns and walks back towards the windows that face the terrace. Bruce watches him as he walks, noticing the way the beltless jeans hang low on Tony’s angular hips, and the way his smooth, relaxed shoulders slope…
Bruce tears his attention away from Tony’s body and folds his hands behind his back. He often didn’t know what to do with his limbs in situations like this. Bruce is not a man who uses a lot of extraneous motion, in stark contrast to the expansively-gesturing and constantly-moving Tony. Bruce attempts to be as unobtrusive as possible. After all, Tony is obtrusive enough for the both of them. Tony Stark is the textbook definition of obtrusive. But obtrusive fits some people and it doesn’t fit others.
“Sure you don’t want that drink, Bruce? Never too early for a good scotch,” Tony says, taking a sip of his own drink. Tony’s words jerk Bruce out of his thoughts with a little start.
“No, I’m sure I don’t want it. Can I… Should I go and come back in a little while, or…?” Bruce takes a step backwards towards the elevator.
“No, stay!” Tony says, smirking good-naturedly. “I haven’t seen much of you lately – you’ve been locking that brilliant mind away in the laboratory. You ought to let me come work with you on something sometime – or you can come work with me.”
Bruce isn’t used to compliments like this. He is mostly used to criticism, or conflict and the avoidance thereof. No one wants to set off the Other Guy. He hopes he isn’t blushing, because he feels a familiar hotness in his face.
“Nice to see a little color on you for once,” Tony quips. Damn, he had noticed. Bruce should have known – not even the slightest discomfort could escape the eagle eye of Tony Stark. “Well, you know, color that isn’t green.”
Bruce wouldn’t tolerate that sort of taunt from anyone else, really, but in Tony’s mouth that kind of thing sounded almost like a pet name, a meaningless and obligatory endearment.
“Sir, I have performed the diagnostic tests and found no faults in the wiring or any general malfunctions,” JARVIS intones, “If the device still does not function, I suggest hands-on repair.”
“Thank you JARVIS,” says Tony as the harmless lasers that were scanning the device disappear. Tony turns to Bruce. “I’ll fix your Thing for you, don’t worry. You’re clearly uncomfortable in the presence of such splendor, so I’ll let you go back to your lab, and do your own thing.”
“My room is furnished at least well as yours,” Bruce objects. “You insisted on it.”
“I wasn’t talking about the furniture,” says Tony, with eyebrows raised. “Come on now, you ought to rest – whatever you’ve been working on, it can wait until I fix your gizmo, can’t it?” He places a hand on Bruce’s shoulder and turns him, guiding him with a light touch towards the elevator. Bruce isn’t sure why he’s letting Tony do this, but he doesn’t really know what else to do.
“Oh, and Bruce? If you wanted to see me naked, you only had to ask.”
With that Tony ushers him into the elevator before Bruce has the chance to protest, and as Bruce spins around he thinks he sees Tony wink just before the doors of the elevator close and take Bruce back down to the level of his apartment.
* * *
Tony likes spending time with Bruce Banner. There’s something very intriguing about him. He’s quiet, for one thing. You didn’t exactly meet a lot of superheroes who don’t have a thing for attention. It’s just that he looks so unsure of himself, all the time. After all, doesn’t he know whether or not he has his ‘little problem’ under control? Isn’t Bruce Banner the world’s foremost expert on controlling the Hulk? So, what’s wrong with a little confidence in his abilities? After all, Tony’s so confident he practically is confidence – and it’s worked out great for him.
Tony will fix Bruce’s little gizmo. The doc is smart, but he’s right about electronics not being his forte. The thing would never hold up if he Hulked out wearing it – and he assumes that Bruce is planning on wearing it. Monitoring vitals and radiation, puh-lease – why didn’t he just say it? He wants to give the team a warning system. To let them get out of the way in time.
And Tony can understand why. Though they’d saved the world together, the rest of the team was still tiptoeing around him like he’s an unstable chemical reaction. But not Tony – no. He knows Bruce has a lid on it. He knows what he has to do. Yet he’s petrified – petrified – of losing control. So there’s no way this device is for research.
Well, Tony will take the device, and he will improve it. He turns the little device in his hands (it’s sort of ugly, a plastic sort of cube with an outdated readout and a terrible speaker, with odd bits and bobs poking out of it) then throws it in the garbage. Bruce doesn’t need that terrible thing. Tony will make him something much better. He’ll give him exactly what he needs, but is afraid to ask for.
* * *
Bruce is just finishing positioning his laser. Just a little tweak to the left and it will be –
“Bruce!” hollers Tony’s slightly mechanized voice from the intercom on the wall behind Bruce, shattering the cloying silence that had so blissfully pervaded Bruce’s lab. There is loud rock and roll playing on Tony’s side of the intercom, and the sound of Tony throwing tools onto something metallic. Bruce struggles to contain a shout of frustration – he had been so startled by Tony’s sudden intrusion that it had completely thrown off the alignment of the laser. “You busy?”
“Well, I was,” says Bruce, straightening and turning towards the intercom, “But obviously you have something more important for me to be doing?”
“Yeah, I fixed your Thing. Come up! This time I give you permission to use the elevator. Just know that this morning’s incident is what I call Strike One.” And with that Tony switches off the intercom and a wave of blessed silence washes over Bruce once again. Sighing, Bruce pulls off his gloves and unties his lead apron, giving his laser one last melancholy glance before heading upstairs to see Tony’s work on the gadget.
Bruce steels his nerves as he rides the elevator up to the penthouse. Stark is sure to be in rare form, now that he is prepared for Bruce’s arrival and not about to be caught off-guard. Not to mention the fact that Tony will undoubtedly have something spectacular prepared for him in addition to the taunts that will definitely be thrown his way.
Sure enough, Tony is strutting through the penthouse – fully clothed this time. He nods in Bruce’s direction to acknowledge him, and then diverts his course and walks straight towards Bruce.
“It’s easy to see why you, Brucey, are not an entrepreneur,” he says airily. “That Thing was, not to put too fine a point on it, exceedingly ugly – it would never have sold! Now – ”
“It wasn’t meant to sell.”
“I know, I know, figure of speech. Well anyway I scrapped your design – ” Tony watches with suppressed glee as Bruce frowns and crossed his arms, “ – and I went in a new direction. Say hello… to this.”
Tony holds between his thumb and forefinger what looks like a pill.
“Tony, what is that?” Bruce groans. “And did you really just throw the Thing – my device, I mean – away? I thought you said you fixed it.”
“Of course I threw it away, it was hideous and it wouldn’t have worked for what you wanted it to work for anyway.” Tony ignores Bruce’s protests as he goes on explaining. “And this is fixing it. This is a microchip – you know, like the things they put in cats and dogs. Don’t worry, it’s not a GPS or anything. It just monitors your vital signs – heart rate, blood pressure, core body temperature, hydration level, blood sugar level, white blood cell count, static charge, and a couple other cool little things. And it tracks gamma radiation subcutaneously and in the environment. And it broadcasts all that information to this rather, if I do say so myself, stylish wristwatch. And when one or more of your vital levels starts to get a little high, or low, it’ll start to beep. I assume that’s what you wanted?”
Once again, Bruce is speechless. It’s exactly what he’d wanted. He isn’t even mad about Tony throwing out the Thing – it had probably deserved it. It wasn’t nearly so elegant as this. Play it cool, Banner…
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I wanted.”
“Of course all we have to do to implant it is just stick a big old needle under your skin and implant it right next to your heart,” says Tony, tossing the microchip up in the air, then catching it and pocketing it. He makes an expansive gesture with his hands. “No worries, right?”
A needle? Bruce doesn’t do well with needles. Well, Bruce does alright with needles, but the Other Guy… that’s a different story. As he surfaced from his internal thoughts, he noticed Tony coming closer to him.
“Yep, a big needle,” Tony says, “Right here.” He pokes a finger lightly into Bruce’s chest just above his heart. “Maybe it’ll leave a scar and we can be twinsies.” He’s beaming like a madman, an unfairly charismatic madman. He has an almost preternaturally endearing smile. Bruce wonders if it was naturally like that, or if all that Stark Industries cash had paid for the best orthodontics and tooth whitening money could buy. Probably also a very expensive toothpaste – Tony’s breath smells minty fresh.
And just like that the moment is over, and Tony is pacing back towards the bar, strutting like a peacock in the knowledge that he has exceeded Bruce’s expectations. “We can find a doctor somewhere who will do it. A medical doctor I mean.”
“I got that.”
“One more chance for a drink, Banner.”
“Again, I’ll pass.”
“Have it your way, Banner. Hey, you wanna go out for lunch? There’s a place that just opened up, apparently they sell something spelled P, H, O. How do you pronounce that? Is it Foh? Fow? I just don’t know, but we should try it.”
“I think you pronounce it fuh. And I was sort of in the middle of an experiment…”
“Bruce, you’re always in the middle of an experiment. Who says you can’t take a pho break?”
“Well, I guess…”
“It’s settled, then! Pho!”
“Should we um, call the rest of the team?”
“No, no, just you and me this time. I’m sure they’re busy.”
“Tony, I was busy.”
Tony ignores him and disappears into his room to grab his credit card.
It seems like moments later that Bruce and Tony are driving down the streets of Manhattan in one of Tony’s many convertibles.
“You know, it’s nice living in Stark Tower,” Bruce said. “My floor is quiet. Private.”
“Avengers Tower. And that was the point.”
“It’s just... I’m worried that I’ll… you know… and ruin everything. I don’t know if I – ”
“Don’t you dare say you want to leave,” says Tony, not taking his eyes off the road. “You don’t have to punish yourself, you know. You can let yourself be happy.”
“Yeah,” Bruce says noncommittally. He doesn’t quite believe that – can’t quite believe that. Happiness, for Bruce, still means letting his guard down, and that can’t happen.
“You know,” Tony says after a while, keeping his eyes locked on the road, “It’s been nice, having you around. Even though you shut yourself up in that lab. It’s nice to have someone who’s, you know, on the same level as me, intellectually. It’s rare – very rare – that I find someone like you. I think you’re the first real friend I’ve had in a long time.”
“Thanks,” says Bruce, studying Tony’s face. Bruce has to admit, it is nice – to actually have a friend, for once.
* * *
Bruce Banner. Tony stares up at his ceiling, lying (in the nude, predictably) on his back on his enormous bed. Bruce Banner is an enigma. He fascinates Tony. He can’t get Bruce off his mind. He certainly has a handsome face. He could be so attractive with a little confidence. As of right now he is all sort of... hunched over, like he needs to protect himself from something. Cowering. But he shouldn’t have to.
Tony sits straight up in bed. I wonder what Bruce is up to right now? He hops out of bed and makes it almost to the elevator before he remembers to go back and put some clothes on.
“JARVIS, locate Bruce Banner,” Tony calls to the artificial butler as he pulls on a pair of boxers.
“Bruce Banner is in his laboratory on Floor 33, sir,” responds JARVIS after a few moments.
“Thank you, JARVIS,” says Tony as he rushes into the elevator.
Tony stands outside the door of Bruce’s lab. It is Bruce’s lab – Tony had given it to him, along with any equipment Bruce asked for. Tony likes to spoil his friends, and he can afford it. He’d given apartments to the rest of the team, but Bruce got a state-of-the-art laboratory as well. And now Tony stands at the door of this private lab, his hand hovering over the keypad next to the door. Each of the Avengers has a PIN number that lets them into their own apartments and a few shared spaces, but of course, Tony has an override PIN that lets him into any part of the Tower he likes. However, this was the first time he had hesitated to use this power. After all, this is Bruce’s private lab, and – oh, who is he kidding?
Tony taps out the PIN and the lab door slides open. A haggard-looking Bruce Banner is perched on a stool by a lab bench, hunched over and scribbling in his notebook. To Tony’s credit the door had slid open so silently that Bruce hadn’t even noticed Tony’s entrance.
Tony clears his throat, then calls softly, “Bruce?” Tony watches as Bruce’s shoulders twitch in surprise. Bruce spins around to face Tony. He’s wearing his glasses – reading glasses, probably, judging by the way he squints through them to see Tony. Bruce looks at his lap, then removes his glasses, and sighs.
“You aren’t properly dressed to be in a lab like this, you know,” says Bruce, referring to the outfit Tony is wearing – outfit in the loosest sense of the term, since it’s just a pair of boxers and a wife beater, not even any shoes.
“Right, sorry, Doctor Banner, let me fix that,” Tony says. He snatches Bruce’s lab coat from its hanger near the door, then strides over to Bruce and borrows his glasses.
“Hey, who am I?” Tony asks, putting the glasses on. “I’m a nuclear physicist with a severe case of workaholism. You work too much, Banner, you need to take a break.”
“Nuclear physicists who work too much typically wear shoes in the lab,” Bruce points out. “And anyway, I took breaks today. I saw you, twice, and you practically held me hostage and forced me to eat pho with you.”
“You liked it, don’t pretend you didn’t. It was delicious.”
This makes Bruce smile, and he gives a short laugh and looks at his feet. “Yeah, it was pretty good. So, uh. What brings you to my lab this late at night?”
“Well, I didn’t really have any ulterior motives, so I guess I’ll just help out with whatever you need.”
“Thanks, but I think I can handle it.”
“Come on, let me help. Please? I’ll be a good boy, I promise,” says Tony. He sticks out his lower lip in an over-the-top pout, but Bruce simply turns to his laser and ignores it. “Come on, I’ll adjust your laser for you.”
Bruce rubs an eye with the heel of his hand and sniffs. “I guess you can do that. It needs to be moved a quarter of a degree left and half a degree up.”
Tony strides to the laser and fiddles with the readout. After a few seconds he realizes the laser couldn’t be adjusted from the readout – it has to be done by hand. Bruce watches him fiddle with the readout for a couple more seconds and Tony sets about moving the laser with the knobs. He keeps overshooting it, and then overcorrecting. He attempts to cover his mistakes by talking – that usually works pretty well for him. “You know, I could design a little robot or something to adjust this for you. No more bending over these stupid dials.”
Bruce just grins and hops off his stool. He snatches his glasses off Tony’s face, and turns to the laser. In moments he has gently brushed Tony out of the way and adjusted the laser to the exact right position. “I don’t want a robot, Tony. Some things have to be done by hand.”
“Bruce Banner, making it all look easy,” teases Tony.
“Well, you’re one to talk,” retorts Bruce, “‘Bruce Banner makes it look easy,’ says Tony Stark, the smartest and most well-liked man in New York City – maybe even the whole country. Look at the pot calling the kettle black!”
“Well, I don’t know about most well-liked,” reasons Tony, “But smartest? Probably. You’re putting up a good fight, though, Brucey.”
“Please. If I was as smart as you say I am, I wouldn’t be – you know – in my position, would I?”
“Are you talking about the Hulk?” blurts Tony. He picks up a beaker of something from Bruce’s lab bench and sniffs it gingerly. He notes Bruce’s flinch when he heard the word – Hulk.
Bruce sighs deeply. “Yeah. I am. Didn’t anyone teach you not to smell strange beakers? What if the fumes from that burned your mucosal tissues, got into your lungs and poisoned you?”
“It’s coffee. Didn’t anyone teach you not to drink out of laboratory glassware?”
“This isn’t a lesson in lab safety, Tony.” Bruce has that look on his face, the one that looked like he’d just tasted something sour, the one that meant he was straining.
“I’m pretty sure I’m not the one who started that. And if this isn’t a lesson in lab safety, then what is it?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Tony?” snaps Bruce. He shakes his head to clear it and takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and I should probably go to bed and… well, I’m sorry.”
There is a heavy silence. “You know, you ought to stop apologizing so much,” Tony says coolly. “You can control it. I know you can. Why don’t you know you can?”
“Because I can’t always, Tony,” hisses Bruce. “It seems like I’ve got it covered but I don’t, not really, because there’s always a chance that my concentration might slip and someone might say or do the wrong thing and… people could die, Tony. People have died. And I don’t want them to. I’ve killed people, Tony, and I can’t even remember doing it. You know, I’m just going to end up hurting us. The Avengers, I mean. Probably the whole world. I’m going to end up hurting you. All I do is destroy.”
“No, Bruce, you have done a lot of good. You can’t always control yourself but you always try to put it right afterwards. I know what it’s like, Bruce. I sold weapons for most of my career. And those weapons killed a lot of people. And now I’m trying to put it right. But that’s going to follow me forever, Bruce, no matter what I do. Just like the Other Guy is going to follow you. But that isn’t the point – the point is we have to put it behind us and try our best and God damn it, you are trying your best! Don’t pretend that you aren’t, because I can see you are. Everyone can see you are. You are not a bad man, Bruce Banner. In fact, you’re the best guy I know. So what if there’s a part of you that you can’t quite control? I believe in you. We believe in you. So just… just, stop, with the self-pity thing. Because you are strong, and you can do this.”
Bruce is speechless. He stares at Tony for a short while, then sits back on the stool and puts his face in his hands. He grinds the heel of his palm into one of his eyes, for a moment, then looks back up at Tony.
“So, what do you say, Bruce?” Tony says, “Can you just let me be angry enough for the both of us?”
“Yeah,” Bruce says in a slightly strangled voice. He gulps back emotion that’s sticking in his throat and clouding his eyes. “Yeah, I think I can let you do that.”
“Good.”
A thick silence reigns. Tony isn’t one who’s much for silence – a major point in which he and Bruce differ – but he lets this one drag on for a while. Bruce needs it, so Tony gives it to him.
“Uh, Tony?” Bruce says after a while.
“Hmm?”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” Tony closes the space between them, then reaches across Bruce and flipped the switch to shut the laser off. He puts an arm around Bruce’s shoulders and guides him off the stool. “Now. You should probably get to bed.” Bruce nods and Tony shakes him lightly, in a brothers-in-arms sort of way. Bruce flinches a little, but Tony can see the smile he doesn’t have the energy to wear trying to break through. The door to the lab closes and locks behind them, and Tony stops. Bruce turned to face him, his mouth open, ready to ask why he had stopped. Tony puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder and stares into his eyes. Bruce blinks a lot, clearly uncomfortable with so much direct eye contact, but Bruce holds Tony’s gaze.
“Bruce, you can trust me,” Tony says softly. “You don’t have to do it all on your own. I’m here.”
Bruce’s mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to form words; nothing comes out, except, “Thanks.”
The two men part ways after a moment – Bruce in the direction of his apartment, Tony in the direction of his elevator.
Well, at least Tony might finally be able to get some sleep now; but he doubts it. Tony grins as he strips off his clothes, and the lab coat he had accidentally worn out of Bruce’s lab. His own clothes are thrown ungraciously towards the closet, but Bruce’s lab coat is draped lovingly over the pillow on the unused side of Tony’s bed. Tony is about to hop into his luxurious bed when a thought strikes him. He pads over to the wall opposite the bed and switches on the intercom. Just in case, he thinks, and clambers into bed.
* * *
It is worthless.
Bruce simply cannot focus on his experiments anymore. Every time he tries to get some work done, all he can think of is last night – the sheen of Tony’s eyes, the jutting jaw, and the set of his shoulders. Highly distracting. And distraction isn’t something Bruce generally holds truck with. Not a single measurement taken in four hours in the lab! This is completely out of hand.
If Bruce had been any other man, he would have slammed his pen in the table in frustration. But Bruce rarely slams anything anywhere, so he sets it down neatly next to his notebook, deftly dog-ears the page he’s on, and closes the notebook. Something has to be done.
Bruce wonders, fleetingly, as he stands in Tony’s private elevator, if this is such a good idea. He brushes the thought away. Tony won’t mind – right? The elevator slides into position at the penthouse, and the doors slide open soundlessly. Bruce steps out and looks around the penthouse. No sign of Tony.
“JARVIS,” Bruce says aloud, “Where’s Tony?”
“Mr. Stark is still asleep, sir. Would you like me to wake him?”
“Oh. Um – ”
There was the sound of sirens off to Bruce’s left. Of course. That would be what it took to get Tony out of bed.
“What? WHAT? What god damn time is it, JARVIS? Eight-thirty? What in the hell do you think you’re doing, getting me up this early? Why didn’t I program a snooze button, JARVIS? Artificial Intelligence, more like Artificial Jackass.”
Tony is not at the top of his game in the insult department this early in the morning. Bruce fiddles with a button on his shirt, and pushes his hair back nervously. His hair springs right back into place – his hair always resists that sort of motion.
“Sir,” says the artificial butler dully, “Doctor Bruce Banner is waiting for you in the anteroom.”
“Well, Jesus, JARVIS, why didn’t you just say so? No need to break out the sirens at eight in the morning. Shit.”
“The current time is eight-thirty-four, Mr. Stark.”
“Shut up, JARVIS.”
A minute later Tony stalks out of his bedroom, wearing Bruce’s lab coat. Bruce has a sneaking suspicion that’s all he’s wearing. And he’s mis-buttoned the thing. Tony’s hair is tousled – and not in his typical, contrived way – and his eyes are puffy from sleep. There are lines from his pillow on one of his cheeks, and he’s squinting in the sunlight that pours in from the huge windows, though he might also be glaring.
“How did you get up here?” Tony growls, his voice still a bit hoarse. “Did you use my elevator? Strike Two, Banner. You really are pushing it.” Tony claps a groggy hand on Bruce’s shoulder as he passes on his way towards the bar.
“Hey, you just woke up, don’t start with that alcohol crap,” Bruce says, watching him. Tony stops in his tracks and looks back at Bruce, then diverts his course and goes to the windows to survey the city.
“Fine,” he says. “JARVIS, make me some coffee. You want some, Bruce? How do you take it?”
“More cream than coffee, and a lot of sugar.”
“Philistine. Black’s the only way to drink coffee. Have it your way, though. Can I ask what I have done to merit this very early visit?”
Bruce is silent for a moment. Truth is, he doesn’t really have an answer for Tony – well, that was, one that doesn’t involve the phrase ‘I just couldn’t stop thinking about you.’
“We should get that microchip implanted today, Doc,” Tony says conversationally. “Get your, uh, research, rolling.”
“Yeah, uh, you’re right,” Bruce says. He’d brought himself up here, but now he’s once again in Tony’s territory, and once again he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Research,” he mumbles absent-mindedly. He doesn’t mean for Tony to hear, but he definitely does – to Tony’s eternal credit, he pretends as though he doesn’t.
“You ready for that kind of pressure, Banner?” Tony teases. “Sure the Big Guy isn’t gonna come out if I poke you with a little needle?”
“I think I’ll have it under control – wait, did you say you were going to poke me with a needle?”
“I sure did, Brucey. What’s that look for? Don’t trust me?”
“Not as far as I can throw you.”
“You could probably throw me pretty far, I think.”
“I couldn’t throw you anywhere. You’re thinking of the... Other Guy. He could probably throw you all the way to San Franciso.”
“You know, I don’t know why you insist on making the distinction. The Hulk’s a part of you, Bruce, one way or the other.”
There is a deafening silence as Bruce suppresses a surge of annoyance. “I make the distinction because the Other Guy kills people, Tony. I don’t kill people. I never wanted to and I never will.”
There is another silence, and Tony just looks at Bruce. It makes Bruce uncomfortable, being watched so closely.
Bruce smiles nervously and pinches the bridge of his nose, to diffuse the tension. “I’m sorry. It’s too early in the morning to be discussing this stuff. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” says Tony. “If you want to talk, we’ll talk.
“No, it’s fine. It uh… it’s a touchy subject anyway. Better to leave it alone.”
Tony scrutinizes him again, and just when Bruce thinks he can’t take it anymore, Tony breaks his gaze.
“Damn it, JARVIS, where the hell is that coffee?” he calls to the AI. “I stand by what I said about you being an Artificial Jackass.”
“The coffee is on the bar, sir. I didn’t think it prudent to interrupt your conversation.”
“…Alright, JARVIS, thanks. I take back what I said about you being a jackass.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Tony retrieves the mugs – stylish black things, the sort Bruce definitely isn’t used to. The only mug he’d had before coming to the Tower was a chipped and very cheap mug with a picture of Garfield that was so faded it was barely recognizable. Tony hands Bruce’s mug to him, and takes a ginger sip of his own (likely blazingly hot) coffee. He doesn’t even flinch at the heat, and when he lowers his mug he holds it carelessly off to his side. Bruce looks down at his cup of coffee, held with both hands close to his chest as if he were trying to shield it from some terrible attack.
“Anyway,” Tony says with a careless wave of his coffee cup, “I don’t really trust some random doc to come in here and poke a big needle into your chest. So I’ll do it.”
“Well, why don’t I – ”
“Because you’re not a medical doctor, Banner.”
“Neither are you, Tony.”
Tony grimaces and looks at Bruce askance. “Don’t get technical, Bruce. Don’t you trust me?”
Bruce watches Tony as Tony takes another sip of his coffee, keeping those shining brown eyes on Bruce at all times. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Tony – well, actually, it is a bit. But it’s more that he doesn’t trust himself. Bruce doesn’t say anything.
“Well, I’ll take that as a yes,” Tony goes on. “We’re getting that chip under your skin as soon as I wake up enough to hold the thing steady.”
And Tony makes good on his promise. Hardly half an hour later, he motions to a chair and tells Bruce to sit in it and take off his shirt. Tony goes off to retrieve the Thing, the watch, a small white bottle of something, and a strange looking device with a very wide needle from his workshop. Tony returned just as Bruce was stripping off his shirt. He tried not to stare as he set his materials on the coffee table in front of Bruce’s chair.
“Topical anesthetic?” Bruce asks as Tony brandishes the small white bottle. Bruce sits in the chair. Tony pops open the lid of the bottle of anesthetic and hands it to Bruce, who rubs a bit of it on his chest, over his heart and a little to the left of his sternum and under his pectoral muscle. Tony loads the little pill-shaped Thing into the needle-device, and waits while Bruce rubs the cream into his skin.
“All numb?” Tony says after a moment.
“Feels like it,” Bruce replies.
“You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Make sure your muscles stay relaxed or I’ll never get this thing in. Especially not if the Big Guy decides to make an appearance.”
“I’ve got it.”
Positioning himself at Bruce’s side, Tony sucks in a gulp of air as quietly as he can and holds it. He sticks the needle into Bruce’s numbed skin and pushes the chip into the flesh and muscle. When he’s sure the Thing is lodged under Bruce’s skin, Tony pulls the needle out. Bruce and Tony watch for a second as the small wound bleeds a little.
Bruce looks up at Tony and smiles. “You know, I am a medical doctor, in addition to a nuclear physicist,” Bruce says, watching Tony’s face closely to monitor his reaction. “I picked it up, along the way, and I had to get certified in Kolkata before I could run around treating people. But, uh… I thought I’d let you do it. You seemed hell-bent on it.”
Tony laughs.
Tony doesn’t actually laugh often. Mostly he just grins, or smirks. Laughing isn’t cool, it isn’t collected, it’s a raw expression of emotion, of joy. Tony can’t express emotion like that – well, not without hiding behind a curtain of words. Tony is good with words, he always has been. Tony can say what’s on his mind, but he can’t just… let it happen, naturally, without some clever phraseology and cocky self-aggrandizing. Even Bruce is better at that than he is. Bruce isn’t afraid to laugh, to sigh, to be afraid. He’s just afraid of the anger. Tony looks confident, always, without fail, but underneath that, he’s terrified of someone finding out that he cares about something.
About someone. Tony looks at Bruce, who has this smile that just makes Tony want to jump, or something. It’s something about the way his eyes crinkle up, and the way his smiles are always slow – you can see them coming, and the anticipation builds up before it happens, and they never surprised you but somehow you were still shocked by them. Every single one of Bruce’s smiles is genuine, because he doesn’t have the energy to produce a fake one.
“Was it something I said?” Bruce grins, watching Tony’s face.
“No,” says Tony. “It’s just… you.”
Bruce goes right on smiling as Tony sets the needle down, wipes the small wound with some gauze, and bandages it with a clean pad of gauze and some medical tape.
“There,” says Tony, “All fixed up. Switch on the watch.”
Bruce stands and grabs the watch off the table. He examines it for a moment and presses down on a small black button on the side of it. The watch gives a short beep, then begins displaying Bruce’s heart rate.
“Those two buttons on the other side let you cycle through each of your vital readings. Plus, the Thing actually tells time, see the digital clock up there in the corner?”
That smile stays fixed in place as Bruce examines the watch, flicking through each of his vital signs. “Thanks, Tony,” he says softly.
“Yeah,” Tony replies, watching him closely. Bruce glances up at him and Tony looks away quickly, pretending as though he hasn’t been studying Bruce like he’s some sort of fascinating and beautiful animal. Bruce straps the watch to his right wrist and grabs for his shirt. He pulls it on gently, careful not to disturb the bandage.
“See? Twinsies,” Tony says, gesturing to the bump under Bruce’s shirt that belies the gauze.
“Yeah,” says Bruce. “Thanks, again, Tony. This Thing is… well, it’s a lot better than I could have done.”
“Don’t mention it. Seriously. What are friends for?” Tony puts an arm around Bruce’s shoulders.
The watch begins to beep – not urgently, just a casual warning. Bruce glances at it hastily.
“It says, uh, my blood sugar is a bit low,” Bruce mutters. “Do you want to, I don’t know, get breakfast somewhere?”
“Yeah,” says Tony, playing along – that monitor hadn’t been showing his blood sugar, it had been showing his heart rate. Tony’s own heart rate is a little elevated, if he’s honest with himself. “Breakfast sounds great.”