Chapter Text
Bruce isn't doing much of anything when Tony comes to find him--just standing on the sidewalk outside a restaurant, fishing for something in his pockets. That doesn't stop Tony from looking him up and down with this incredulous expression, like Bruce has just confessed to believing in intelligent design or something.
"Didn't peg you for a smoker," Tony says. "That's weird, a vegetarian and a smoker. Not judging though, you're complicated, I like complicated."
"Uh, thanks," Bruce says.
"Need a light? I don't have one. I could make one? I mean, I could make fire." His gaze comes to settles on a heap of garbage next to an overturned trash can. Bruce has to concede that it would probably be a good source of fuel.
"I don't need a light," says Bruce. "I don't smoke."
"Oh." Tony looks slightly disappointed. "Why not? I mean, you might as well."
"Just because it won't kill me doesn't mean it isn't disgusting."
"Yeah, okay, fair enough." Tony's watching him with that same puzzled look he wore on the helicarrier. "So then what are you--why are we out here?"
"I don't know why you're out here." Bruce says, trying to be patient.
Steve and the others are still inside, picking at their third helping of spiced meat and soft bread. Bruce had excused himself quietly and headed for the door, because the restaurant was almost empty and yet very full of noise: the little tinkling sounds of cutlery brushing against plates, the shush of the teenage boy's broom against the floor, Thor's hearty grunts of appreciation for his mighty repast.
All of those little noises had grated at the delicate sense of calm that envelopes Bruce after a fight, just before the dread of how-long-till-next-time begins to tug at his insides. So he'd stepped outside for a moment; but the city was far too quiet, and it wasn't as soothing as he'd hoped.
He hadn't even noticed Tony coming after him. One moment he was staring up into the narrow strip of sky visible between the skyscrapers, and the next, Tony was standing at his elbow. Hovering, you might call it, except when the man in question possesses robotic armor equipped with repulsor technology, words like "hovering" acquire a literal significance that makes metaphors confusing.
"I followed you," says Tony, like there's nothing weird about that.
"Did you need me for something?"
"Just making sure you're not sneaking out on the bill."
"You already paid the bill."
"And you already sneaked out on me once."
Bruce almost laughs, almost chokes on it. You could accuse the Hulk of plenty of stuff, but he didn't really have the capacity to sneak.
"I just needed some air," he says, because it's easier than wondering where the faintly hurt noise in Tony's voice comes from. It's a put on, but Bruce has already figured out that most of Tony's put-ons are distant cousins of something real that he's trying to hide. They've barely known each other for a full day. An extraordinary day, granted, but surely it's a little soon for anyone to have expectations of him.
Bruce's hand closes on the little plastic bottle in his pocket. He'd seen a pile of them lying in the street rubble surrounding an overturned vendor's cart. He pulls it out and unscrews the cap, aware that Tony is watching him closely. Like he might be holding some kind of magic smoke, the prelude to a disappearing act. Tony is watching him, and Bruce doesn't get why Tony would care if he disappeared. He's Tony Stark. There's only one unique thing about Bruce, and not even Tony could hold onto the Hulk for any length of time. People had tried.
He doesn't want to think about what Tony Stark might want with the Hulk, so he holds up the bottle and pulls out the plastic wand inside. There's a ring at the end, like a tiny magnifying glass. A drop of clear liquid drips down the stem onto Bruce's fingers.
Tony's face screws up, his expression suspicious. "Is that--"
Bruce takes a deep breath, puckers his lips, and lifts the wand to his mouth. He exhales steadily through the plastic ring. A cloud of soap bubbles bursts into the air between them.
It's not on purpose that most of them end up in Tony's face--that's just the direction the breeze is blowing.
Okay, maybe it's a little on purpose.
"The fuck--?" Tony bats at his face, like he's fending off a swarm of gnats. He recoils, outraged, when a bubbles pops on his eyelashes. "What are you doing, what is this?"
"Soap molecules have hydrophilic and hydrophobic hydrocarbon tails," says Bruce in a gentle voice, "and when you blow on them--"
"Why are you blowing bubbles? Where the fuck did you even--Banner, did you steal this off a kid?"
"I stole it." Bruce shrugs. "There weren't any kids."
The muscles around Tony's mouth are twitching. "You're telling me you came out here in the middle of dinner so you could blow bubbles in my face."
"I came outside because I wanted to be outside," says Bruce. Tony is a spoiled brat, used to poking but not being poked. Watching his agitation is sort of therapeutic, like watching the glitter settle in a snow globe.
"You made bubbles happen," says Tony sternly. "With your mouth. In my face."
"Would you rather have a face full of secondhand smoke?"
"Uh, duh."
Bruce dips the wand back into the soap solution. Tony says, "So help me, Banner, if you blow that shit in my face again--"
"Hey, just don't stand downwind."
"I'm standing where I'm standing, why don't you point that thing--Jesus!"
Tony flinches as Bruce tilts his head back and blows a stream of bubbles upward. The sun highlights the iridescent roil of the soap mixture. It reminds Bruce of the sheen on pigeons' feathers.
He likes pigeons. He's aware that this makes him a freak.
"Bruce." Tony sounds like he's begging, which is funny enough to make Bruce look at him for a second. "I dunno if you noticed, but we're famous now. We've got a reputation to uphold."
"Reputation?" Bruce's academic reputation is nonexistent after so many years. The other guy's reputation has been pretty secure since he broke Harlem.
"As superheroes, Banner. Keep up. You don't know who's filming us right now. You're not gonna strike fear into the hearts of our enemies when a video hits YouTube with you blowing bubbles on the street corner like some kind of adorable urchin."
The train of Bruce's thoughts derails. He looks down at himself, at his dusty feet and untrimmed toenails, the hole in the knee of his borrowed pants. "Urchin," he says. He would question the adorable, but he doesn't have the nerve.
"Yeah, have you seen yourself? You're all rumpled and tousled. Like Little Orphan Annie, or the poor little matchstick girl."
Bruce wonders if Tony knows that he is actually an orphan. "Match, not matchstick."
"Yeah, English lit wasn't my major."
"Stephen Crane was an American writer."
"It's hot that you know that. Useless, but hot."
Bruce is pretty sure that Tony is undressing him with eyes, though Bruce can't tell if he's thinking about sex or if he's mentally dragging Bruce to an appointment with his tailor. "Sorry if I'm not appareled to your standards," he says. "No room for a travel iron in my luggage."
"Your rucksack?"
"Duffle bag."
"Hobo bag."
"Sure."
Tony bobs impatiently on his heels. "Explain the bubbles, Banner."
The wand is dripping soap onto Bruce's fingers. He wipes them on his pants, ignoring Tony's wince. It's natural for someone with a brain like Tony's to be curious about everything. He can talk about this; it'll be fine.
"I used to smoke," he says. "When I was a kid."
"Huh." Tony looks impressed, which is just wrong, except that Tony was probably learning to mix martinis around the age Bruce was lighting up for the first time. "Wouldn't have pegged you for the rebellious teenager type."
Bruce doesn't laugh at him. Tony might ask questions, and Bruce would be tempted to answer them. He's lived anonymously for too long; there's a part of him now that wants to be known.
"I wasn't a teenager." It had been after his mother was murdered. "I was 12."
"Huh."
"I stopped eventually." Mostly because he didn't have the spending money once his dad's stash ran out. Bumming smokes off the older kids at the foster home would have involved a level of social skill he's never possessed. "Later, sometimes, I'd get the urge, but it wasn't really the nicotine I wanted."
Tony peers at him for a second, processing this. His eyes are particularly keen and bright when he's working out puzzles, Bruce has noticed.
When he makes an "a-ha!" face and points at Bruce, there's such certainty, such confidence in his expression that Bruce wants to back away from him. He hadn't meant to…reveal anything. That's the trouble with appealing to Tony Stark's curiosity. It's not a tame beast.
"You wanted the out," Tony says. "Way to leave the room without it being awkward. No one buys the 'breath of fresh air' excuse, but you show 'em a bad habit and they believe you. I'm right, aren't I?"
"Yes." He is frighteningly on point, so Bruce tells him more, to distract him. "A friend of mine got me one of those bubble pipes. Just as a joke." It was Betty, but he's not giving Tony her name; he can't afford to bait that curiosity more than he has to. "I actually used it a few times. I think it was…the breathing. Deep inhalations. It was relaxing. Like a cigarette without the poison." He shrugs again. "The bubbles are pretty."
Tony smiles at him, slow and relaxed. Bruce isn't sure how to read his expression, there are too many layers--doubt, delight, and speculation, mixed with something open, almost tender.
Four days ago, Bruce had planned to spend the rest of his life pouring himself into work--in Kolkata, for as long as it could hold him, then wherever else he ended up. Steve seemed to have the idea that Bruce was some kind of missionary or foreign aid worker, but he wasn't; he was earning a living off the books, in a place where nothing reminded him of the past.
Now he's in Manhattan, having a friendly conversation in English with a man similar enough to him in age and education to be considered a peer, and for a dizzying second, Bruce realizes that this could be his new normal. He could have this for awhile. He's starting to suspect that Tony might want to give it to him.
He should never have come back to this country.
"Give it here," Tony says.
"I'm sorry?"
"You should be. C'mon, gimme." Tony holds his hand out. For a breathless moment, Bruce thinks that Tony wants his hand, and he feels lightheaded when he realize that Tony just wants the bubbles.
He hands the bottle over, and Tony unscrews the cap delicately, like the bubble mixture contains sulfuric acid and not dishwashing detergent. He extracts the wand and sucks air into his cheeks, then huffs out.
The soapy film in the wand tip bursts with a wet plop.
"Um. You have to blow gently." Tony looks insulted, possibly even hurt, which is completely insane and tells Bruce more than he wanted to know about just how vulnerable Tony is to even the tiniest of rejections. "It's not like you're blowing up a balloon." Didn't you ever do this as a kid, he almost says, then stops himself.
Tony screws his face up. He's concentrating so hard, he could be doing surgery. This time, the bubbles fly up and out, and Bruce doesn't bother batting away the ones that land on his face. He just lets them pop. They leave a faint, damp sensation on his cheek, like a lingering kiss.
Tony beams. Bruce takes off his glasses and wipes on them on his shirt. When he puts them back on he starts to congratulate Tony on a successful experiment.
The words stick in his throat when Tony takes a deliberate step forward.
It's not threatening. Except that Bruce has never really learned to process closeness as anything other than a threat. Not even with Betty. Of all the things Bruce ever did to hurt her, that's the part that shames him the most. Even though she'd said she understood. Even though she probably had.
"You, uh…" Tony goes still so quickly that Bruce wonders if he actually noticed his tension. He'd been careful not to clench his fists.
Tony holds his gaze for a second, then slowly, telegraphing his movements, he lifts a hand. Bruce wonders if he's about to touch his face.
Tony's fingers light on the top of his hair. His hair is ridiculous these days, a wild springy mass that adds at least two inches to his height. Tony plucks at it, and Bruce's scalp tingles. He knows that his whole face is a question.
"There was, uh. Bubble." Tony clears his throat. "Landed in your hair."
"Right." Bruce cuts his gaze aside. He can't look at Tony this close up. There are soft lines around his eyes, stubble on his chin, faint pocks that might be shrapnel scarring on his left cheek. His face is a study in reminders that he's a man, not the airbrushed playboy from the magazines. Bruce has to look away, but he doesn't move away.
He doesn't move at all.
"Did you get it?" he says, when he has to say something or else drop everything and just run.
"Hmm." Tony's gaze narrows, and his mouth quirks up. His fingers begin to thread the coarse locks springing from Bruce's temple, and…there's really no other word for it, he's petting Bruce's hair, and Bruce has no idea what's happening.
He should stop it, and he can't. He should want to, and he doesn't.
"Yeah," says Tony, when the tingling has traveled from Bruce's scalp, down his face, spreading like warmth through his whole body. "Yeah, you're good. Got 'em all. Had to do a thorough check, things could get lost up there, seriously."
Tony takes his hand back. He steps away, puts the appropriate personal space between them again, and Bruce is relieved. He's relieved, and he doesn't want Tony's hand back, he doesn't.
It's the first time since Betty anyone has touched him without hurting him, and part of him hates Tony for reminding him what it felt like.
Bruce turns aside, taking his glasses off and polishing them again unnecessarily. It gives him an excuse not to meet Tony's eyes. He doesn't mind being looked at as much when there's no obligation to look back.
"So I think Steve's gonna bunk at the Tower tonight," says Tony, with an ease that would suggest to someone just overhearing them that he was picking up the thread of an ongoing conversation. "SHIELD put him in some kind of generic flatpack apartment in Brooklyn when he came off the ice, but the Tower's closer. What's left of it."
Bruce is happy to hear that. It had been so achingly obvious back on the helicarrier that Tony needed Steve to approve of him. He doesn't know what they've said to each other since then, but he doubts a man like Steve Rogers would accept Tony's hospitality if he didn't also accept Tony.
"Thor?" says Bruce, because they're making small talk now.
"Yeah, Thor's bunking over too. Strictly short-term, he's headed back to Wonderland with Antlers tomorrow morning. And Nat and Clint are gonna go do whatever spies do in their downtime. Lick their wounds. Maybe lick each other's wounds, they seem kinda tight."
"Um," says Bruce, because some of Natasha's wounds are his doing and he has no right to think about her at all.
"So I figure, that's two of my palatial guest bedrooms filled up and like, 500 still to go." Tony scratches the back of his head, which might be the closest thing to a nervous gesture Bruce has ever seen him make. "What do you say?"
"I, um." Bruce puts his glasses back on. "Sorry, what?"
Tony bounces on his heels, which doesn't actually look like a nervous gesture at all. It looks like something Tony probably does all the time, when he's not pretending to be a playboy or a superhero or anything except a lunatic engineer, which isn't actually a pretense of any kind.
"Do you want to sleep over. Do you want to visit SI for a tour of R&D. Do you--and you don't have to answer this right away, this is a long term question unrelated to the question of where you're gonna hang your hat tonight--do you want to maybe stick around for a while? Like, indefinitely."
In Bruce's head, there is a sensation not unlike a small bomb detonating. In its wake comes a spreading white blankness, a silence that is best characterized as disbelief. It has nothing to do with whether it would be feasible, or smart, or safe to accept Tony's offer. It's simply the inability to comprehend the fact that Tony is offering.
Tony knows him. He's danced with the other guy. He's seen, at close quarters, exactly how ugly Bruce gets, and yet he's…offering.
The breeze picks up, scattering the garbage strewn on the sidewalk, wafting the smoke from a few blocks north to hang over them in a grey cloud. The breeze stirs Bruce's hair, and Bruce thinks about Tony touching him.
Every huge mistake in Bruce's life has been related to the way that he wants things--passionately, blindly, with a hunger that thinks of nothing but satisfying itself. He should not trust his desires. They make him do stupid things.
"Um. Yes." Bruce holds up his hand and hopes Tony will ignore the fact that it's obviously shaking. "To the first part. I, uh, don't really have anywhere else to go tonight, so. Thank you."
"Okay, cool, cool." Tony bounces again. "And the other thing? Promise me you'll at least think about it. Thoroughly. Take all the time you need at my luxurious Tower to decide whether you want to live indefinitely in my luxurious Tower."
Bruce smiles. "I will think about it. I won't commit to a time-frame for the decision making process."
"Awesome." Tony's claps Bruce's shoulder. Hard enough to throw him off balance, except that Tony is right there to steady him again, and that. That right there. Bruce suspects that may just be a metaphor for Tony's whole approach to interpersonal relationships.
"Let's get the rest of the food to go," Tony's saying, and before Bruce realizes what's happening, Tony is guiding him back inside the restaurant with the others. "I wanna show you all my toys."
Bruce doesn't know what to say to that. And just like always, he doesn't really know what to do. But for the first time in possibly his whole life, he doesn't entirely resent someone making the choice for him.