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Hulk woke up on Valentine’s Day morning with a sudden craving for beans. So while Clint sprawled out like a starfish on the other side of the bed—as he invariably did—Hulk shrunk down to human size (it was easier to cook when his fingers were small enough to hold the pans and other implements), put on a pair of shorts (purple, with a kind of Hawaiian flower pattern, courtesy of Clint) and no shirt and, after washing up a little in the bathroom, padded out barefoot to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Tony was already down in the kitchen when Hulk walked in. Tony had fallen asleep at the counter, a tablet by one hand and his cheek resting on the other. He was wearing the same clothes he had been wearing the night before, when he came back to the mansion from a company meeting. It was Bruce who laid a palm to Tony’s hair, scrunching his fingers through in the familiar and comfortable way. Tony snorted, waking a little, and then squinted up. His hand had left red marks in his cheek from where he’d been lying on it.
“Tony,” Bruce said, in his low and matter-of-fact way, “you need to get to bed.” Then he added, “A real bed; with bed-sheets, and pillows.”
Tony rubbed his hands over his face. He’d been drooling a little, and he looked down and wiped at the counter a little when he noticed it.
Bruce rubbed his hand against Tony’s shoulder in an absent way, and then said, “I’m not making you coffee, either. Go to bed, Tony. Or I’ll have Hulk carry you to one.”
Tony looked like he wanted to protest, maybe, but there a little dark bruising under his eyes, and finally he just said, in a drowsy way, “…yeah, fine.” Then, “You’re not coming with me?” he asked, with a sudden wistful look. Bruce just rolled his eyes, “Get some sleep, Tony.”
Tony yawned, scratched his neck, and then picked up his tablet as he slid off his stool. Then, still sleepily, “I have reservations for us, for dinner. Korean barbeque. You’ll love it.” Tony’s facial hair scratched a little at Bruce’s as Tony gave him an absent-minded kiss to the corner of his mouth, before wandering away.
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Hulk helped himself to a very large pot, and then a dozen cans of different kinds of beans, and half as many canned tomatoes. He opened the cans and emptied their contents into the pot. He copped a couple onions and added them in as well, along with prepared mixed spices from a glass jar that JARVIS had ordered for him from some fancy specialty store.
He sliced a whole loaf of bread into generous slices while waiting for the pot to simmer and stew. By this time, Steve and Carol had already come down. Steve was doing push-ups by the counter while Carol sat on his back. Coffee had been set to brew in the pot. Steve and Carol swapped positions, and Carol did the same exercises with Steve balanced on her back, easily. They talked between themselves about the jogging route they’d taken that morning, and Carol helped herself to orange juice from the fridge while Steve cracked raw eggs into a glass.
Hulk stood by his pot; he lifted the lid and sniffed at the air. Beans were great, let him tell you. Cooked with the mixed chili spices—Hulk sometimes didn’t like to admit to when he really liked something, but he really, really liked this chili recipe.
Clint had come up behind him and was resting his head a little against Hulk’s shoulder. Hulk could smell the familiar scent of his hair, even with the scent of the chili in the air.
“Chili for breakfast?” Clint asked. “That’s… different.”
Hulk sort of made a noise like a grunt, and then served out chili into two dishes along with the bread, one smaller and the other a lot bigger.
They took the chili out into the communal living room and Hulk sat on the couch while he ate chili, and Clint propped up his feet and scrolled through his Starkphone, reading emails and assorted other messages, occasionally taking a bite from his chili. Then he tapped his phone off, put it down on the coffee table beside his bowl, and then rolled over to lie his head against Hulk’s thigh. Hulk was back to normal size, now that he didn’t have to deal with tiny cans and teenier can openers. He always liked being in his own skin the best, and also he got cold when he was human-shaped and only wearing shorts and not even any socks.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, babe,” Clint said, lying there.
Hulk looked down at Clint, feeling all of the peculiar fondness that came with the extraordinariness of this situation, the near impossibility of it.
He looked down at his chili bowl, and curled his toes, feeling the tension in his bare feet.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Cupid,” Hulk finally muttered. He winced—or maybe blushed—when he heard Clint give a crow of delighted laughter, and he felt Clint’s hand reach up to just rest against his wrist, and then their cards were calling the alert, some supervillain had been sighted downtown, and it was just another day in the life of an Avenger, wasn’t it.