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Bruce isn’t surprised when Tony kisses him. He even lets himself enjoy it for a moment, parting his lips to grant Tony access to his wine-warmed mouth, letting Tony thread fingers through his already disheveled hair. He nips at Tony’s bottom lip and Tony moans, surging forward to press himself closer, and that’s when Bruce puts a hand on Tony’s chest and gently, reluctantly pushes him away.
Bruce doesn’t make an appearance in the lab the next day. After confirming with JARVIS that his guest hasn’t left the tower, Tony decides not to push it and gives Bruce his space.
On the second day, Bruce shows up a little after noon. He gives Tony a nod as he takes a seat at his terminal, and for a long while the only sounds in the lab are the clack of Bruce’s keyboard, the occasional hum of Tony’s blowtorch, and the shrill, sexed-up vocal stylings of Brian Johnson. Eventually, when the sun is low and red in sky, Tony turns down the music and rolls his chair over to Bruce. He pulls up the schematics for the suit upgrades he’s working on, and Bruce finishes commenting out the lines of Perl he’d been writing before giving Tony his full attention. They toss some ideas back and forth and make a few modifications to the plans, and they do an excellent job of not talking about it.
On the third day, Tony thinks that maybe it’ll just blow over until one minute Bruce is suggesting a possible bio-enhancement for the suit and the next he’s saying, “I was thinking of taking some time off.”
Tony’s heard Bruce say those words--or something like them--four times now. The three times previous, Bruce had then proceeded to disappear to parts unknown for a period of time no less than six weeks. The last time he’d been gone for five months, and when he came back Tony had been torn between punching him in the face and wrapping himself around Bruce’s body like an oversized, four-limbed octopus. He’d settled for making a smart remark about how he was sure Bruce must have just forgotten his number, because he was pretty fucking sure the Starkphone he’d given him worked in Cambodia, and he couldn’t imagine any other reason Bruce wouldn’t have thought to call.
This time when he says it, Tony takes a second to pretend to look thoughtful and then counters with, “You know, that’s not a bad idea. I can’t even remember the last time I went on an actual, god’s honest vacation. Where should we go?”
Bruce frowns, and Tony just looks at him expectantly, raised eyebrows saying, your move, motherfucker, and then Bruce runs an agitated hand through his hair, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
Tony flicks his wrist and the holoscreens between them whisk away. “Listen, sometimes you need some space, need to get out of the city, I totally get it. Sometimes, probably, you think you need some space from me”--he doesn’t even hesitate when he says it, but Bruce can still see the hurt in the stiff line of his shoulders, the brief furrow of his brow--“and hell, maybe sometimes you do, but I don’t think this is one of those times. I think this is the opposite of one of those times. You can’t keep running away every time you get a little spooked.”
“I’m not ‘a little spooked,’ Tony,” Bruce says sharply, an edge of anger to his voice. “This isn’t a game.”
“I know it’s not. But I don’t think you need to pick up and hightail it across the planet every time you get to have something you want, either.” Bruce deflates a little at that, his shoulders sagging, and Tony presses, “And while I’m sure it’s very romantic that you want to protect me from what a bad, dangerous man you are, it’s also really fucking condescending. I’m the goddamn Iron Man.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a reputation for your well-developed sense of self-preservation.”
“In addition to the self-destructive tendencies, I’ve also been told I’m compulsive and a textbook narcissist. I’m pretty sure you like those things about me.”
Bruce sighs. “I like you, that doesn’t mean I like everything about you.”
“So if you like me so much,” Tony says, willfully ignoring the dig, “then you can come with me to the beautiful white sand beaches of Bora Bora.”
“Bora Bora,” Bruce parrots, and it comes out like a question, and that’s when Tony knows he’s won.
“I mean if you’d prefer somewhere else, say the word, but I got a place in mind you’re gonna love.”
Bruce scrubs a hand over his face, wondering how he managed to so completely lose control of this conversation. Tony swipes at the air and the holoscreens reappear, and he’s pretty sure there’s nothing left now but the waiting.
“You can’t fix me, Tony.”
“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says, looking over the calculations they were working on yesterday. “Last time I checked, you don’t need fixing.”
Bruce lets out a laugh that sounds angry and brittle, but he slumps into one of the desk chairs, kicking his legs straight out in front of him and tipping his head back to stare up at the ceiling. Tony lets it lie, because one thing life with Bruce is teaching him is how to exercise a modicum of patience if it’s likely to get him what he wants, and eventually Bruce says, “Fine,” the word muffled by his hands, which are completely covering his face.
“Excellent,” Tony says with a grin, fingers flying across the screen as he makes a few tweaks to the schematics. “JARVIS, make the necessary arrangements with Manua. Banner, pack yourself a bag, we’re leaving first thing in the morning.”
First thing in the morning for Tony Stark translates to about 12:30pm for the rest of the world, so Bruce has time enough to talk himself out of and back into going on this trip no less than five times before Tony finally shows up at his door, not even bothering to knock, just letting himself in with a holler of, “Bruce, I’m here, I assume you’ve got pants on!”
Bruce is actually wearing the only pair of shorts he owns--a pair of khaki cargo shorts, because of course--and a worn blue hoodie pulled on over one of Tony’s old t-shirts that, borrowed after a mission Bruce’s shirt didn’t make it out of, has somehow never made its way back into his host’s closet. Complete the look with a pair of thong sandals and he looks about as casual as Tony’s ever seen him. Tony walks over to him and pulls the hood up, doesn’t lean in and kiss him even though he wants to. He takes his sunglasses off and puts them on Bruce and says, “There. Now you look like the Unabomber.”
“I thought he had a moustache,” Bruce says, pulling the hood down and pushing the glasses up into his hair.
There’s a helicopter waiting for them on the roof of the tower, because Tony knows Bruce has a hard time with Manhattan traffic and also because it’s not so often he gets to fly a chopper these days, now that he’s got the suit. Bruce makes a comment about how his life is ridiculous, but he pulls on the headset and is legitimately interested as Tony walks him through the meters on the instrument panel, and once they’re up in the air he presses his nose to the window, staring rapt at the city below.
They transfer to a private jet out of JFK, just the two of them, the pilot, and the co-pilot. Tony makes them Manhattans and instead of sitting across from Bruce, or in any of the nine other empty rows, he sits directly beside him. Bruce raises an eyebrow but he lets their fingers brush when he takes the rocks glass from Tony, the sort of casual touch he’s started allowing--seeking out, even--since he got back from his most recent vanishing act; it’s one of the reasons why Tony thought he’d be able to get away with kissing him the other night.
Bruce drinks his cocktail in one long, slow sip, leaving the cherry at the bottom of the glass. Tony fishes it out without asking, and as he’s chewing he complains, “Templeton’s more of a sipping rye, really.”
“Next time I’ll be sure to savor the flavor,” Bruce says insincerely, then slides down in his seat and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his eyes. He also splays out his legs until his knee rests against Tony’s thigh, which is close enough to an act of affection that Tony doesn’t even poke at him, just lets him try to sleep.
It’s 8pm local time when Tony pulls their rented, open-top Jeep Wrangler up to the bungalow, the only structure in sight for several miles in any direction. They packed light, and Tony swings both bags over his shoulder, saying, “Why don’t you have a look around while I make us some dinner?”
Bruce is standing a few feet away with his toes dug into the cooling nighttime sand, staring out at the horizon. He nods absently and starts off toward the water. Tony watches him for a minute, appreciating the sight of Bruce pulling the hoodie off over his head, not even bothering to unzip it, and the way the t-shirt underneath rides up his back at the effort.
Inside, Tony busies himself with the unpacking. It’s something he’d normally delegate to someone on staff, but out here it’s just him and Bruce, and anyway he’s glad for the excuse to kill some time. Bruce has been quiet since they left New York, the way he gets in the days before he shows up in the lab with a packed duffle bag and a promise he’ll come back, and Tony isn’t entirely sure what to do with him when he gets like this, is hoping that if he can give him enough space, Bruce won’t disappear in the middle of the night.
But, you know, not too much space. He is Tony Stark, after all.
And so when Bruce doesn’t make his way back in what Tony has deemed an acceptable amount of time, he throws some food on a plate and wanders down the beach with it until he finds Bruce sitting in the soft sand right where it meets the cresting surf, hoodie spread out under him as a blanket. His legs are stretched out so that the water, when it makes it that far up the beach, laps at his feet.
“I brought dinner,” Tony says, wagging the plate in Bruce’s general direction as he gracelessly plops down next to him.
Bruce quirks one eyebrow, smiling. “Sandwiches?”
“Hey, never said I could cook.”
So they eat their sandwiches and Tony fills Bruce’s silence by going on about the new arrows he’s thinking of making for Barton and the investors’ meeting Pepper’s dragging him to next week and the adorable email he got from Steve this morning asking what the hell is Seamless and why doesn’t anyone want to talk to other human beings anymore. Bruce nods and smiles and shakes his head as is appropriate, and it’s not until they’ve finished eating and Tony’s running out of steam, stretching a story about Happy’s new girlfriend about five minutes too long, that Bruce asks, matter-of-factly, “What exactly are we doing out here, Tony?”
Tony’s running dialogue stops mid-sentence, his whole body freezing as he visibly shifts gears, and then he forcibly adopts a posture of comfortable nonchalance. He shrugs and says, “You wanted to get out of the city, I wanted to come with you.”
Bruce leans back on his arms, elbows digging into the sand. Further down the coast is a cluster of tiny yellow lights, signs of civilization that barely touch them here in the dark, make the rest of the world seem even further removed by their distance. Here they have only the moonlight reflecting off the water, but it’s enough to illuminate Tony’s profile in silver shadows, so Bruce closes his eyes, listens to the gentle rhythm of the waves. He can feel Tony next to him--he’s always so aware of Tony’s presence--but if he just closes his eyes and listens, he can almost pretend that he’s alone.
“What is it you want from me?”
Everything, Tony wants to say, the word on the tip of his tongue. That want rises in his chest as he looks over at the other man, taking in the lean lines of Bruce’s body, the ever-present tension bubbling just under his skin. Tony wants everything from Bruce, everything he’s willing to give and probably the things he isn’t, and because he has no self-control--everyone knows it--he says it. He says, “Everything.”
Bruce doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t miss a breath, doesn’t react. He exhales slowly and asks, “For how long?”
“I don’t know, for as long as I can. What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I spent seven years telling myself that my life had to be a certain way, teaching myself that what I wanted was always, forever secondary to the safety of the people around me. It’s not exactly an easy way to live.”
“So stop living that way,” Tony says, like it’s just that simple, like that’s actually an option. Bruce takes another breath and lets it out, pushing the anger out with it.
“If I stop, I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to start again,” he admits.
“Good,” Tony says, and then he throws a leg over Bruce to straddle him, brings his hands up to frame Bruce’s face, runs a thumb over the line of Bruce’s jaw until he relents and opens his eyes. “Good,” he repeats, holding Bruce’s gaze, and then he kisses him, and Bruce lets him.
“I might fuck this up,” Tony says, his legs still on either side of Bruce’s thighs, but he’s leaning back now, putting some space between them. “I’m not going to pretend like that’s not a very real possibility. But if it means you let yourself have your fucking life back, isn’t it worth the risk?”
When Bruce opens his eyes this time, they’re green, but Tony stands his ground until Bruce physically pushes him away--not a shove, nothing violent, but firm and unyielding. Tony lets himself be pushed, landing in the wet sand at Bruce’s feet.
“Nothing’s worth the risk.”
“Then why did you even come out here?” Tony demands, the wet seeping into his jeans.
Bruce runs a hand over his face, willing himself to relax. “Because I’m tired, and I’m weak, and this is exactly why I needed to leave.”
“Bullshit.” Bruce’s eyes flare green again, but Tony doesn’t give a shit. “You got your act together years ago, you’re one of Earth’s Mightiest Goddamn Heroes, the way you fill out a pair of pants is fucking obscene. The only person not on the Bruce-Banner-is-a-God-Among-Men train is you, and you are too fucking brilliant to be the last one to show up to this particular party.”
“When you say things like that, it feels like you are literally ripping my heart out of my chest.”
“Don’t say ‘literally’ when you’re speaking figuratively--huge pet peeve of mine.” And Bruce is about to say something in reply to that, but Tony cuts him off as he moves to his feet. “Listen. We’re jetlagged and my ass is wet and this is about as much honesty as I can stand in a thirty-six hour period. Let’s call it a night.”
“Tony--”
“Nope, try again in twelve hours.”
And Bruce looks like he’s not through with this conversation at all, but he takes Tony’s proffered hand and lets himself be pulled to his feet.
"Ugh, sand," Tony complains, stripping off his wet, sandy jeans. "I knew there was a reason I don't do beaches.”
"Good thing you've got a beach house, then," Bruce says as he reappears from down the hall. "So I can't help but notice there's only one bed."
"Too presumptuous?”
"Yes," Bruce says immediately, but he pulls his shirt off over his head, throwing it carelessly to the floor, and climbs into the bed.
“See, now I’m torn. Because on the one hand I’m all about the chest hair but on the other you look especially good wearing my clothes.
“Narcissist.”
"Textbook. Do you want me to sleep on the couch?" Tony really doesn't want to sleep on the couch.
"No.”
"Thank god, I'm not sure what I would have done if you’d said yes."
"Get in the bed, Tony."
So he does, and there's a few seconds of shuffling around until they're both under the thin cotton sheet, carefully not touching each other. Bruce is lying flat on his back, eyes closed, with his hands folded together over his ribs. Tony wasn’t lying about how much he likes the dark, dense hair covering Bruce’s chest, and he desperately wants to run his fingers through it.
“You understand that you’re sending me incredibly mixed signals, right?”
Bruce exhales slowly. “I thought we were done talking for the night.”
“That was before you took your shirt off.”
“I can put it back on.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” Bruce doesn’t reply, just lets out a sharp exhalation through his nose that Tony chooses to interpret as a laugh. After a moment he adds, “Is it okay if I touch you?”
Bruce’s entire body tenses, and his face crumples, and for a second Tony thinks he has irrevocably fucked this up. But then Bruce nods, his expression smoothing out into something more complacent, and Tony very carefully wraps an arm around Bruce’s waist. Slowly, Bruce relaxes, and Tony moves closer, pressing his face into the crook of Bruce’s neck.
“Okay?” Tony asks.
And Bruce nods again. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
By the time Tony wanders into the kitchen the next morning, Bruce is sitting at the table with an empty cup of coffee at his elbow, tapping sporadically at his Starkpad. He makes a little noise of recognition when Tony enters the room.
“Breakfast?” Tony asks, rubbing at his eyes. Bruce hums a confirmation, nodding vaguely at the fruit on the counter with a slight tip of his head. Tony doesn’t actually look over, distracted by the way Bruce’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth. “What are you working on?”
Bruce doesn’t respond right away, but after a few seconds he grimaces and turns the screen toward Tony. “I hate this game.”
Tony lets out a surprised laugh. “You’re playing Angry Birds?”
“I can’t make three stars on this level,” he complains, laying the tablet flat on the table and stabbing at the retry icon. “What the fuck am I doing wrong?”
Tony climbs up onto the table so he’s looming over the screen, his legs folded under him. He watches indulgently as Bruce plays through the level again, falling just shy of a three star score.
“You know the physics on this thing aren't exactly true to life,” Tony says as Bruce curses and pushes himself away from the table.
“Here’s what’s really embarrassing,” Bruce confides, moving to his feet, “I’ve been working at it for like forty-five minutes.”
Tony laughs again and swipes up the tablet. “Is it gonna totally piss you off when I three star this thing in one try?”
“When, eh?” Bruce asks, arms crossed over his chest and one hip against the counter. “Alright, fine, impress me with your skills.”
Tony looks over at him, eying him up with a wickedly lascivious grin, and Bruce rolls his eyes. “You wanna make it interesting?”
“Not really.”
“God you’re no fun,” Tony complains, letting out a heavy sigh. “Make me breakfast.”
Bruce rolls his eyes again, but he slices up a guava while Tony tries and fails to three star the level.
“Losers get fruit,” Bruce informs him, setting the plate down next to him on the table. Taking a seat, he nabs a piece of the guava before stealing the tablet back from Tony.
Tony slides forward on the table, plate in hand, until he’s well into Bruce’s space, legs splayed in a vee around the tablet with his feet resting on either side of Bruce’s chair. If Bruce minds, he doesn’t say anything. So Tony watches Bruce play through the level a few more times while he finishes his breakfast, then puts the plate aside and leans back on his palms, enjoying the look of complete concentration on Bruce’s face.
He wiggles his toes a bit, brushing against the side of Bruce’s legs, and Bruce still isn’t complaining, so Tony gets a bit bolder and moves a foot to Bruce’s knee, sliding slowly up the inside of Bruce’s thigh. He makes it about half an inch before Bruce wordlessly wraps his fingers around Tony’s ankle and guides his foot back down to the chair.
“Bruce,” Tony whines, though his foot stays where Bruce put it.
“Tony,” Bruce replies, mimicking his tone. He presses a few more violent swipes to the tablet then gives up on it, leaning back to look up at Tony.
Tony is sitting on the kitchen table in a pair of boxers and no shirt, the glow of the arc reactor a bit blinding at this proximity but also comforting in its familiarity. His hair is a wild mess on his head, still untamed from sleep, and his eyes are warm, his laugh lines crinkled in happiness as he looks down at Bruce.
Bruce thinks, this could be my life, and it’s a thought he’s had before, but it still terrifies him. He wants to run his hands up Tony’s thighs, to kiss Tony on the mouth and then get up and do the dishes, knowing he can touch Tony whenever he wants. He wants every morning to be just like this one, to eat breakfast with Tony and bicker with Tony and feel the heat of Tony’s body so close to his own. And Tony is saying yes, please, take it, whatever you want, and Bruce wants so very badly to give in, to let himself have what Tony’s offering.
It terrifies him how badly he wants it, because he never gets to keep the things he wants.
He feels an angry desperation welling in his chest, and he pushes back from the table, taking the discarded breakfast plate over to the sink to give himself some space. He can feel Tony’s eyes on him, can pretty well picture the look of concerned calculation on Tony’s face, but Tony doesn’t say anything until Bruce finishes washing the dish and turns back around, leaning against the counter.
“You’re looking a little green around the gills there, pal,” Tony says, and his tone is light, but his brow is creased with worry. “You good?”
Bruce takes a deep breath and nods. “I’m fine.”
Tony gives him a considering look and decides to believe him. “So can I task you with making a pitcher of boozy lemonade while I put some trunks on?”
“You want me to get your back?” Tony asks, watching with overt interest as Bruce slathers suntan lotion over his arms and chest.
“If you’ll use any at all, sure.”
Tony makes a face. “What’s the point of going to the beach if you don’t come home with a sexy tan?”
Bruce snorts, angling his arms awkwardly to rub lotion into the skin of his back. “Oh yeah, nothing sexier than skin cancer.”
“Can you even get cancer?” Tony wonders aloud. “If you had a tumor, you think Big Green would just spit it right out?”
“That’s not exactly how it works,” Bruce says slowly. “But I can definitely get a sunburn, so.”
Tony continues watching as Bruce applies lotion to his face. When he’s finished, he tosses the bottle in Tony’s general direction and then angles his chair so that it’s more completely in the shade of their umbrella. He pours a glass of vodka lemonade for Tony, and then one for himself, and then flips through the pages of his book, trying to find the chapter he left off on.
Tony takes a sip of his lemonade, looks out at the ocean, and then looks back at Bruce. “So what do people do at the beach, exactly?”
“I believe we’re doing it right now,” Bruce says.
Tony squints up at the sun, digging his feet into the sand. “Boring.”
“Guess you should've thought of that before we left New York.”
“Where did you even get a book?” Tony asks, because bothering Bruce is definitely not boring.
“I packed it.”
“What are you reading?”
Bruce sighs, but he flips the cover toward Tony.
“Oh god, not you too. Pepper’s been trying to make me watch the show with her.”
Bruce closes the book, his finger between the pages marking his place, and levels a serious glare at Tony. “I swear to god, if you tell me a single spoiler, I will end you.”
Tony grins. “I said trying; I’ve only seen half of the first season.”
Bruce relaxes and resumes his reading. Tony waits about ten seconds--just enough time for Bruce to make it through a sentence and a half--then says, “You know what show I never really got? Seinfeld.”
“You’re not going to let me read this book, are you?” Bruce asks, only mildly exasperated.
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
“Okay, fine,” Bruce relents, dropping the book onto the blanket. “Let’s go in the water.”
“What? Why?”
“Just come on,” Bruce says, looping his fingers through the bands of the snorkeling masks and starting off down the beach. Tony finishes his drink in one quick gulp and then takes off after him.
The water is warm and clear, but Tony hesitates at its edge, watching Bruce pull on his mask and dive right in. Bruce surfaces a few feet further out, standing elbow-deep in the ocean. He looks good--dark, damp hair curling over the top of his goggles, sunshine gleaming off his wet skin. He looks relaxed, comfortable, and Tony wants to climb on top of him. Instead he wades out to meet him, taking the extra mask out of Bruce’s hand and pulling it on over his eyes and nose. The mouthpiece rests uselessly against his jaw. He feels kind of ridiculous.
“There are fish bumping against my legs,” Tony complains.
Bruce grins. “I know, it’s pretty magical.”
And then he puts in his mouthpiece and dives back into the water. Tony watches him move just beneath the surface, watches the way his muscles work as he swims. Tony watches and he wants, and he is terrible at resisting temptation.
“Bruce,” Tony says when the other man finally surfaces. Bruce turns, pushing his goggles up into his hair, and Tony makes his way over to him, kicking up a splash as he lifts his knees high out of the water. Bruce is smiling indulgently at him, obviously enjoying how out of place Tony Stark looks in the ocean. He’s probably about to make some joke to that effect, but he doesn’t get the chance because then Tony’s closed the distance between them and he takes Bruce’s face in both of his hands and kisses him.
He kisses Bruce and Bruce kisses him back, and for a moment it’s perfect, easy, like this really is something that Tony can have. But then Tony opens his mouth to let Bruce in, and instead he ends up with a mouthful of snorkel. He paws at the thing in irritation, but it’s too late, the moment’s over, and Bruce pulls away from him.
“Hey,” Tony says, ripping off the snorkel mask and tossing it over his shoulder; it lands in the water behind him with a plop. “I wasn’t done with you.”
“I’m going to take a swim,” Bruce says, though he hesitates for a moment, eyes darting over Tony’s body and lingering on his mouth. But then he pulls his goggles back on and dives under the water.
“Here’s what frustrates me,” Tony says as Bruce makes his way up the beach, coming closer. Tony’s got Bruce’s book in his lap and he polished off the rest of the vodka lemonade while Bruce was having his swim. “What frustrates me is that clearly you want this just as much as I do.”
Bruce frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. He grabs one of the towels lying on the blanket and starts drying himself off.
“And I mean, correct me if I’m wrong--which I’m sure I’m not--but you wouldn’t even be here with me if you hadn’t already decided you were in, right? That we’re going to do this thing.”
“I haven’t decided anything,” Bruce mutters, wrapping the towel around his shoulders and dropping into his chair.
“Bullshit you haven’t. You’re just-- I don’t know. You’re trying not to admit it. You’re afraid to admit it.”
Bruce closes his eyes, focuses on the heat of the sun against his eyelids. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not,” Tony argues, though he is, a little bit. He puts the book down and crawls across the blanket over to Bruce, pushes Bruce’s knees apart and kneels in between them, his hands resting on Bruce’s thighs. Bruce’s bathing suit is damp against Tony’s palms. “Hey.”
Bruce slowly opens his eyes. “Hi.”
“You’re worried about what happens if we fuck this up,” Tony says--not a question, just a simple statement of fact. Bruce nods, eyes darting away, and Tony shrugs and says, “If we fuck it up, we fuck it up. Nice try, thanks for playing.”
“It’s not that easy for me, Tony. You know it’s not.”
“I don’t know anything of the sort. I’m saying yeah, it would suck, of course it would, but also we’d be fine. You and me, I mean. As a unit. I mean, also independently we’d be fine, but more importantly we would be fine.”
“You can’t promise me that.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I can,” Tony says, a sudden steel in his voice. It sends a shiver up Bruce’s spine. “I’m saying you--you, Pepper, Rhodey, Happy--you’re essential. Necessary. There’s no conceivable version of my life that doesn’t have you in it, one way or another.”
“That’s--” Bruce starts, and is cut off by his own hesitant smile. He fists a hand in Tony’s swim trunks, up near the hip, and pulls him forward, closer. He presses his forehead to Tony’s shoulder and says so very quietly, “Okay, yeah. I’m in.”
Tony’s entire face lights up, like he can’t believe his good luck. “You’re in?”
“I’m in.”
There is a long, weightless moment where neither of them moves, neither of them breathes. But then Tony can’t resist the urge to press it as far as he can, and he says, “Even though I’m like 86.9% sure that at some point I’m going to screw up?”
“It’s not really helping your case to keep saying things like that, for the record.”
Tony’s still grinning, his hands sliding slowly up Bruce’s thighs. “Well then let me add that I’m also 13.1% sure that we’ve got a good enough thing going that even I can’t fuck it up, and that’s easily five percentage points higher than any of my previous relationships.”
“I guess that’s pretty decent,” Bruce offers.
“I think so,” Tony says, and then they both move to kiss each other at the same time, bumping noses and missing their marks, Tony’s lips pressing clumsily against the corner of Bruce’s mouth. He climbs into Bruce’s lap, and their second attempt is more successful, Tony’s tongue dragging across Bruce’s bottom lip, Bruce’s hands possessively curled around Tony’s hips.
When they part, Tony rests their foreheads together. “Though I think my actions have been speaking pretty clearly, Pepper always gives me shit about using my words, so let me state for the record that I’m serious about this, this isn’t some fling for me. I’ve been sort of obsessed with you since the day we met. I’m probably in love with you.”
“I know,” Bruce says quietly, because he does. That had never been in question.
“Did you just Han Solo me?”
Bruce exhales a laugh, giddy and nervous. “I probably love you too.”
it was alright just to be alive
it was good that you were mine