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Sometimes, he can't sleep.
And that's fine, isn't it, in the house he lives in, because no one cares and he's afforded every comfort imaginable (so different from India, Bruce thinks, and feels guilty for missing it--) but his housemates, in the dead of night, are never quite around. (This is very much unlike the day.)
Natasha and Clint try to sleep like normal people, for reasons Bruce doesn't really want to have to think about, but they do, and if it's in each other's rooms, no one is going to say anything about that. That’s because out of all of them, Natasha and Clint are silently, fiercely deadly, not destructive but deadly. He hears Clint tell her once, in a whisper he’s lucky to catch, that the nightmares are better when he’s next to Natasha. Natasha kisses his cheek, and Bruce ducks quickly out of sight. None of that was meant for him to see.
When Steve has insomnia, he stays by himself, forcing back the flashbacks, and doesn't tell anyone. He might destroy Tony’s stock of punching bags in a few shorts hours, but that’s it, plain and simple.
Tony sequesters himself in his workshop (which is different from the lab he and Bruce share, Bruce respects that. And it's no big deal but he often doesn't go there, is rarely ever invited in unless Tony has something he wants to show off, so). Sometimes they hear explosions. Sometimes they don't.
Thor doesn't get insomnia. Thor sleeps like a baby. Ugh, Thor.
Sometimes Thor stays up late drinking and watching reality television, but that’s an entirely different matter, and those nights usually end—well, strangely.
When Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis move into a suite in Stark Tower, Bruce’s life changes in two ways. One, they occasionally hear Thor having loud sex in a closet, or a bathroom, or in Jane’s lab (“Jesus fuck,” Tony groans, and rapidly soundproofs all three, because that tile was an especially bad offender. The echoes were slightly traumatizing) and two, another person is added to the list of insomniacs.
It’s 3 AM, and Bruce has slowly made his way into the kitchen to make some tea, figuring that at the very least, it’ll be something to do with his hands. He’s watched two and a half hours of Iron Chef marathons, and he’s starting to get to a point in the night where he thinks that making puff pastry would be a good idea.
It is not a good idea. That hypothesis was disproven weeks ago.
(Tony had walked in on him mildly crazed and covered with flour and honey and immediately walked right out, then turned on the emergency showers. There hadn’t been a Hulk-out, through some sort of minor miracle, and he’d—well, he’d calmly lectured Tony for twenty minutes afterwards and then passed out, exhausted, on the couch.
Clint had taken the opportunity to draw on his face with Natasha’s lipstick, because Clint is actually five and also has a death wish.)
There is someone in the kitchen humming and cheerfully poaching an egg.
Cheerfully and skillfully poaching an egg, Bruce amends.
“Oh,” Darcy Lewis says, looking up at him from a pot of boiling water. She’s stirring a whirlpool into it with her left hand. A slotted spoon is clutched in her right hand, and she points it at him. “You’re Doctor Banner, right? I don’t think we’ve officially met yet, though you know my boss.”
Bruce blinks. “Jane is your boss?”
“Well, you know. Sometimes I tell her that.” Darcy nods decisively and looks down into the pot. She’s in pajamas—plaid shorts and a tank top—and electric orange socks. “It makes her feel better about having hired me.”
“Ah,” Bruce says after a moment. He takes a few steps into the kitchen and begins glancing around for the teakettle. “So you are… making eggs.”
“I am making eggs,” Darcy confirms. “I couldn’t sleep. I was lying there staring at the ceiling, which, don’t get me wrong, it’s a nice ceiling, despite the talking British butler who lives in it—Hi JARVIS, you’re awesome, don’t change—but the shadows were making weird shapes. And I decided that an egg on toast would make me feels better. In fact, eggs make everything better.”
The toaster pings.
“There you go,” Darcy says, and in one neat move, scoops the egg out with the spoon, letting the water drain, then places it neatly on a plate and grabs her toast. “Could you pass me the butter?”
He passes her the butter. “I am, uh, making tea.”
“That’s probably better for insomnia than poached eggs.” Darcy looks at him through lowered lashes, sitting at the table, and Bruce swallows and fills the tea kettle.
“I don’t know,” he says, opening the drawer that holds tea and coffee. “You might have something going there.”
“I think so,” Darcy declares, and takes a bite.
He kind of watches her do so.
“Do you want some?” She hands him the plate, eggy and crusty with bread, and Bruce can only stare a little and say, “sure, yes, I would love some.”
He takes a bite, and it’s delicious. It’s warm and buttery and salty, and it’s three in the morning and he’s eating breakfast food. He hasn’t done this since college. Bruce laughs.
Darcy looks surprised.
He can see her smooth her face, try to hide it, and that’s when the tea kettle goes off.
“Want a cup?” Bruce asks, handing her back the plate. She’s looking suspiciously at the box of tea he has out (fine, lemongrass isn’t for everyone, dandelion root even less so), but she smiles and that’s a yes right there.
“Great,” he says, pouring her tea into one of Tony’s MIT Engineering mugs. “You might want to add some sugar.”
Darcy takes a sip and winces. “Er, yes, definitely, sugar, that is definitely a very good idea you have there,” she says, but she’s grinning even as she dumps a tablespoon of sugar into her tea, and Bruce smiles back.
It might be kind of nice to have someone around.