Work Text:
Plink, plink, plink!
BumBAdumdum-bumBAdumdum.
Bum bum bum buuummmmmm!!
“Questions, comments, concerns?” asks Tony, sliding his hand over the glossy grand piano. It's a rich mahogany, made with the finest faux ivory. An inscription inside the key hood spells out a perfect name in beautiful gold script, with ‘love from Tony’ etched on by his own hand to personalize the exquisite gift.
“It's a piano,” Bruce nods, thumping another key, the string within the instrument humming nicely, albeit redundantly.
“It's a piano that cost me a flight back home to California,” says Tony, looking up at the ceiling of his massive storage unit (honestly, it’s more like a miniature warehouse), “It cost me the plane ticket. And the plane.”
“If that's your way of discreetly telling me that I'm playing on a piano that cost more than I have made in ten years, you're doing a very good job of it,” says Bruce, and he rubs his hands together, looking up at his friend, “Look, Tony, I know nothing about music…”
“That is a load of crap,” says the billionaire, leaning against the instrument and crossing his arms, “Your shower operas are the laugh of the team.”
Bruce sighs.
“I-I guess I think I'm not the right person to ask. I don't know anything about pianos, or what (f/n) would like for Christmas, or-or anything, really.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, a deep furrow in his brow. Then he looks up again, motioning to the piano. “Look, it's nice. It's really nice. Any pianist would love to have it, okay? Any artist of any kind would love to have it.”
“Would you love to have it?”
“What- No! No, I would not; I don't have anywhere to put it!”
“Then not anyone.”
“Any artist. Artist, Tony.”
“Then you think she'll like it?”
“Yeah, I do! It's a beautiful piano!”
“Okay, good,” says Tony, “I'll have it delivered tonight.”
“I think (f/n) will really love it,” assures Bruce.
The woman in question is a jack of all trades. She sings, she plays the piano and the violin, she dances, paints, decorates, sculpts… She does it all.
Bruce knew from the moment he met her that it was only a matter of time before he would fall madly in love with her.
He also knew that Tony would like her.
And he hated it.
However, being Dr. Banner, a professional, he put aside his grievances in favor of his work and of staying in the clear with his team. He didn't want a ‘priorities speech’ from Cap, he didn't want the same speech (but less flowery) from Widow, he didn’t want Thor to tell him to ‘chase down the maiden’, he didn't want Clint to offer him a knowing punch on the arm and quick nod saying ‘it's hard but doable’, and he didn't want Tony to find out for any reason. He didn't.
And yet…
There she was.
Beautiful, clever, artistic. Sensible and fashionable and quirky in all the best ways.
And he loves her for it.
And, despite that, Tony still managed to outdo his Christmas present to her. Pepper probably pondered it up for him, providing perfect presents for all the pretty, posh pixies surrounding the rich man.
Bruce sighs softly, sticking his hands in his pockets. He hopes she can still enjoy the present he got her, but there's really no comparison.
He watches as some men flock to the piano and toss moving straps over it. They then load it onto their truck.
Bruce walks away with his head hanging miserably. He doesn't have money to lavish on her, but he most certainly has the heart to.
~o0o~
“Dr. Banner! Hi!” chirps (f/n), wrestling the door open with her elbow. Her hands and wrists are covered in clay, as is the front of her, but she welcomes the man in happily. “What brings you by?”
“I brought you some hot chocolate,” he says, holding up the cup, “I was in the neighborhood and figured I'd say hi. What are you working on?”
“I'm making a salt pig!” she says excitedly, stepping back over to her throwing wheel. She turns the metal plate with her hand, encouraging it into a quick pace, and drips water onto the wet pot. It looks like a vase so far, and a beautifully made one at that.
“A salt pig?” Bruce smiles, his brows knitting in confusion.
“Yeah,” she says, sliding her dominant hand down into the barrel of the vessel and supporting the outer wall with the other. A ripple surfaces in the clay and, as if by magic, the vase opens up like a flower. “It's a pot that's closed on the top with an opening on the side, and it's used to store salt in. I'll close up the top of this shape and cut the opening when it's had some time to dry.”
“I've never heard of a salt pig,” comments Bruce, sitting on a kitchen chair to watch.
Her apartment is a modified studio apartment. The room is split evenly down the center by a temporary wall, with only the tiny bathroom on the living room side offsetting the otherwise perfect balance. On the side you step into when you walk in, there's a large fold-out couch that transforms into her bed in the evenings, and a tv and a recliner and everything else needed in a living room, and the other side of the wall houses the kitchen and the studio part of her studio apartment. There's a storage room in the basement of the apartment building where she keeps her various tools; power tools for building projects, props for her infamous Skit Night (more like nightmare when Bruce gets roped into a role), two spare easels, her bicycle (which she broke and hasn't fixed), and her throwing wheel when she's not using it.
“I hadn't either,” she says, “But I was watching this guy’s YouTube videos and one for a salt pig popped up. And here I am!”
“Here you are.” Bruce smiles softly, watching, transfixed as her hands gently prod the open vase to a closed, rounded thing, shaped oddly like a bullet. She mops up the water from within it before sealing the top, then smoothes the side with a wet sponge until it's practically glassy.
“Do you want to try making a bowl?” she asks, but she laughs and shakes her head, her fingertips on the turntable as it slows to a stop, “Don't answer. Just try it. I think you'll like it.”
“No, no, that's really just your thing,” replies Bruce, waving his hand dismissively, “I'm okay with watching, honest.”
“There's nothing more to watch,” she explains, lifting the plate with the vessel on it off of the table and carefully walking it over to the nearest kitchen counter, “I can't go any further with this piece today.”
“Still, I'm fine.”
“Oh, come on, Bruce!” She smiles at him and holds up her dirty hands. “Nothing better than playing with mud. You'll love it, and if you don't, I'll never insist that you try anything ever again.”
Bruce looks at her and sighs, nodding finally. She is far too hard to say no to.
“All right, I'll try it,” he relents, and she gives a giddy giggle of excitement. He watches her wash her hands, then step over and dig around in a plastic Ikea tote bag.
“Is there anything you need?” she asks, “A certain type of vessel?”
Bruce shakes his head, shrugging, pulling a blank.
“A flower pot?” she asks, grinning freely, “Everyone likes flowers!”
Bruce chuckles, but nods, and she produces a block of dark red clay wrapped in bags. She claws out a lump of it and rolls it around in her hands.
“Put the plate on the turntable,” she says, pointing to the plate, “There are a couple posts that it'll lock into. There you go; perfect.” Then she hands the clay to Bruce. “You have to throw it down as close to the center of the plate as you can. And throw it hard so it sticks.”
Bruce does as he's told, but inexperience calls for adjustment by the teacher.
Once the lump is centered, (f/n) shows Bruce how to start the wheel spinning and how much water he needs on his project to begin. She shows how he needs to hold his hands, then lets him begin.
“Push down,” she says, sipping her hot chocolate as she views his timid start, “Gotta put your back into it. Yup. And cup your hands around it and guide it up. A little tighter is fine. There we go. I don't know the science behind why it needs to be done, but it seems to relax the clay.”
“You make it look so easy,” says Bruce, wincing as a grain of sand in the clay cuts against his hand. It doesn't split the skin, but it easily could've.
“Lots of practice,” she murmurs, sitting down across from him now that he's got a good hold on the clay. She turns the chair around and straddles it, placing her right arm over the top to rest her chin on while her cup remains in her left. “Now you're gonna push your thumbs into the middle of the blob. Add some water if it's pulling. And gently, gently pull your thumbs to your palms.”
It's a blissfully relaxing session spent with her. None of the five clay pots Bruce attempted look amazing, but he made them, and he made them to the voice of the woman he loves, to her instruction and to her laughter.
And Tony's piano, though it stood proudly in the living room, was never once brought up.
He will forever cherish that afternoon.
~o0o~
A few days later, Bruce drops by again, veiling the visit with another weak excuse. Today, (f/n) is making a huge, huge batch of fudge. Huge. She has ten pounds of butter sitting on the counter and all of it is going into the batch.
Obviously, she plans to sell it, but Bruce knows that it'll be used for Christmas presents, too.
Her response to Bruce's timid knock is a cheerful ‘door's open!’
“It's Bruce, (f/n)!” he calls, and she appears in the doorway of the kitchen.
“Oh, hello!” she exclaims, skipping over and throwing her arms around him. He savors the moment, albeit briefly, and smiles as she drags him into the kitchen. “You're gonna help me, right?”
“With..?”
“Fudge. And a lot of it,” she says, motioning to her set up. She has metal bars framing her countertop, and a massive slab of marble sits beneath them, protecting the cheap laminate of the original surface. Bruce winces when he imagines her moving the rock onto the counter by herself. And he's fairly certain she did.
“Well, what do you need me to do?” he asks, rolling up the sleeves of his mint green button-front.
“Wash your hands and stand by,” she says, grinning cheekily, “Here, you can help me unwrap the butter.”
And so they unwrap the butter, and Bruce gets the job of unwrapping all of the chocolate bars and chopping them up.
“And-and then he slides across the muddy floor, and mops up the dirt -and I mean mops- with his hip. I laughed out of reflex and he flipped. He got so mad, but it was sooo funny,” says (f/n), snickering into the massive pot of melting butter.
“Well, you certainly got an entertaining memory from his pain,” chuckles Bruce, pouring sugar into the golden fat.
“I certainly did,” she replies, stepping over to the fridge and pulling out a couple gallons of milk. She speaks again as she empties the first into the pot. “So, I'm going to throw a little Christmas party this weekend. You're absolutely invited. And your plus-one of choice.”
“Oh. Thanks,” nods Bruce, and she jumps on the opportunity, knowing that she needs to strike while the iron’s hot.
“Do you think you could help me decorate?” she asks, putting the empty jug into the sink though her eyes remain fixed on Bruce.
“Me? I-I don't have any taste in decorating…”
“That's okay!” she says quickly, reaching over and giving Bruce's shoulder an amicable squeeze, “I have all my decorations prepared; all you have to do is help put them in the right place.”
“I wouldn't want to mess it up…”
“Not possible!” she pipes, shrugging, “It'll be easy-peasy. I promise!”
“Okay.” Bruce offers a stiff smile, but it relaxes when she laughs, relieved, and turns around to stir the beginning of her fudge.
The candy turns out beautifully; better than anything Bruce has bought in any shop. He's given a generous slab to bring home and he takes the anticipation of seeing (f/n) again with him.
~o0o~
Red, green, and gold. All traditional, elegant colors for (f/n)’s decor.
Bruce holds up a lush, two-foot wreath and asks where to put it.
“On the front door,” she instructs, but clarifies when he lifts the hook onto the apartment door, “No, no; sorry. The building's front door.”
“Oh, that's nice of you.”
“That, and it's tradition. I've done it every year since I moved here,” she says, grunting softly as she stretches to stick a command hook high enough on the wall without needing a ladder.
“Even nicer,” smiles Bruce, and he closes the apartment door behind him and descends the several flights of stairs to hang the wreath. It's made of freshly trimmed spruce, and wafts a spicy sweetness with every brush it makes against the man’s sweater. It's decorated with gold ribbon and faux cranberries.
“Helpin’ (f/n) with her display this year?” asks a middle-aged black man smoking outside.
“Yeah, she roped me into it,” nods Bruce, double-checking that the wreath is perfectly straight and centered on the door.
“Green, red, and gold, huh?”
“I'm sorry?”
“Theme colors,” the man says, “Last year, it was blue and silver. Year before, white an’ red. Year before that, red an’ gold, but no green.”
“So there's a method to her madness?” Bruce smiles to himself.
“She tries not to overlap the colors; says it makes it boring. I dunno, man; I'd still like it if it was the same colors every year. Makes the place fancy.”
“Does everyone in the building appreciate it, too?”
“Aw, totally, totally,” says the neighbor, laughing as he puffs on his cigarette, “She's always doin’ stuff for us. Givin’ us candy or somethin’.”
“Yeah, she's a lovely human being.”
“Special.”
Bruce nods in total agreement.
“Very special,” he says.
~o0o~
The next night is (f/n)’s party, and it's a beautiful one. Gold garland drapes luxuriously along the walls, gathered up by heavy sprays of greenery. A tall, full tree stands proudly dressed in red, gold, and bright lights, old-fashioned ribbon and ball ornaments glittering becomingly.
The piano, that beautiful piano, the centerpiece of the apartment, is crowned with a set of eleven gold candlesticks each holding a tall, red candle.
Bruce knocks politely before stepping into the apartment. He's late and apologizes as soon as he sees (f/n).
“No worries,” she laughs, a bright red lipstick gracing her smile. She pats his arm lightly, then glances behind him. “No plus-one?”
Bruce chuckles slightly and scratches behind his ear.
“Um...yeah, no plus-one,” he confirms, “Just me.”
“So I get you to myself all night!” she grins, linking her arm in his, “Good for me.”
“Yeah, me too,” he says. He glances down at her gorgeous dress -a green A-line dress with a tulle skirt that stops right at the knee, while the bodice is a slim-fitting expanse of lush velvet. A sash tied in a fat bow rests at the small of her back, and two elegant red heels hug her feet, also velvet, but simple, a shell toe its only defining feature after the material it's made of.
Bruce wonders if he's underdressed, noticing a pair of gold earrings dangling from her lobes and a matching cuff on her left wrist. He wears a red dress shirt and his best black tie, slacks, and shoes. He doesn't wear a vest or a jacket, but thinks that he maybe should have.
“I must say, you look incredibly handsome tonight,” murmurs (f/n), walking Bruce through the doorway to the kitchen. Some neighbors crowd around a table covered with all kinds of treats, and some additional strangers ooh and ahh over some of the many excellent art pieces that (f/n) has worked on during the year.
“So do you,” he answers quickly, and he feels his neck go red with embarrassment, “You look stunning.”
She smiles, a fleeting look of giddy pleasure overtaken by a smooth, but satisfied laugh.
“Why, thank you,” she says, and she offers Bruce a mug of eggnog, and he accepts it.
It's a low-key party, one meant for talking and eating and observing. Bruce stayed near the hostess at all times, not bothering to hide the fact that, no, he did not want to mingle, and, yes, she was the only person he felt even slightly comfortable around. He thought Tony was invited, and his suspicion was confirmed when he asked her. She told him that the billionaire had other issues to deal with and sadly couldn't attend. Bruce had never been more pleased with Tony’s schedule.
He blinks out of his thoughts when she says his name.
“What?” he asks, still holding his mug, the contents long gone.
“A duet.” (F/n) smiles at him, sitting at her lovely piano and playing a few notes. The notes take shape when she begins to sing.
“I really can't stay...no, I've just-I've got to go ‘way.” She cracks a blithe grin, her drama-class take on the song something that anyone who knows her should expect. Bruce shakes his head, but she just nods and grins, and he quickly complies. “This evening has been...oh-so-very nice.”
“I'll take your hand, it's cold as ice.”
“My mama will start to worry.”
“Beautiful, what's your hurry?”
“And my daddy will be pacin’ the floor.”
“Just listen to the fireplace roar.”
Bruce sits beside her on the bench and plunks out a couple harmonizing chords, a playful addition to the song. He glances at her, only to find that she's watching him enjoy himself. This is a side of him that's taken a long time to show.
“I've got to get home.”
“Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there.”
“Say, lend me your coat; the gray Cardinals hoodie.”
“It's up to your knees out there; no, that's my favorite.”
“You’ve really been grand.”
“Ah, but it's cold outside!”
(F/n) lets out a happy cheer, leading the little crowd in applause.
It's a comfortable evening, and certainly the best party Bruce has ever attended.
He bundles up in his coat and scarf after helping her with the enormous task of cleaning up. She thanks him and packs him some leftover cookies to take home.
It's not long after he leaves that she notices the gift sitting on her bedside table; a small, long box, and a single, ruby red rose.
Within the box is a simple, but truly elegant gold necklace. On the chain rests a small heart-shaped locket, no bigger than her thumbnail. Within the locket is a miniscule inscription, one that could easily go unnoticed, but blessedly does not.
‘To the wild artist I desperately adore. -B’
She runs from her apartment with the chain gripped tightly in her hand.
“Bruce! Bruce!!” Her voice explodes down the quiet street and the man turns immediately, a subdued smile spreading over his face. She runs down to him, careful of the ice, and throws her arms around his neck. “Bruce, do you love me?” she whispers.
She receives a silent nod, his arms gently encircling her waist and drawing her closer.
“That's good,” she breathes, pulling back to look at him and stroke her hands down his face, “Because I love you. I really do, and I have for so long.”
Bruce kisses her. It's a soft, gentle, loving kiss, one that pulls the breath right out of her, one that whispers every sweet nothing and promises no harsh words. It's a kiss that marks the end of a friendship, but the beginning of something so much better. It's a kiss that has waited, and waited, and waited, and can now burst with every bit of passion that this quiet little man can muster.
He is a man that she will forever love, forever cherish.
She is a woman that he will fight for, protect, and honor.
And their feelings prove solid the moment the church bells ring three months later.