Archive of Our Own ^beta

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So, this is what an anxiety attack feels like. I'm just sat minding my own business, and it's like a blood sugar plummet, at first? Perspiring on the back of your neck -- actually, it's rolling down your back and pooling just above your waistband, and your armpits and the crook of your elbows and down your front now, too. Your filtrum's like a little resevoir and your cheeks are burning like a blushing virgin and jesuschristonthecross it's like you're gonna be sick but you know you're not sick so why do you wanna puke? And you're dizzy and, it's about now I'm glad I'm sitting down, 'cause when you have a bad attack you kinda just lose your legs and hit the ground pretty damn fast. But I'm sat down, it's okay. But I'm in public which is so very not okay. So I've just got my gaze fixed on passers by, strangers, their backs, their ill fitting clothes and stupid little dogs and fat ankles and anorexic thigh gaps and I can see half your fuckin' ass bro can you please pull your damn jeans up maybe? Jesus fucking Christ.

All of this shit distracts me from the constant steam of self abuse that's fucking yammering away in my skull, you know, whatever the original thing was that set this off has long gone, it was probably a fragment of an overheard exchange or a sudden memory inspired by the way someone looked at me, or, I don't know, my coffee's cold and I'm like, I've paid $4 for this, why the fuck are you giving me cold coffee, what is this, are we in the dark ages again now?

[Stark.
You're a loser.
You were born to fail.]
So in a way I'm a winner?
Yeah, fuck you too.
[Completely isolated.
You're barely even human now.
The first and last of your kind.
Why don't you just quit?
Like, forever?]

...I don't listen to that shit though. This therapist asked me once 'whose voice' it is who says all this stuff. I just walked out there and then. These brain doctors, they want you to say, "yeah, it's Howard, he speaks to me, and it's always bad stuff," - I mean really? Whatthefuck with that? Anyway, fucking pukey and dizzy and if it gets really far down the line I'm convinced I'm having a heart attack that actually I can't have, because prosthetic ticker, baby. Heart's thumping so fast it really doesn't feel right. The first senses to go are the ones we need least. Hearing. Muffled and then static. Actually, more like tinnitus, or retuning analog radio? Then vision, that goes pretty quickly. When people say the black out, I don't get that, it's inaccurate. It's more like blue black purple bottle green, blooming up in muddied clouds in your view, blotting out the light. Maybe a gold shimmer about the edges? And then comes the collapsing because that's the second to last thing your brain does - you fall over because it's better for your heart to pump blood when you're horizontal, and after that it's your breathing, so it's pretty shallow by now... Why am I... Oh, right. In a real bad 'do', the only think you can think is that you're going to die - that's a logical thing to think when your body's shutting down, don't you agree? And then, as quickly as it starts, you reboot. Glucose helps, actually. A few tabs. Glass of water. Oxygen. Worst thing is when you've a crowd around you. Really pisses me off when you're having a crisis and something that ought to be enjoyable is just a pile of crap. And in your mind, all the connections are forming other connections and it's like a bomb going off, white hot wash - that's how it /ought/ to be, but instead it's like, like... Specks of shrapnel twisting right through your flesh, slow as you like, ripping you apart into a million bitty pieces 'cause you're nowhere near good enough to be the man you con everyone into thinking you are. Suffocating. But, yeah, the air comes back eventually, and so does the logic. Always. It's okay to lose it for a few days. It's not like I've got anyone to worry over me. I'm not hurting anyone, 'cause no-one needs to know it isn't all cool. I guess that means I don't have much of an extrinsic motivating factor to sort this whiny shit out. It's not like if I wasn't knocking around here all alone all damn day and night things would be different. It really isn't.
Anyway. I don't really want to focus on this anymore. I've some tests to run before morning. Clear desk, clear mind. God. Sounds like some shit Howard used to preach.

This has actually really helped, talking about it. It always does, I guess? In some small way? I mean, it's either bottle it up or lose the plot entirely. Rock bottom's not a place I need to put myself in again.
Anyway, thanks, JARVIS.

 [ "My pleasure, Sir. Do please remember to take your medication today. I shall remind you again at 22:00 hours." ]

Yeah, yeah, sure thing, mom... End program.

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Ah, great, Tony thinks, Loki is smiling, and it's... Not as creepy as it ought to be, surprisingly. But there /is/ something unnerving about a guy like this, an ex-"big bad" just sitting there, being, well.. not bad. He's supposed to be all up in Tony's face with magical glowy doom-sticks or some other weird shit, but no. Civil conversance over a pot of darjeeling, no less.

The - reformed? - sorcerer quirks this little smile, telling Tony to do his best with the task of studying his immortal batshit mind, and for a fraction of a millisecond he considers leaning across to shake on it, make it a deal, but it just seems... Inappropriate, on several levels. Why use a human custom with an alien? And why presume to touch someone who could literally crush him like an insect? That whole ant/boot thing does actually hold a worrying truth. Mmh... He's got the Iron Man, he's cool. Best not take any unnecessary risks, though.

Wow... Shit must be serious to get Tony playing cautiously. Yeah, he's uncomfortable with this, but he's pretty convinced he needs what's in Loki's skull, and...

Agh. He stands quickly, moving to lean against the back of his couch, putting a little more distance between them.

"Great, we'll have a real ball, I'm sure. You have somewhere you need to be, or you want to get started, 'cause I am a busy, busy man, Lokiki--Are we on first name terms, does that work? You can call me Mr Stark if you really want, I'm into that stuff, seriously, fine by me".

He pokerfaces, wondering what in the hell this thing even /is/... Loki's not an Asgardian, not genetically, and that's all that he wheedled out of his fellow Avenger and convenient big bro to the trickster.

Gah... The /possibilities/.

Chapter Text

"Nnngh.. Whaa..? Ow, shit..."

Having dozed off with a magazine on his face, Tony kicks a heel against his desk, sending wheeled chair rolling across the floor of the lab where's been messing with assorted schematics for the greater part of the day. Sustainable energy by way of Repulsor Tech™; Upgrades for the Iron Man, and for Rescue, Pepper's own suit; A plan for an 'Iron Cat' (no, really); And a reboot of an old piece of tech that essentially combines a small scale MRI scanner with super-advanced DNA sequencing technology, all in one handy helmet that looked suspiciously like a tarted-up colander. Tony had pulled the idea from a Philip K Dick novel some years ago, pondering on how to capture the physical structure of a brain for actual replication... Of course, it wasn't straightforward, and he hadn't been looking to clone anyone, but instead study them - to study the physical structure of brilliant, bizarre minds.

Cracking his neck, cursing his inability to stay awake when focusing on anything but his work these days, which resulted in these damn uncomfortable aches and pains, Tony comes to a wheeled halt on the other side of the room, grappling tiredly with a stone-cold cup of coffee and a half-eaten pot of Thai takeout. Eventually, Test Subject One would turn up, and he could set to work on mapping the mental mechanics of a supposed 'god', discovering what secrets, what "magic" such a mind undoubtedly held for considered usage [exploitation? pshhhaw, be quiet] by a man whose armour - and weaponry - was /ever/ in need of greater development.

Chapter Text

Weird day, today. Met up with a guy I used to know, from MIT. Hadn't seen him in years, not since the mid-nineties - not that I can recall, anyway. Knew this guy well before I fell off the wagon. Mathematics, applied systems analysis double major. Nice guy as I recall, pretty quiet. Not the kind of guy in the party crowd, but then neither was I. I mean, didn't have the opportunity to, I was seventeen and doing my Masters degree... Actually that's misleading; I never had any trouble getting wasted/high/the rest - it was a case of "Howard's son", so let him do x, in which x equals whatever the fuck I want it to. 

Anyway.

Remember swapping notes with this guy. I wasn't a complete recluse at college, I mean sure, I was obsessed with my work, always have been, but I... I'm sorry, Jesus fucking Christ, not even talking about... Right. This guy. Didn't invite him to the pad, because ostentatious motherfucker? I don't need to show that. People who know me from when I was a kid are few and far between, but.. Well, I guess it doesn't matter who knows me or thinks they know me. No point worrying about it anymore. Futile.

Anyway.

Met this guy, nice guy, he's got tenure. Writing papers, lecture tours, good funding. Getting by. Got two kids, beautiful wife - naturally - girl from college, actually. Not my kind of girl. Too... Decent. You know, you start comparing yourself on - I don't even know why I do this - I mean, do I even need to say it? I'm Tony Fucking Stark, I... Well, old buddy boy's got two little sweethearts and a beautiful biochemist waiting for him at the end of each day, and I can't help but wonder. Nothing specific, just wonder. I don't know, just... Yeah.

End voice recording, Starklog # 379.

Chapter Text

[[StarkLog 4,614.00.]]

...'Sup, Jarv.

{ "Good evening, Sir. I am feeling perfectly well calibrated - thank you for enquiring. Music again, Sir?" }

Yeah, 'Planets Suite' this time. Queue up 'Mars' first, and...

{ "You will grant my pardon for interrupting, Sir - but I feel it is prudent to remind you that the laboratory was inaccessible for seventy-two hours after the Holst Incident, Sir." }

...Alright, fine. Choose something decaf. You know what I mean?

{ "Yes, Sir. I believe that I do. Bach's 'Inventions and Sinfonias', Sir...?" }

Hah, yeah. Apt.

'Kay, I'm settled, so here we go. My name's Tony, and it's been sixteen months since I last had a drink. What? Aw, crap - wrong meeting... Heh. But yeah, that's a thing, huh? Woo, go me. You know, that's not even on my mind. What /is/ on your mind, me? Mm. Lotta things - you know, background tasks. Same old shit. What did I want to... Oh, yeah. Right. So I promised myself something a while back - I mean, it's not a big thing but it's the principle of the thing, it's like when you say you're not gonna bite your nails or eat junk food and you're at it like five minutes in the future. But yeah... The worst promises to break are the ones we make to ourselves. Sure, letting other people down sucks too, but failing yourself is pretty much on a plane of loserdom visible only in that last moment before you actually hit the pavement head-on.

It's an awesome view just before everything fucks up, though.

Stark Fact: I've always been into maxims, you know? I think it's something about these great figures of history, they've always got their famous rules for living, the grand quote, the explanation for why they achieved what they did. It's an ego thing - isn't everything? I guess I can't help thinking like that, and it's stupid, because black and white thinking just doesn't cut it, and has been wholly responsible for the bigger mistakes I've managed to make during my illustrious career... It's the abstract thinking that doesn't allow for the little catchphrases. Anyway, I just keep thinking over this one thing. It's something I think I've come to realise, and to live by probably for a long, long time now.

'Never trust something that you didn't make yourself'.

Sounds pretty tidy, I feel. Doesn't take the ghost in the machine into account, though.

So, you didn't make it, you don't trust it. Which is kinda funny 'cause, did Howard ever trust me..? I like to think he did, since he left me this legacy, trusted me enough not to totally squander it. Not to squander myself. But he never told me jack shit whilst he was still around. Now my mom, she told me everything. Everything I ever asked to know.

"Daddy doesn't love me, does he?"

"Don't be silly, Anthony. Of course your father loves you - we both love you. So very, very much. Be a good boy, Anthony. Don't say such hurtful things. You'll make your mother cry. Come here, come and sit with me."

She'd just hold me while I'd freak out about being so far ahead of every other kid that it was like peering down at worms and wondering how they managed to function on a day to day level. She'd just hold me when I got black eyes, my nose broken because I couldn't control myself enough not to be a little wise-ass. She'd just /hold/ me when a girl broke my heart, I was fourteen and my life was over. Maria... My mom was good, very good. Good for Howard, too.

She kept him human.

And, eventually... I'll need someone to keep me human too, I guess.

Someone to hold me, keep me warm at night. Know what I need without me having to spell it out. Someone... Jesus, I was joking the other day about this, saying I ought to make an android. Usher me into old age, grow old with... I'll grow old with my android, and we can have creepy little mecha-brats. Inorganic offspring. Dum-E can be godparent. You can be their uncle, J.

How can you trust it if you didn't make it, Tony?

How, in actual fact, can you trust yourself? How can you trust anything but that lump of metal lodged in your chest, Tony?

Where was..? Ah. Yeah. So things have been... Progressing, you know? In directions I hadn't really considered viable? Uh, I'm doing that up-speak thing again, right -- I told you to tick me off when I do that, seriously...Things are, like, shifting, but stable? I don't know, I find myself losing control, going outside of myself, and then... clawing to get back at where I was? Sleeping in my own bed, that's nice. Actually, just sleeping. Without pills that make me into the living dead. I've been sleeping for the first time in... I mean, five, six hours at a time. Actual genuine /sleep/. That's totally down to Bruce's efforts. Real champ. I don't know what I'd do without... Yeah. I really don't know where to go with that? I just... I'm going to feel like a kicked puppy when he decides he's sick of playing at teen sleepover party. Each day I'm just dragging it out, keeping him around. Finding excuses, inventing projects to work on that require his expertise, trying to keep his interest piqued, provide a challenge. He's just, he's a good friend, the best, he makes me feel like I can handle this? The mere fact of him being around to bug, to wind up, to poke, to make me laugh. He's got a way with that, Bruce. You get to know him, he's nothing like the myth. He's an ass, he makes me laugh 'til my sides hurt. He's truthful with me, and shit, /no-one/'s truthful with me. And... I don't know, the company, the proximity, make me feel comfortable, or safe, I suppose?

There's something about being held. Somehow, it's important. It's become important, again. Thirty years on, I'm there again. That little kid who's bitten off more than he can chew, who's freaking out and needs someone to comfort him. I've tried to find that in vices, y'know. There's only so much seeking you can do in a bottle. In drugs. In losing control. In between a nameless someone's thighs. I just need... I dunno, I'm rambling. I kind of just want to be held?

Otherwise... Some days I'm losing, some days I'm winning. Meds help. Friends help. Sunlight helps. Planning bigger, better, brighter futures for mankind helps. Being a hero, that kinda works, too. My bots help, my babies. And you do a stellar job of putting up with my bullshit, J.

Ah... So that's it, pretty much. For now. How long was that? An hour? More than last time. Does that mean I'm making progress, or I'm getting more self absorbed and introspective than ever before, hm...?

{ "It is my opinion that definite progress is being made. Your ability to verbalise these concerns of yours releases the tension that these specific worries cause, if even for a brief period. For this I do congratulate you. Well done, Sir. But there is one thing, however, which was left unaddressed in today's session. If you do not mind my enquiring - what was the promise which you made to yourself, and failed to keep?" } 

Oh. /That/... People, J. It's people; Letting them get under my skin again. Gotta watch out for that. They'll bury in, and they'll kill you in the end. Death by heartache, and then you're nothing but a zombie waiting around all empty, disused, hanging around for the organic components to decay around the real heart of you. A maquette of a nightmare realm. A fucking corpse, propped up by armature. Blood in the iron, or is it the other way around? I don't even know any more, to be honest. All I know is that it's red... always red.

{ ". . . . . Sir?" }

{ "Sir?" }

{ ". . . . ." } 

{ "Can you hear me, Sir?" }

...Yeah, I hear you - I always hear you. Mm... Good night, Jarvis.

{ "...And to you, Sir." }

Mm... Chance'd be a fine thing.

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* * *

[workshop. late night, though how would you know, not like there’s any natural light down here… dark: nothing but the glow of machines here and there, little red and turquoise pinpricks of glow… Tony rubbing his eyes, cheek sore… dozed off at his desk again, face down in doodles and equations and an army of origami animals some colleague’s kid showed him how to make, and now it’s tigers and cicada and crows whenever he’s stuck on a problem, heaps of the angular little fuckers piling up – oh, and spine says fuck-you-very-much, Genius… push up and out of seat, kick it with your heel, send it wheeling away. yawn some, stretch a little, and… movement, just out the corner of an eye, thefuckeven? Dum-E, you playing your little games again, huh?, ‘cause I see you there, buddy, and—

...oh, Christ, no, not Dum-E… definitely not Dum-E, not a robot, not metallic /at all/ this grip raking up Tony’s sides, nails scoring into flesh, so swift, so precise, s’gonna leave marks, the… oh~, the scent, the scent of the /other/… ah~, f-f-fuck!, hot, hungry mouth on his neck, burning desperation into his flesh – need, and want, and /now/, ungh~… guiding him, moving him, he’s stumbling a little in the dark, but backwards they go, yeah, god, the teeth nipping along his collarbone are a little more forceful than he’s used to, ah! fuck, ow… then there’s the hot, damp pressure of a deft, skilled tongue lathing over the soreness, chasing the pain away… the fingers that twist in his hair, the hand that grips his hip, ahn~.. god, fuck.. and his ass bumps the edge of his desk – he’s being pushed, pressed down, his back flat to the surface, paper tigers and old-school blueprints scattered awry, oh~, fuck, he’s /groaning/…

legs being parted with the other’s knees for the purpose of settling between them, dizzying.. dizzy.. fuck, how do breathing, Tony?, and the other… the other’s leaning over him, all calm and considered and eyes on him, on Tony, all over him, fffuck… even in the dimness he can see it, the look in those eyes so possessive as to dash the very breath right out of Tony’s lungs – Jesus, when did anyone ever look at him like that before? like, that’s it, you’re /mine/; just completely fucking claiming him… cutting through artificial silence, this possessive low /growl/ of a sound emits– a sound that’s barely even human: abso-fucking-lutely terrifying, and ridiculously, stupidly hot… it makes Tony’s jaw slacken some, mouth drydrydry…

flight or fight, flight or flight, flight or… /fuck/, his utterly witticism-devoid tongue, pink and hesitant, ventures to try licking life back into his own parched lips… the other will have none of that; Tony’s mouth belongs to /them/, Tony knows that, knows it so very much, once his lips are crushed against the other’s… being kissed like it /really means something/, and the way his lips part so willingly for the other’s tongue to taste him, explore the sharpness of his bite, the softness of his mouth, every millimetre like he’s being fucking memorized… Tony… Tony trying to touch, but his hands are caught at the wrists, drawn up above his head… god, god, that’s hot, so hot, /too/ hot – ahn~, ah~! fuck, ratty old grease-stained tee shirt pushed up, right up over the reactor, baring it, light just beaming brightly enough to share an illuminated moment of blue-tinted gaze…

oh, oh~, this… this… heavy weight-bearing palm splayed flat over the arc, snuffing out the light, snuffing out /Tony/, letting him just lose it entirely, just turn to pliant flesh and muscle and heat, to be used as the other sees fit… ah~! …the yelp that sounds when the other’s hungering mouth so swiftly finds the peak of a nipple, biting, suckling, teasing the nub with increasingly rough thumb-strokes while Tony squirms beneath, hothotdizzy, ohgod~, ah… ah… mm~, attending to his neck again, long, languorous licks right up over his bobbing Adam’s apple, teeth scraping just over the livid point of pulsing flesh beating out his need… breath, hot, heavy against his ear, the growling returning, god almighty, I…!

“I’m going to fuck you now, Tony,” the other is whispering against the shell of his ear… and he’s coming undone – trembling, shivering, like a feather sucked into a storm, powerless to do anything other than follow along, breathless with desire.

“…So good for me, baby boy; So good.” …falling apart, falling, falling /hard/, god, yes!, fuck me, fuck me, please, /please/, I… enough, enough!, just let me take my fucking pants off already!, everything, all of it, please don’t stop, don’t, please… I… hurry! never… haven’t done this before, I…]

* * *

…‘Fuck’, thinks the ever-eloquent Tony Stark, because not only has he totally forgotten where the hell he was with the present obscenely complex mathematical conundrum vexing him, but is – post inappropriate daydream dawdling – inexplicably red-cheeked and pant-tented in front of a colleague apparently blissfully ignorant (pleasegod) of the reason Tony wordlessly absconds from the shared workspace avec a fantastically awkward sideways shuffle to make any self respecting crab /proud/~.

Chapter Text

"You're okay. You're here. Please... don't make me go back to sleep..."

These are the words that greet Tony when he snaps into a sudden, distressing wakefulness, the thrashing of Bruce's form beside him enough to do so seconds before the scientist had emitted a horrendous strangle of a scream-roar... Jesusgod, Tony's instincts had well and truly kicked in and he was already scrambling away, expecting vivid green and commensurate upfucking to ensure...

But no. No. Bruce is alright, Bruce is... Bruce /needs/ him. How strange it is that this whole sharing sleep-space was borne out of Tony's need for contact, for safety, for calm; To keep the demons at bay. Way down in the bottle. Quelling anxiety, keeping his, ah, "issues" in check. The one person - non artificial - he truly trusts, being here, keeping him safe. Making sure he goddamn /sleeps/, ha. And yet...

Bruce leans over him for a silent moment, gentle hands briefly skimming his torso, as if checking for something, an injury perhaps? No, nothing.

"Just... hold me and please don't ask questions. I need you. Tony, I need you."

He couldn't ask questions if he tried, his throat is constricted so, tongue dry and dormant for once.

From his position backed up against the headboard, Tony shifts, scooting downward, and sits heavily, cross-legged amongst the tangle of perspiration-damp sheets, pulling the other man into his arms. Bruce's back to his chest, arms tight around him. Nose poking into his neck, nudging against fuzz. I'm here, Bru. I've got you. Whatever it is, whatever you need, I've got you. I /promise/. No worries, buddy. Safe and sound. Just you and me, thick as thieves. Home.

But he doesn't say anything though, doesn't voice his panic - just holds his friend tight, dearly so - making a small shushing noise as much for himself as for the other - as the feeble human organ behind the snuffed-out light pressing to Bruce's shoulder-blade thumps out a rattling confusion.

Chapter Text

(i.)

...Just the slightest press of teeth on Tony's part, a little nibble of his own, pushing it a little further, testing boundaries - always - in this case, largely his own, and-- Oh /god/, Bruce's hands are suddenly heavy on Tony's hips; Firm fingers sliding up to settle about his waist, and a tiny frustrated huff of air escapes the parting of Tony's lips, because damnit, Banner's not gripping onto him nearly as strongly as he ought to... What? He hasn't thought about this, nope - total spur of the moment preference for lab partner body meld technique. Totally. Ah, fff... You're not supposed to think, are you, when you're being kissed like this? - but it occurs to the engineer that Bruce /means/ this, and he means it badly. Tony's been /missed/, and wanted... Maybe even needed.

Maybe Bruce has spent just as much time mulling over, uh, certain thoughts as he had, these past parted weeks. Curious, pondering "what if" thoughts, that really defy logical explanation, that you wake up panting, flushed from in the small hours, and Tony is /so/ not attracted to men, like even remotely, so why when he's puzzling over an equation or wiring an upgrade is he drifting to images of his best buddy bending him over a convenient worksurface, whispering calm, level, Banner-like promises into his ear, that are in reality outrageous hypotheses /begging/ to be proven... Nngh.

Or maybe he's just kissing Tony because he's here and they're them and it's happened before and it's just a nice thing to do with your buddy you definitely don't at all even remotely want to get hot and heavy with because you're Tony Fucking Womanizer Of the Galaxy Stark and you're SO NOT EVEN VAGUELY 1% INTO GUYS LIKE SERIOUSLY IS THIS A SET UP?...

"...We should go to bed. /Now/."

(ii.)

It's on the way up to the penthouse, to Tony's rooms, and (ultimately) towards his bed, that nerves really start to kick in. What exactly are they playing at? Bruce leads the way, and suddenly Tony feels just the faintest bit dizzy. Like being stoned, kinda. A little drunk. Blood's pulsing in his ears, but he feels kind of mellow at the same time, like this is cool - Bruce isn't something he has to get all worked up over, not if he doesn't let himself.

This is the most honest that Tony Stark gets to be, beyond his endless murmuring to JARVIS and Dum-E; With Bruce, he's just Tony. He's not a playboy, a personality, a celebrity. He's not the topic of endless speculation. He isn't even Iron Man, although that's the reason they even met in the first place - comic book hero pseudonyms for dealing with the serious shit the galaxy decides to throw at a couple of guys arguably better suited to lab work and welding.

Bruce just.... /adores/ him, for who he is. Not who he's been. And it's kind of intoxicating, that kind of emotion... Something very weird about feeling completely safe, and yet somehow feeling the need to tread lightly... They are who they are, there's no getting away from that. He's seen Bruce, albeit in another guise, do things that have frankly scared the living shit out of him.

Upon crossing the penthouse threshold, Tony tries to assert himself, heart thumping behind the casing of his mechanical life support, stopping the other man with a brief tug of his hand, using that moment of Bruce's distraction to crash their lips together once more, stumbling slightly against the other, his kisses trembling and altogether desperate. God, he just... /Wants/... Wants what?

Yeah... Loosing his footing seems to be a real thing for Tony Stark, lately.

(iii.)

...Tony moans a little into that kiss, because wouldn't you? Wouldn't you gasp and squirm, if your closest friend was like this, touching you like this?

What even is Tony doing, they were headed to the bedroom but he's somehow sidetracked and backed Bruce against some form of penthouse solidity - wall? cupboard? - and Jesus, fuck, Bruce's hands are on him, on his body, all over him, but still not close enough, not nearly close enough, and only with the other man's tongue brushing /warmth/ and /moist/ and /taste/ against his own does it begin to approach the need for closeness that's sending Tony hurtling into Bruce's personal space, time and again, with increasing intensity of action... not that he cares, not that either of them cares... Bruce /wants/ him, like /really/ wants him, and the knowledge of it has been simmering away in the back of Tony's mind since numero uno science bro confessed to being, you know, into him. In /that/ way. And it was a little, uh, mind blowing at first, but he's just learnt to roll with it? Not work it up into some huge unnecessary thing... And it's kind of funny in a way, 'cause Tony guesses that Bruce doesn't know that that knowledge has been making him feel so stupidly good about himself...

And nnh~ the blood-rush pounding in his ears is making him light-headed, heart in his throat, his palms spread wide over Bruce's chest, like... touching, touching, but not in the way he's used to touching. Not... Not going all out? And not being in charge... Sharing it, maybe? And... Oh~, Tony's eyes go wide, and he scrunches them closed again, he's breaking that kiss for a moment, sucking air, Christ! ...Because these fingertips are skirting over his abdomen, burning a blaze into him, perfect in their inquisitiveness, their care, god, /god/, oh~ what even... hnnn, it's like he can't concentrate on the fact that Bruce is touching his bare skin just above the hem of his pants, /and/ kissing him at the same time, so one's got to be sacrificed, and so he finds himself mouthing at Bruce's neck, licking, and kissing, tiny teeth-scraping nibbles, searching for the inevitable spot that with the right attention'll drive Bruce crazy...

...And meantime, Tony'll just keep concentrating as best he can on suppressing this ridiculous tremor coming from deep down inside.

(iv.)

"Bruce..." Tony breathes his reply against the warmth of his best friend's neck, lips halting for a brief moment in their quest to draw out those frankly mesmerizing little lust-filled noises stuttering from Bruce's mouth... 'I've missed you /so/ much, Bru,' drifts a vague thought, and Tony’s chasing pulsing heat with his tongue… If only he can convey it so – if only he can show Bruce how much he’s needed him, his presence… A tiny rivulet of perspiration captured between his lips, teeth grazing that spot, nnngh~, and… This... This is what Bruce /tastes/ like...

Like a barely contained blaze.

No... Tony wouldn't lead the other man on; that wasn't his nature by a long stretch. It wasn't like Bruce was pushing him, cajoling him, manipulating him in any way… For the record, Anthony Edward Stark didn't put his tongue, hands, or any other extremity in or on someone else without wanting to; that was a given. It was however wholly inexplicable, of course, that he should come so entirely close to losing his composure over the mere thought of intimacy with… with… his /best friend/, who, it is important to note is very much /male/. As in, not possessing a cunt, and distinctly lacking in the tits department, too… Wut.

Despite this crucial lack of things that make Tony Stark whirr, he still has his hands splayed heavily over Bruce’s chest on the pretence of keeping the doctor against whatever surface/wall Tony’s pushed him into on the route bedward (where actually he was merely supporting himself), lips ghosting over the column of the other man’s neck… Oh~. The /taste/… Is he absorbing gamma right now…? Christ!, Bruce’s hands are on him, nnh~ yeah~, and nails that have slipped beneath his shirt score the faintest pressure about his waist, just to remind him of their presence. Bruce, on him, with him. Here, now. Beneath the reactor, his heart thumps irregularly, especially so as his hips bump up against Bruce’s, his interest clearly evidenced. Yeah, he’s seven shades of red, but whatever -- like his buddy’s going to judge him… Jesus, the sounds Bruce makes as Tony attends to his neck really ought to be illegal.

As he’s racked with another wave of nerves, Tony sinks his teeth into the plush curve of an earlobe, a gentle nibble following after…

“…What’re you waiting for, Banner?”

Chapter Text

Tony and Bruce, and Kate and Loki, watching kids’ movies of an evening. All squished together on a voluptuously plush couch in the penthouse, almost playing at happy families... Tony /still/ doesn’t trust Loki, for all his declarations of remorseful contrition for his prior misdemeanour, despite the forgiveness the little snake had seemingly wheedled elsewhere. Though, currently donning his “Little Loki” guise, there isn’t much he, like the others, can do to stop himself from fussing over the kid… man… god? Ew. Loki clings all over Bruce when he’s like this, his speech less mature. Tony himself managing a teasing hair ruffle or two. And Kate? Kate, his own personal “SuperChef” - and the Tower’s matriarch in the wake of Potts’ secondment to handle business in the Asian market - was nothing short of being a completely motherly darling with the little shit... What, Tony? Jealous? Pffffffft.

She glances over at Tony, over the jet black head of hair atop the wittering boy, who has been asking Bruce incessant questions about the “Lion King” for the last ten minutes instead of just watching the damn movie. Tony sends a surreptitious wink her way, and she smiles back at him, leaning in to whisper, “...Can I talk to you in the kitchen for a minute?”

“Bring me ice cream,” the little prince interrupts. Bruce just frowns down at him, mid-sentence regards the social dynamics of the lion pride.

“Sure, Katydid,” Tony says, brushing popcorn debris from his lap. Kitchen talk, huh? Kitchen talk always /means/ something. Hmm… “Right, somebody's got to check that there actually is ice cream, but it's /only/ for smartass aliens that know how to ask for it properly…” And Tony’s up and off the couch, chuckling briefly as he leaves the lounge area.

Kate follows quietly, closing the kitchen door behind her. “I haven't had a chance to talk to you since.. well, since everything that happened... I'm /so/ sorry, Tony. I was such a fool.”

Something is off. Something is wrong.

Tony's face crumples some, shaking his head from side to side.

“...Jesus, don't apologize to me, Kate. I don't... Okay, honestly? I have the vaguest knowledge of what's what, and... all I know basically is that Bruce has been spending a lot of time with you while I've been off on missions, and overseeing some out of town projects.. I kind of figured something was up, you know, clearly something's gone down with you, and I just…” It's only now Tony's realising he can literally go a month without physically /seeing/ the people with whom he shares an address... “I've never made a habit of getting myself all up in people's personal business, you know? But I figure, f'you want to speak to me about something... I'm kind of lost for details - Bruce hasn't... you know, he hasn't told me anything. He's my lab partner, but you know, your secrets are your own; He takes that shit seriously. I've just been working on the assumption... did you have a bad break-up, or? Why are you even apologizing to me, of all people?” ...Tony crosses his arms, propping himself against a countertop; A trickly feeling dancing down his spine that perhaps his disappearing off into his own fanatical world of work has made him blind to the needs of those closest to him.

Kate simply hitches herself up onto the counter in her bunny pajamas, looking him right in the eyes.

“Right before you left on your latest thing, I decided I wanted a night out. There's this club, a sort of umm.. /bondage club/, that I was familiar with through Irene. They facilitate discrete umm... hook-ups.” She blushes bright red now, but keeps her gaze steady. “I won't go into /all/ the details, but there was a man there, Henderson Tinsley. Years ago, he'd been a client of Irene's, and he hurt her badly. He had a capital investment firm, and I exposed him to his board. He was publicly humiliated, lost millions of dollars... He was at that club that night, and he paid a man to hit on me, get me into a private room.” This part was harder, but it had to be done. “...He hurt me, Tony.” She didn't know if it was wise, but she slowly removes her pajamas, showing him the bruises, cuts, and burns that were healing. She turned her upper body, showing him her back, then she zipped herself back up. “...What I didn't know then, was that he had a little side business as an arms dealer. He's not in your league, nowhere near what Stark Industries was, but he's still quite powerful. Bruce and Nate... they asked me what I wanted done. I want him destroyed. Personally... professionally... financially. It's not even just for me. I /know/ in my heart that there are other women out there he's done it to, women who have no voice of their own. You and Bruce, Nate, Clint... you stand for those who can't stand for themselves. This is my way of standing for the women I know he's hurt. My own way of being an Avenger, I suppose.” She hops off the counter, then goes to gives him a big hug. “You are sort of my ace in the hole. He has no idea I work for the most powerful man in the world. I guess that's why I was apologizing, for bringing this crap into your life. Bruce said we're all family. We take care of each other.”

* * *

Kate hops up onto the countertop - cute as a button in those silly pyjamas, the ludicrousness of their design offset by the unexpected mention of bondage, and furthermore Kate making a hook-up with that specifically in mind... His employee may blush like a beet at this point, but Tony's not one to either be phased nor judgmental over someone's sexual preferences - so long as they're consenting - even if it's not his kind of deal personally, the whole BDSM thing... Which he doesn't exactly know a whole lot about, firsthand, but... Like he said, he keeps out of people's private lives, just as he expects the same respect to be accorded to his (which is an absolute /joke/ considering the sex tapes, his reputation as a womanizer, and so forth). Kate has always given him that respect, and it's more than appreciated; Tony's unfortunately familiar with the Stark-employee-spills-all! paparazzo headlines... Kate mentions a man's name that sends Tony scanning through his memory banks, to no avail. What she tells him next, though, makes his blood run cold.

"He hurt me, Tony"... Not the good consenting kind of pain-pleasure... No. Kate's words seem to fade away, all that is tangible is the horrendous sight before him... Of Kate's poor, battered torso. Before Tony has the chance to form words, she's zipped herself up again, appearing like any other woman relaxing with friends in an utterly daft outfit... She's different to how he knows her... There's anger, and hurt, and even fear in her voice, and all Tony can see are slow-healing cuts and burns and bruises flash-fixed into his retinas. Kate keeps speaking, speaking of this excuse for a human... He's following along, but his eyes are glazing over, and all the bad things that a man can feel for another are chattering at the very back of his skull, reminding him how easy it really is to kill another person. Really, terribly, awfully simple. Or, alternatively, long and drawn out, over days, weeks even... Of the body parts that can be survived without, where cauterization is well applied. Where...

Tony blinks rapidly, gaze clearing - his expression in no way betraying his emotions - though it would be folly to presume obliviousness from an empath as talented as Kate... An arms dealer, is he? Ha. And she's talking about how she wishes for this man to be destroyed, but not in the ways Tony's instincts scream at him to achieve. Personally, professionally, financially, yeah, he can do that. He can do the other stuff, too, but perhaps after the initial razing. The idea that this sick fuck hurt his Kate... That someone could do this to /any/ woman... Sure, he'd met men like that. He'd met women like that, too. That's the thing with evil bastards... They never tend to come out of things too well where Tony was involved. And Bruce /was/ right, they were family, these people living under his roof... Under his protection. How could Tony have failed so spectacularly in /keeping his family safe/? He'd have a guard put on Kate, she wouldn't even have to know; A mecha, a humble drone, just like a wasp. Too little, too late...

Kate pushes off from her perch, coming over to embrace him, this beautiful woman, inside and out, so strong, courageous... And he can't even hold her back properly, for fear of aggravating her injuries. Jesus... He cards fingers through her hair, guiding her flame-red head to rest soft against his shoulder... And she can feel him trembling, quaking from deep within - oughtn't it be her shaking like a leaf, not him? Rage... Rage does that to a person, sometimes.

"I'll be your ace, Kate... We all will - me, Bruce, and Nate, and Clint. We're family, Kate. /You're/ family; My family. And I swear... It'll be done, and it'll be done /right/. This guy, he'll rue the day he... He'll cease to exist. Professionally, of course."

[And then? And then he'll never be heard from again, for corpses, charred and quartered in the desert commit no crimes...

But Kate - dear, dear Kate... She doesn't need to know about that.]

* * *

A minute or so passes spent in silence, during which they simply continue to hold one another. Eventually, Tony surfaces from his thoughts.

“You know, if you want to take a break, literally any time, from running around after me... us... just do it; It's fine, really.”

Kate looks up at him, expression clearly reading: ‘/No/, Tony’.

“You and I... we didn’'t have good experiences with family. At least the ones we were born with. But what we all have here, it's better than family... It's the family we've chosen to be part of. I /need/ that. But I do have one more favor to ask.”

She's right, of course. Really, he’s a lucky sonofa... Tony nods, words spoken without a shred of hesitation. “Anything, Kate. Anything at all.”

“The club. They're supposed to keep clients safe. Tinsley paid people to look the other way…” Kate’s tone is level, and calm, as she makes her request. “...I want it obliterated.”

Tony considers her for a long moment, before pressing a solemn kiss to her oh-so-faintly furrowed brow.

“...I’ll see to it personally, sweetheart.” Once they have parted, and scoped out a tub of ice cream huge enough to ensure universal stomach ache… As Tony watches his employee-turned-friend walk through the doorway leading back to the lighthearted, the silly, the /good/ - he murmurs, barely a whisper, but loud enough for the universe to hear (and at the risk of sounding a tad like Don Corleone):

“...Anything for family.”