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“And they escort me out of the convention, even though he’s the one that punched me!” Tony finished with wide, wounded eyes. He had a Rubick’s Cube in his hands, fingers twisting and turning the edges, mixing it up hopelessly, never pausing.
Bruce closed the centrifuge and looked up from his work. “Well, you did try to sleep with his wife. Right in front of him.”
“We didn’t even kiss!” Tony insisted, waving his free hand for emphasis. “No harm, no foul. It’s not like it’s my fault that pointing out errors in her husband’s work turned her on.” He made three more turns on the cube, and then set it down next to Bruce’s notes. “Anyway, break time’s over, I’ll get out of your hair.”
“I don’t mind—” Bruce started to say, but Tony was already out of the door, holding one arm up in goodbye.
Bruce pushed at his glasses and checked the centrifuge; another 45 seconds to wait. He cast his eyes around and they caught on the cube Tony left. He blinked and went to take a closer look.
While he’d thought Tony was just scrambling the puzzle, each side was a checkerboard pattern using its opposite-side colors. He was surprised; he hadn’t thought a man like Tony would devote time to memorizing that sort of pattern.
But then, Bruce reasoned with himself, Tony was a fiddler. He always had to do something with his hands, even when he was talking, and especially when he was away from his workshop. That was just something you got used to around him.
“Huh,” Bruce hummed to himself, and then the centrifuge beeped and he set the cube down and forgot all about it.
--
It was a long briefing – apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted Thor to give the top-ranking agents and the Avengers a full debriefing of Asgardian political history, and no one had thought to explain the level of detail required. And, once Thor started declaiming an epic saga of intrigue, betrayal, and honor, no one had the heart to interrupt him.
No one was still listening with any kind of attention. Clint (to Bruce’s left) and Natasha (across the table) seemed to be playing footsie with the enthusiasm and high-impact collisions of a rugby match. Bruce had surreptitiously pulled out an e-reader in his lap and was scrolling through some journal articles, letting the poetic rhythm of Thor’s storytelling fade to background noise.
But to Bruce’s right, Tony was the most blatant of all; he’d simply set his tablet on the table and typed away, correcting a research proposal from Stark Industries. His comments, in a very sarcastic shade of orange, had drawn Bruce’s attention to read over his shoulder more than once.
Now, Tony had moved on to simply reading something. It looked like a progress report, but there isn’t nearly enough scientific language to keep Bruce interested. Nor, it turns out, Tony; within minutes, his fingers start drumming on the table, that quick four-thud noise increasing in tempo as time passed. Bruce didn’t really mind it. He’d worked long hours in Tony’s company, heard him tap his fingers like this too many times to count.
He gradually became aware of the atmosphere in the room changing. When he glanced up, Thor was still reciting obliviously, but nearly every head was turned their way. The glares aimed at Tony were poisonous, as if to say, This is already bad enough, why are you making it worse? Tony was ignoring them, or maybe hadn’t even noticed.
Bruce was instantly uncomfortable. He didn’t like being on S.H.I.E.L.D. premises in the first place, but with the top agents looking at him like this, well… It made him itchy to get on a plane and disappear. He knew it was irrational, that if they were going to lock him up they’d had plenty of chances, but… But it was making him uncomfortable, with was a short step to defensive, and from there to anger was only a few breaths.
He reached out and grabbed Tony’s left hand, stilling it.
Tony, startled out of his reading, tilted his head to check on Bruce, who shrugged and gestured with his free hand at the other people. Tony scanned their relieved and annoyed faces, and returned a not-really-apologetic smile. Then he pointedly looked back down at his tablet and kept reading.
Bruce waited several moments, then let Tony’s hand go free. He tuned in to Thor for a moment, but he was recounting some kind of celebratory feast, so he went to the e-reader.
It was only about five minutes before Tony rolled his fingers against the table – and Bruce reflexively grabbed for them before the second round.
Tony met his eyes with a pout and twitched his fingers against Bruce’s palm, needing something to do with his hands.
Bruce rolled his eyes and did his bestsilence in the library scowl.
With a little huff, Tony twisted his hand to press their palms together, then turned their wrists so that Bruce’s hand was resting on the table. Tony tapped one finger at the center of Bruce’s palm, stay put, and then set his four fingers along Bruce’s heart line and drummed them. It was silent.
Tony shot Bruce another look. Bruce smiled a little, kept his hand flat, and went back to reading.
Tony drummed on his hand for the rest of the briefing, a steady beat, kind of tickling against Bruce’s skin.
--
After that, if Tony had to sit still for a while and didn’t have an invention to mess with, he’d grab for Bruce’s hand, instead. Briefings, actually reading the reports Pepper sent him – because, despite appearances, Tony was capable of responsibility. (Especially once Pepper learned that if she gave Tony his assignments with Bruce as a witness, he would eventually give Tony enough stern looks to guilt him into completing them.) The only objection Bruce made was when he needed his right hand to work and switched it for his left.
Bruce really didn’t mind. It was kind of endearing that Tony wasn’t just constantly thinking, but constantly in motion, as well. Full of energy in a way that Bruce wasn’t.
--
They held the team movie night a few weeks later. They had finally finished up Steve’s culture-of-the-60s education, which meant they were celebrating with a Star Trek movie.
(“Wait, this is the second one. What happened in the first one?” Steve asked.
Tony shuddered. “We don’t talk about that.” )
So the opening credits rolled and everyone settled in – Natasha in an armchair, Clint on the floor in front of her, with her ankles propped up on his shoulder. Thor and Jane claimed a loveseat, and she seemed tiny curled into his side. Steve and Bruce and Tony take the largest couch.
For once, Bruce didn’t have anything to read or work on, because it really had been too long since he’d seen this movie. Tony had his tablet, and it looked like he was drawing designs, or maybe marking up upgrades for suit, the way he did when splitting his attention.
Kirstie Alley turned around on screen, all eighties perm, Vulcan ears, and cheekbones. Tony bumped into Bruce to say, “Oh, God, we’ll have to explain about Ricardo Montalban.”
Bruce bumped him back and nodded. They hadn’t mentioned it during the Khan episode of the original series, but they’d have to, sooner or later. Steve was pretty stoic about how many actors in movies he liked have died already, but no one liked to tell him anyway. They were all glad to be fewer than fifty years behind, where hopefully it would happen less.
They all got quiet, besides the munching of popcorn and the occasional laugh. Jane was trying to keep up a whispered commentary to Thor, explaining whatever he didn’t recognize, but she was also a fan, so she was distracted by the story a lot.
Tony got into it, too, about half an hour in. He set his work aside and relaxed into the cushions, automatically taking Bruce’s left wrist and puling it over into his lap. He started a weird kind of massage – taking each finger, flexing it back, rolling each joint between finger and thumb. He traced patterns on the back of his hand, a long S-curve, catching Bruce’s attention. He worked out some of the numbers as Tony went.
“Are you solving integrals on me?” he murmured, bemused.
“Yup,” Tony said. “Oh – damn, I dropped a variable somewhere.”
Bruce wiggled his fingers against the inside of Tony’s wrist. “Use ink next time.”
After a few moments of consideration, Tony got up, giving back Bruce’s hand, and left in the direction of the kitchen. Faintly, over the sound of Kirk stalling for time against the Reliant, Bruce heard the smooth tones of Jarvis talking to Tony down the hall.
He came back with a pen in his teeth, a mug of tea, and a new bowl of popcorn, which he discarded in Steve’s lap on his way back to his seat on the other side of Bruce. He sat down, put the mug in Bruce’s opposite hand, and recaptured the closest. The pen came out of his mouth and he drew a circle on Bruce’s palm. The circle grew radial lines, and then he began scribbling.
“Thanks for the tea,” Bruce said after a sip. It was his favorite. Jarvis must have told Tony how to prepare it. But bringing the popcorn was in a realm of thoughtfulness that Tony rarely showed so obviously. “Was the popcorn…” Bruce ventured, not sure what he was asking.
“Jarvis says it’s rude to only get something for one person. Threatened to lock me in if I didn’t do it.” Tony’s cramped equations appeared in regimented rows down Bruce’s wrist and forearm, integrals again. “Think I can increase the repulsor power,” he answered Bruce’s silent curiosity.
Steve, clearly trying not to sound annoyed, told them sternly, “If you’re not going to watch…”
“Sorry, sorry,” Bruce said, and looked up in time for Kirk’s winning three-dimensional tactics. He had a niggling feeling that there was something he should remember, some part of the movie coming up… Oh, shit.
“Oh, shit,” he heard Jane mutter on the other side of the room.
By the time Spock said, “I have been, and always shall be, you friend,” Steve was stifling manly sniffles and Bruce had Tony’s hand in a death grip, determined not to let himself cry over this like he had the first time. Tony didn’t seem as affected, but then, you can never really tell from looking at him if he didn’t want you to know.
Spock intoned, “Space, the final frontier…” and the credits rolled.
Carefully extracting himself from Bruce’s grip, Tony said, “Right, uh. Jarvis, lights to fifty.”
Bruce blinked in the increased light, glancing around the room. Clint and Natasha were sharing the armchair now, Jane was a red-faced wreck, Thor looked a little starry-eyed about a warriors and battles, and Steve was trying to tough it out.
Probably to dispel the emotions happening, Tony said, “Right, well, the next one we need to watch is the fourth movie—”
“Tony!” Bruce interrupted, scandalized. “I know it has problems, but you can’t just skip the third one. Steve doesn’t know certain things that happen in it. Four wouldn’t make any sense.”
“I can. I absolutely can. Just tell him the salient points and spare him the pain.”
Bruce found himself wagging his finger at Tony like a stern teacher. “Everyone has to see it once. That is the tithe for getting to see Four.”
Jane laughed at them all. “Steve, your face is ridiculous right now!”
“They’re making it all sound pretty ominous,” Steve protested in his own defense.
Tony rolled his eyes and said with exaggerated patience, “Fine, inflict what you like on him. If he puts him off the rest, I’ll blame you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do and feats of engineering to pull off in my sleep.” He turned on his heel for the tower’s elevator.
“Workshop sleep isn’t real sleep!” Steve called after him.
--
Steve found Bruce a few hours later, having some more tea in the kitchen – they both needed less sleep than the others, for nearly the same reason. Bruce was transcribing what was left of the smushed and smudged mess of ink on his hand for an email to Tony, just in case he needed it.
“So, um, I wanted to say that I’m happy for you,” Steve said, from the doorway. “It seems like you’re really…happy.”
“Oh?” Bruce blinked at him in surprise, then looked around the kitchen, and the tower in general. “I guess I am. Happier than I’ve been in a long time, at least.”
Steve came in and sat down at the table, red around the ears. He corrected, “I mean… you and Tony.”
“What about Tony?”
Now it was Steve’s turn to be surprised. “You two aren’t together?”
“No?” Bruce said, inflecting it as a question just out of habit. “I thought he and Pepper…?”
“No, they’re not. Not anymore.” Steve studied him curiously. “You really aren’t? You two held hands for the whole movie, though!”
“But Tony always fiddles with my hand,” Bruce explained. “He needs something to fiddle with, sometimes.”
Steve gave him an extremely dubious nod, and prompted, “Right, okay. And he picks you all the time because…?”
Bruce shrugged. “I always let him?”
“Right. Okay,” Steve repeated. He stood up, grabbed an apple from the basket on the counter, and went for the hallway. “Good talk.”
Bruce watched him leave and wondered if he’d learned ‘good talk’ from Tony or Clint.
--
They were sitting on opposite sides of Bruce’s worktable the next time it happened. Bruce was calculating results on his tablet (a gift from Tony), and Tony was tapping through an energy contract with his left hand.
Absentmindedly, his right hand crept across the surface and snagged Bruce’s left, drew it to the middle of the distance between them. The pads of his fingers settled over Bruce’s upturned ones – pinky to pointer, middle to ring fingers. He depressed them in turn, that familiar drumming rhythm, but backwards and upside-down for Bruce.
He kept his eyes on his tablet, but he was completely distracted, his mind focused on keeping his fingers lax and loose, allowing Tony to do this. His mind went back to Steve, to what Steve assumed. This was definitely holding hands. This was probably middle-school-children, Olympic level finger-fiddling.
After a while, he cleared his throat and pointed out, “Tony? I still have your Rubick’s Cube on the counter, if you need to keep your hands busy.”
Tony stopped the drumming and pulled his hand back and down under the table, but didn’t look up from what he’s reading. “Right, yeah. Sorry about that,” he apologized briskly.
Bruce brought his hand to rest flat, watching Tony carefully, and then heard the soft impact of Tony batting out a tempo on his leg. Tony had to be aware of his observation, because it stopped again quickly.
Fine. Apparently they needed to talk about this.
“Tony,” he said cautiously.
“No, hey, it’s fine,” Tony dismissed immediately, head still down. “Forget about it. Won’t happen again.”
Bruce pulled his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He insisted, “Tony, look at me.”
Tony glanced up once, then sighed and set his chin in his hand, making eye contact. He invited, “Okay, say it, whatever it is.”
“I don’t mind if you hold my hand,” Bruce told him.
Tony sniffed and rubs his ear, looking away. “But.”
Bruce was sort of at a loss. He wasn’t sure whether Tony thought he would add a condition, like not in front of other people, or stop it completely. That’s not what Bruce wanted to have happen, either way. “Well… but maybe we can throw in kissing, too?”
Tony blinked at him, completely blindsided for all of three seconds, and then put on his smooth smirk. “Hey, you know I’m up for anything.”
“I don’t want just anything,” Bruce said, holding his eyes. Trying to make him take this seriously.
The smirk slipped away, and Tony simply frowned at him. He took a deep breath in through his nose and then answered, “Yeah. We can do that.”
Bruce smiled at him and thought he might be blushing. He ducked his head and woke his tablet with a tap of his stylus.
“Whoa, hey, cheating,” Tony accused, standing up from his stool and coming around to Bruce. “You don’t just go back to work after that conversation.”
“What do you—” Bruce began, and then Tony kissed him.
When they broke apart, Tony held Bruce’s cheeks and told him: “This doesn’t mean I’m obligated to be there when you force Search for Spock down that poor man’s throat.”
Bruce grinned and reached up to curl his fingers around Tony’s palms.