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Bruce Banner prided himself on his observational skills as a scientist. He could recognize minute differences in biochemical reactions that others would pass over, and his thorough notes had always been envied by his classmates as a student and his coworkers as a professional researcher.
It was a surprise, then, when people found out that those observational skills did not extend into his personal life. Bruce could see the differences, the changes, in people’s expressions and tones of voice, but unlike with his research, he could neither categorize nor recognize even half of them. Perhaps even more surprising was that Bruce was not bothered by his difficulty with understanding social cues, so he did not even try to categorize his observations of people. If he were able to control it, he would rather not notice the more elusive communication signals at all. Tony Stark, especially, was baffled by this discrepancy.
He pestered Bruce with casual flirtations and biting sarcasm incessantly for the first week that Bruce lived in the tower. Shortly after that, though, he suddenly stopped doing it. He was still his witty, posturing self, but he didn’t intentionally aim at Bruce anymore. Bruce wasn’t going to complain, but then Tony started a different secret social experiment on Bruce.
It started with simple references so subtle that Bruce couldn’t be sure he wasn’t imagining them. Tony would mention something with a pointed nonchalance that Bruce wouldn’t have recognized on anyone other than Tony, and then he would look at Bruce for a reaction. Bruce never gave him one, not on purpose, though; rather, he didn’t know what reaction Tony expected.
The first one that Bruce could remember was a few weeks after the Battle of New York, as the press had taken to calling it, when Tony was still doing galas and public appearances to go with his donations to rebuilding efforts.
“You should come with me.” Tony said, pulling Bruce’s attention away from the article he’d been reading.
“Sorry, for what?” Bruce took off his glasses to look at Tony so that he wouldn’t be tempted to drift back to his reading while they talked.
“It’s a fundraiser gala for a charity that supports people on the autism spectrum. I’m donating the funds for a new building since their insurance apparently doesn’t cover ‘crushing by space whales’.”
“Okay? Why should I come?”
“Well, PR’s pushing for all of the Avengers to get more involved in this stuff, and this one is on the mellower side, so it won’t be overwhelming for the autistic guests. I figured you’d appreciate that.”
“Oh. Okay. I guess so.” Bruce shrugged. He ended up going, and Tony didn’t make a big deal out of it, so Bruce figured it was just a coincidence.
A week later, Tony was in the middle of a ramble about how, before Bruce, he had hated doing lab work as a team when he said, “There was this one lab partner I had in college, though; he was alright. He was autistic, and he was really organized and got into this, like, hyperfocus that made him way more fun to work with. Also made him really good at blow jobs, though, so we didn’t actually get much done.” Tony winked at Bruce, who stared back awkwardly.
After a few months of this sort of thing, Bruce was considering just asking Tony about it or maybe telling him. He’d started scripting how he would bring it up, but the next day, he didn’t have to.
He’d started the day waking up from a nightmare, which in addition to being an emotional shock, meant that Bruce hadn’t gotten enough sleep. He didn’t bother changing out of his pajamas before heading down to the shared kitchen for breakfast. The dream of watching Iron Man fall from the sky played on repeat in his head. He knew the Hulk had caught him from what the others had told him afterward, but his memory and subsequent dreams jumped from Tony falling to him splayed on the pavement, helmet open, face slack and unmoving.
A sudden noise ripped him from his thoughts, and he clamped his hands over his ears instinctively. The intense whirring and grating sound threatened to scramble his thoughts as he looked up to see Natasha and Steve sitting at the counter island and Clint standing at a different counter with his back turned. The coffee grinder. Why couldn’t Bruce have just gotten dressed first? The extra minute upstairs would have saved him. Bruce forced himself to lower his hands while the grinder continued. The others didn't know that he was . . . sensitive. He tried to push his lips into a smile but barely managed a grimace. His hands were shaking from tension, so he laid them flat on the counter.
Steve nodded his head in Bruce’s direction when the coffee grinder stopped, “G’morning.”
Bruce did get a tight smile out then, and grunted a short, “morning” back. Natasha’s lips quirked up and back down at him, and Clint turned around, seeming surprised by Bruce’s entrance while he’d had his back turned.
Morning, Bruce. Ears off now, Clint signed. Bruce had picked up minimal ASL as a teenager when he went through several periods of being unable to speak, and even though he was out of practice with his own signing, he remembered enough to understand Clint fairly easily.
Bruce signed back as he said, “Are you making coffee?” Clint nodded and then turned to Natasha and signed a conversation with her that was far too fast for Bruce to follow. Bruce grabbed a bagel and sat at the table to eat it plain and cold, picking it apart. It was going to be one of those days. He was already too frayed to cook and eat proper food; if Clint hadn’t been making coffee, he wouldn’t have been having that either. On days like this, Bruce missed living alone. On the other hand, whether he liked it or not, it was on days like this that Bruce needed the company and support of his few friends.
By the time he joined Tony in the workshop, mentally cursing the loud music, he was already feeling raw, like his nerves had been peeled and exposed. He jumped when Jarvis greeted him. He knew the AI's acknowledgement of him was more to alert Tony to his presence than out of any coded politeness it had. He gave Tony a wave as he crossed the room to his own lab, then closed the door. It was mostly soundproof, for which Bruce was extremely grateful. Tony let him work on his own for a few hours but dragged him out around midday, so they could work on something together before breaking for lunch. If they broke for lunch, that is. Tony didn't seem to have any kind of internal clock for eating and sleeping habits.
Bruce followed him out to the main workshop. The music was off. He felt restless in its absence even though he preferred the silence to the painful volume at which Tony usually played it. Bruce started tapping his fists together lightly as they walked. Even with the repetitive movement and the minute jarring in his hands that he could concentrate on with every tap, his shoulders tensed, followed by his chest and biceps. He could feel his anxiety building and a nagging feeling in the back of his head like—
“Hey, Green Bean, are you even listening?”
Bruce blinked. “Uhh . . . I’m sorry. I’m just— let me go to the bathroom, first. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Bruce fled across the room and down the hall at his fastest socially acceptable walk. He did have to pee anyway, but he took a few moments after washing his hands to scrub his face with water and then hug his shoulders tight, pressure-stimming a little bit before heading back. Sometimes not being able to stim made him need to do it even more.
Tony definitely noticed his tension, and true to form, he pestered Bruce about it lightheartedly. Bruce tried to lighten up, letting himself continue his involuntary stims when he noticed them instead of suppressing them out of embarrassment and internalized guilt like he sometimes did. His father hadn't believed in therapy, but he'd made sure that Bruce knew he was different and that he had to hide it.
It wasn’t enough. His hands were trembling as he worked, and after nearly an hour of pushing through it, Tony finally called him out.
“Hey, Shaky McShakerson?” Tony said. Bruce froze; his hands continued to tremor. Tony walked around the table with his head tilted to the side and his brow furrowed. “You wanna tell me what the hell’s going on with you? I mean, I’m all for powering through whatever ails you, but when you start getting sloppy, that’s your cue to stop.” Tony carefully slid the pen from Bruce’s hand without touching him.
Bruce didn’t move. His hand remained in the same position, still shaking over his barely legible notes. He tried to think of a plausible excuse, but—
“If you try to tell me it’s low blood sugar or some shit, I’m kicking you out. You’ve been acting weird all day, and you’re putting a hole in my floor with your jackhammer leg.”
Bruce felt it coming and managed to shut up the other guy in his head before the meltdown overtook him. Every muscle tensed, and he furiously drove his hands through his hair, only just restraining the impulse to bang his head on the table.
Similar to his amnesia of the Hulk taking over, it wasn’t unusual for Bruce to not remember what happened during a meltdown. He knew he’d done something wrong, that Tony was trying to help and somehow knew that this wasn’t a Hulk-out, but as for how he ended up sprawled out on the cold tile floor of the workshop with his shoes off and bruises on his arms, he was lost. He lay there for another minute or two, processing.
Tony sat on a stool five feet away, arms crossed, looking . . . what was that? Angry? Concerned? Bruce stood up slowly and felt an ache in his joints. How long had he been lying there? He saw one of his shoes near a wall on the other side of the room. Had he thrown it? Nothing seemed broken, at least. He didn’t look at Tony while he searched for the other shoe. The skin on his face felt strangely tight from dried tears. He was congested but didn’t have a headache—yet.
“Can you talk, now?” Tony asked, still looking at the floor where Bruce had been.
Bruce’s chest was tight, and his throat was dry. He found the other shoe under the small black leather couch, which he sat on while he put on his shoes. He swallowed and tried to think of an answer. Tony had said “now,” like he was acknowledging that Bruce hadn’t been able to speak before. Bruce stayed on the couch for a minute, hunched in his guilt and shame at letting Tony see him like this. As if Tony hadn’t already seen him post-Hulk. Bruce wasn’t actually sure which was worse. He had to say something, at least to confirm he could speak.
“Y-yes.” His voice sounded like sandpaper, and the dryness made him want to cough, but he didn’t. He stood up and tried again, “I don’t—I’m sorry.”
“You’re what‽” Tony turned to look at Bruce with a shocked frown. “What the hell are you sorry for? You were wound up like a spring, you had a fucking meltdown, and you’re apologizing‽” He walked over and stretched out his arms to grab Bruce’s shoulders but stopped just short and dropped his hands to his sides. “You have no reason to be sorry, Bruce. I’ll admit, I didn’t know for sure, but I pushed you. Don’t blame yourself for losing control. God knows how you could keep a lid on it 24/7. And living with me? I’m a walking tornado of sensory bombs; I’m impressed you’ve managed to hide it for this long.”
Bruce slowly, cautious for himself more than for Tony, reached out and took one of Tony’s hands. The skin to skin contact made him feel raw, as if Tony’s calluses would grate on him, but the meltdown had passed, and the touch was reassuring now. “You can touch me. I won’t blow up anymore.” He said.
Tony’s hand closed around his for a momentary squeeze. “Do you want me to? Does that help? A hug, maybe? I, well, you know I’m not a hugger, but I don’t know what else to do here.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice, probably not for the hug, just for something to break the eggshells they were both walking on.
Bruce surged forward and wrapped his arms around Tony. He received an unexpectedly pleasant squeeze in return. Tony was good to him. Why had he been so worried about him finding out? Tony was nothing like Bruce’s father, or the boys in grade school, or the professors who gave him looks when he told them he had disability support, or the asshole who tried to discredit his resume when told of Bruce’s diagnosis. Tony was his friend.
Then, Tony’s face nuzzled into the crook of Bruce’s neck, and Bruce flinched. Tony jumped back like he’d been burned, hands up with his palms facing out in surrender. “Sorry. I don’t know the limits here. You’ve probably got your own good-touch bad-touch thing, huh? Feel free to just slap me or something if I really cross a line. Or just tell me what not to do. I feel like I’m doing all the talking here, which really isn’t right, so I’m just gonna shut up and let you say whatever it is you need to say. But don’t feel rushed. Take your time. I get it. Anxiety.” Tony pointed at himself at the last word and then stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Bruce rubbed the spot on his neck that Tony’s cheek had touched, trying to overwrite the sensation that lingered there. His mental fog post-meltdown made it hard to process Tony’s rapid rambling, but he got the gist of it. He replied, “I think you already know what I have to say. You knew before too, but you didn’t want to ask. . . . I’m autistic.” The memories attached to those words stung, but Bruce made an effort to focus on the present. “I don’t really remember the meltdown itself, but if it was bad enough that I threw my shoes, you do deserve an apology . . . and a thank you. How did you know I wasn’t, y’know, turning green?”
“Aside from your unchanging complexion? I’ve seen you like that before. This was different. And to be fair, you did grumble something about your shoes strangling you.” Tony shrugged. “I gotta ask though; is there any connection? Between this and Monster Mash?”
Bruce sighed. Tony was not the first to ask this. It had actually been one of the first things Bruce had thought of when he had first been able to take notes on his condition. “Not really. If you believe Erskine’s story about the serum building on the qualities a person already has, maybe, but I obviously still have regular, non-rage-monster meltdowns, so.”
“Does anybody else know? Fury? General Ross?”
“I don’t think so. I doubt they would trust my control if they knew. Tony, please don’t tell anyone. It doesn’t affect the quality of my work, but it does change the way people look at me, especially because of the Hulk. I’m usually better at self-regulating; this doesn’t happen very often.”
Tony nodded, “Yeah, I get it. One thing though, you can’t hide this from the team anymore. They can keep your secret, and if they get judgy, I’ll kick ‘em out. It’s just a precaution. If anything ever happens with you or the Hulk, you’ll need us all in your corner.”
“What if they’re not in my corner? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but autism isn’t exactly a predictor of good self-control. They won’t trust me. I barely even trust me.”
“I’ll vouch for you. If they’ve got beef, they can take it up with me. But you need to trust that we’re not going to do anything to you just for being yourself. You need to flap your arms or talk to yourself or wear headphones or whatever, you do what you’ve got to do. If any of them say anything or look at you funny, I’ll kick their ass. I don’t want you freaking out on me again if you don’t have to.” Tony clapped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder.
Bruce pulled a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes and said, “Thanks.”
Tony gathered them in the living room for the announcement. At first, they just looked relieved when they realized it wasn’t a crisis for The Avengers to deal with.
“Makes sense.” Clint nodded. “I mean, I wouldn’t have guessed it; I thought you were just, like, the social-anxiety-science-nerd type, but now that you say so, I see it.”
Natasha looked at Clint and fought a smirk that crept up her lips, but didn’t say anything. Steve didn’t know what autism was, so Tony helped Bruce explain.
“Think of it this way: all humans have the same general brain structure with all the parts connected in roughly the same way, but autistic people’s brains, even though they have the same structure, are wired a little differently.” Tony said.
Bruce nodded and continued, “All of the senses are dulled or heightened, usually some mix of both. My literal physical capacity to sense things is the same, but the way my brain processes the input is different. Sometimes it’s too much or too little, and I’ll do things to self regulate, called ‘stimming’, short for stimulus. Essentially, it’s repetitive behaviors that, for whatever reason, feel good and calm me down. All autistic people do it, but everyone has different things. It’s not really intentional, so I’ll sometimes do things without realizing it, and it’s hard to stop myself because it’s something that my brain kind of needs.”
Steve’s brow furrowed, and he spoke uncertainly, “Is that like, sorry if this is wrong, is that like when you . . . hum?”
“Hum?” Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Tony answered at the same time.
“What? Do I hum?” Bruce turned in his seat and leaned back as he looked at Tony.
“Yeah, when you’re focusing on something. It’s usually nonsense, but sometimes it’s a song.”
Bruce was bewildered. He had never noticed himself humming. “What song?”
“Indiana Jones soundtrack.” Clint smiled. “At least once, it was that.”
“But I—” Bruce thought for a minute and couldn’t pull the tune from his memory. “I haven’t seen them since . . . since they came out? I don’t even think I know it.”
“You definitely do.” Clint laughed. “You didn’t notice that you hum?”
Bruce looked at the floor. “Never.” Tony hummed a few notes, and they did sound familiar. He thought he knew all of his stims, even the unintentional ones.
“How do you do that, stim, without knowing that you’re doing it?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know. Since I was a kid, most of the things I did were pointed out to me because it annoyed people. I guess that one wasn’t annoying enough. Or it’s new.”
“Probably new.” Tony said. “You also grind your teeth sometimes. I don’t know if you noticed that one, but you’ve obviously been trying to hide your stims, so since you don’t hide that one . . .”
“Obviously?”
“Well, after I did some research, yeah. Your anxiety is palpable, buddy. Why do you think I gave you your own lab? It can’t be good for you, holding yourself back all the time.”
“Right . . . well, I guess I’m not hiding anything anymore.” Bruce crossed his arms over his chest. Would they expect him to stim all the time now? Surely, they would be watching him. He shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to do some kind of stim now, but it would feel like a demonstration. He couldn’t think of what would help, now that he was conscious of it, and with everyone staring at him, he didn’t want to be a spectacle. “Uhm, I’m gonna . . . go, now.” Bruce turned and tried to keep his walk casual, which of course meant his pace would be more awkward because of the effort. Once he was out of the room, he alternated between squeezing his shoulders and flapping his hands all the way up to his room, where he collapsed on the bed.
Hours that felt like minutes later, a knock on the door startled Bruce out of his unintentional meditation (read: staring into space).
He got up and opened it, and Tony let himself in. “Look, I know I’m being a hypocrite here, but you’ve got to trust us. You’re in an awkward spot, I get it, but shutting yourself away all day is no better than bottling up your sensory needs.”
“Bottling up m— I’m fine. I just came up here to cool off. You do realise that I’ve been this way for my entire life, right? Forty-three years ought to be enough for me to know how to look after myself. You’ve known about it for, what, a few weeks, and you think you know what I need better than I do?” Bruce had gotten this from people his entire life. Everyone who knew his diagnosis tried to pin him into a symptom checklist and pretend they knew what was good for him. Most of the time they were wrong.
“I know you aren’t comfortable stimming in front of us, which, yeah, is kind of what you need. It’s only awkward if you make it that way. Nobody here thinks any less of you. Also, hiding for four hours after a conversation like that isn’t really helping your point.”
“I’m not— wait, four hours?” Bruce picked up his phone and checked. “Shit. I was supposed to finish that synthesizing thing today.” Tony raised an eyebrow at him. “Fine, let’s go.”
Natasha was the only one still on the common floor. She put down her book when Bruce followed Tony out of the elevator. “What’s up, nerds?” She called with a smirk.
Bruce gave her his default greeting of a silently raised a hand in a short wave. He followed Tony across the room and sat on a bar stool while Tony poured himself a drink.
Natasha walked over and leaned back on the bar, looking pensively at Bruce. “I wondered when you would tell people. If you would, I guess.” Bruce blinked and took a moment to understand what she was referring to. “You knew? You and Tony?” He rubbed his hands over his arms, anxiety building again.
“Oooh, don’t flatter him. I knew long before he did, before I met you.”
“What? But Shield doesn’t—”
“No, Shield doesn’t, but universities do. I looked you up. Not on google.”
Bruce felt like she’d somehow betrayed him, but he wasn’t sure how. Whatever database she’d found him in certainly wasn’t public, but finding things out about people was part of her job. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Why didn’t you?” She shrugged.
That stumped him. She’d been taking her cues from him, and he hadn’t given any. “People normally treat me differently once they know. You didn’t though, did you?”
“You remember when we met? One hell of a first impression. You shot down everything I knew about you in two moves. So, no. I didn’t treat you differently. I treated you like you.”
“You’re not really a stereotype of anything, buddy. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” Tony chimed in.
Bruce rocked in his seat and decided he would have to stew in that for a while before he knew how he felt, but he thought, maybe, with the team on his side, Tony could be right. He could not tell Tony he’d thought that.