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6.
"I need…" Tony chokes. "Listen, I need you to do me a favor."
"Don't I already do enough favors for you, Tony?" Bruce says in his stupid, calm, melodic voice. It's true: taking residency in Stark Tower was a favor, working Stark's R&D was technically a favor, and not letting Banner's big green sidekick go around smashing things will always be a favor, truthfully. "What are you asking me for, this time?"
"Come with me…" Tony groans. His hands well into Bruce's hair, fingers winding into loose curls. Bruce looks up from his work.
"Tony, you know I can't," he interrupts.
"Won't," he corrects, "why you won't. And you didn't let me finish. Come with me to that Gala at Goodwood."
"You mean that thing you couldn't stop talking about before in England?" Banner asks.
"Does it matter?" Tony's voice cracks a bit on the question. It's okay, he's nervous and naked and maybe a bit sprawled out on Bruce's bed. Bruce, meanwhile, isn't even the least bit undone. Tony kinda hates him for it. "Fuck, you're wearing so many clothes."
Bruce is still wearing those thrift-store slacks, a gauze linen shirt from Calcutta that Tony can't persuade him to throw out. It's scratchy against the back of Tony's legs, the gather of fabric welling up in the hollows of his knees as they've draped across Bruce's shoulders. Bruce's mouth was tracing a line up the crease of Tony's hip, before they started down this path. The hand with lube-wet fingers that has been teasing for what feels like forever is just barely breaching, now, stretching but making no move to fill.
And right now, Tony is frustrated, because he wants so much and Bruce won't give him anything, pillar of self-control he is.
"I am?" Bruce looks up, like he's simply miscalculated but can't bother to retrace his steps. "You don't think it's a bit out of place for you to be asking me on a date right now?"
"It's not a date, it's a thing!"
"You ever ask Pepper out to 'things' like this?" Bruce leans forward, his fingers sink in deeper and Tony's thighs stretch further and there's the heat of burn all over.
"It's a festival of speed! Pepper hated going fast," Tony groans. "I promise you don't have to do anything but look nice, be charming and drink champagne. It's not rocket science."
"And if the big guy wants to come out for 'not rocket science?'" That's always Bruce's answer for everything fun. Spoilsport.
"I'm sure everybody would be really grateful for the exercise," Tony says, although it's a bit of a challenge to be appropriately flippant when you're the one on the verge of begging. The self effacing chuckle that falls from Bruce's mouth lands right on the head of his cock and it's probably a bad thing with how Tony sorta crumbles at the feeling, "C'mon, don't tease."
"You started it," Bruce replies doggedly. "I'll go if you promise me you won't run off with the prettiest woman you find there. Or car. Don't run off with the prettiest car you find there either."
"You really don't trust me, do you?" Tony asks. "I'll have you know that I am the paragon of monogamy. We entered a social contract, when you and I decided to see this through."
"Is that so?" Bruce asks. And then there's tongue- prodding, curious tongue cataloguing every place where Tony's sensitive. It's so easy to quiet down and arch up, enjoying how the guy stretches every movement out to its logical end. Bruce's fingers slide in deeper, so desperately close to that sweet-spot that Tony rarely ever gets action in nowadays, and it's almost like he wants to totally destroy Tony while staying collected. "You wanna try telling me about this 'social contract?'"
"Later," he nods. And that soft, gentle smile slides into a gorgeous smirk as he plants his forehead against Tony's stomach, slides the head of Tony's cock into his mouth, moaning at the taste and the weight. There's a shift, and then that mouth is descending, falling, taking as much of Tony as it can. And the fingers in his ass are sliding in deeper and deeper, carefully avoiding the place where Tony wants that steady weighted touch the most.
It's a waiting game, then. How long before Tony really begs, before he can't take it anymore, before he has to fight, jerk his hips down. How long for Tony to take what he wants himself and steal the wave of orgasm.
"Goddamnit, Banner. Let me come," he snarls and then there's a hand loose around his throat with its thumb grabbing ruthless hold of Tony's jaw, fingers pressing up against his prostate, the head of his cock stroking the back of Bruce's throat and all he can do is give in to the sensation.
For the fact that he's fucking a man who's afraid his rage monster will stop him from ever enjoying coitus, Tony's orgasms have gotten far more intense in the past few weeks than he ever considered possible.
After it's done, Bruce's ministrations retreat from every angle, all at once. He sits back on his heels, watching as Tony heaves for air in the afterglow.
"You look like you want to spoon," Bruce jokes.
"I usually do ask for post-blow job cuddles, but I think I'll manage without it," Tony replies. "You never gave me an answer about the trip."
"Actually, I did," Banner points out, pawing for his glasses. They're still where Tony remembers, the lavish ottoman at the foot of the bed and he squints a few times before fitting them over his nose. "Sure. Why not. Just make sure they address all the thank you notes to you when we're done, okay?"
"You won't even remember what you were worried about," Tony says. "Trust me."
"I trust you even less than I normally do, this time," Bruce shrugs, but holds up his hand when Tony sits up to argue. "Tell me what I need to do and when we leave and I'll do it and go with you."
"Good," Tony smiles, and rolls over toward Bruce. "It'll be fun. I promise."
Bruce really doesn't look like he believes him.
5.
He's polite to the tailor- nice, even- but Bruce is concerned about this turn of events.
Tony's seen the timid look in his eyes. He watches every note the old man makes in his little book, every long stretch of the tailor's measure. Inside leg, outside arm, hip, waist. It's fun, sitting back and watching Bruce try not to actively show how awkward this is for him, all arms akimbo and eyes over shoulder.
"Why couldn't Jarvis do that, again?"
"Your radiation doesn't mess with a lot of his sensors, but the one that determines how big you are is still convinced you're the big lug that went equal opportunity on an Asgardian god and my living room," Tony shrugs.
"I told you I was sorry about that," Bruce says, flatly.
"Not why I brought it up. But I could always put in for a suit for the big guy, too, if you wanted."
"He's…" Bruce pauses, tilts his head as his eyes shut. It makes him look like a monk, a man receiving the good word. Tony's been slightly worried every time he's seen it. "The big guy's really not a…fan of clothing."
"Your clothing, maybe," Tony jokes, and slaps him hard enough on the back that he has to lunge forward a bit to catch himself from falling.
A week later and a full wardrobe is packed away primly in Bruce's closet.
"Before you ask, this is exactly the kind of thing I did for Pepper."
Tony doesn't tell him that there's a tuxedo, too, packed neatly in a Vitton day bag right alongside Tony's, up two flights of stairs in the Stark closet. Instead, he watches as Bruce pulls open one of the jackets from the hanger, runs his finger across the label.
"Italy," Bruce murmurs.
"Every piece, under the best working conditions, been to the factory myself. Ate in the workers' commissary and all. " Tony adds. "Know how much that kinda thing means to you."
He knows this won't mean Bruce takes these things out of the closet, still guilty about having more than just traveler chinos and the things he can find second hand on the fly. It's easy to imagine that Bruce would feel terrible about ripping these new belongings at the seams, the work of so many thrown away over one man's lack of control.
"It does," he admits. "Thank you."
"Thankless job, making sure you look as good as me," Tony says. "Now put the jacket on and spin."
Bruce shrugs in, buttons up, does as he's told and looks fantastic.
4.
"What is this?" Bruce asks him, holding up the bracelet.
Tony's been in the thick of rebuilding an engine for the last three hours, grease on his hands and face and the melodic screech of AC/DC in his ears. This is home, the back of Tony's hand and sometimes he lets Bruce in, the way he has with Pepper and Rhodey (and sometimes Obie), and those times are the best, all play.
Bruce doesn't look like he's playing, right now. So Tony's careful, moves with meaning as he puts the wrench down, rolls the volume down on Jarvis' approximation of a stereo interface, and wipes his fingers clean of the oil.
"I made it for you. For Goodwood," Tony says. "Heart monitor out of one of the old bracelets for the suit. I thought you could program it to ping every time your heart rate gets close enough to let the big guy out."
"That's its form, Tony," Banner says, voice low and mutinous. "What about its function. Its real function?"
He's taken his glasses off, and he's got the thing around his wrist and god, Tony knows what he's talking about, hadn't even considered.
"Because to me," Bruce continues, "it looks like a claim. Property of Tony Stark: Hands Off, Could Be Dangerous."
"You don't have to use it if you feel that way," Tony says, easily. "Unless you mean to be having a very different conversation than the one I think we're having now."
"This means a lot to you, doesn't it?" Bruce asks. "Making sure I'm well behaved on this trip? Don't want to make you regret not finding some pretty young girl in a cute dress, right?"
"Not really," Tony shrugs. "More like I think you'd enjoy this, so I want you to be there with me. And I think you're scared to come so I'm trying to help."
Bruce walks in delicate steps, sitting down on the ground next to Tony's toolbox. He deflates, once he's down, bathed in melancholy. "You don't know what it's like."
Tony sits beside him. "So tell me."
"It's ecstacy." Banner sighs. "It's like this rapture just washes over me. I don't want to control him when he's out. Every time he comes out I get so lost, I go so deep that I can't remember a thing."
"What's there to remember?"
"Myself, Tony. And the part that's always so sick is that I learn like it a little more every time. I'm less afraid than you think. I wish I could let him have the time he needs so we both weren't so trapped." Bruce looks up with unsure eyes and a humorless laugh. "But you think I can't control him, either."
"I didn't say that." Tony leans in.
"Some things you don't have to say," he points out.
"You spend too much time controlling him. It's all you focus on, sometimes," Tony says, sitting a little closer. He knows he sees more of Bruce than even Bruce does, when they're like this, wrapped up in each other's space. "I just want you to not be so…worried about him, all the time. And I thought it would be easier."
Bruce hangs his head, catches it gently in a palm. Tony sees the apology that's attempting to bubble its way out of Bruce's mouth, so he does what he thinks is right.
"It's hard not to feel hemmed in, y'know? Hemmed in by SHIELD, or by the big guy or by someone else who thinks I'm going to destroy everything," Bruce says.
"Hemmed in by me?" Tony asks.
"You know any answer I give you is gonna make this whole thing sound like a Nicholas Sparks book," Bruce says, the joke always on him.
"What, you mean like 'The Notebook?' We're in 'The Notebook' territory and you didn't tell me? Shit, Banner," Tony returns smoothly.
The bracelet slides from Bruce's warm skin, and Tony slides it into Bruce's pant pocket, fingers soft and nimble. His lips drag against the skin where the bracelet sat, paper thin against Bruce's fluttering heartbeat. It quickens, a bit, at the touch, but Bruce calms himself with a deep breath and a hand that wraps into Tony's hair.
"Look, I think I can take a break for a while, getting a bit peckish," Tony gets up to his feet, and reorders his tools. "How do you feel about middle eastern, today?"
"That place on 23rd made me sick last time," Bruce reminds him.
"Good, cause I was thinking about taking you to Brooklyn anyway."
3.
There are a few restaurants open to the public in Stark tower- Pepper insisted upon that even if she did make sure Tony liked the chefs she'd invited to set up shop before she let them sign the lease and plan the menus. There are also six commissaries up on the classified levels that source food from downstairs and fresh produce from rooftop gardens and farmer collectives across the city.
Tony doesn't usually partake in the bounty Stark Industries provides its employees. That's not because he doesn't like 'eating with the rubes' -- quite the contrary, as that trip to the Brooklyn hookah dive with the awesome moksha had proven. It's usually because when he's alone and feels like he might want to run downstairs and grab something quick, he settles for Scotch.
He also forgets, sometimes, that Bruce was considered an international terrorist cell unto himself on the other side of six months ago, before Loki. Fugitives always look awesome in the movies, all Jason Bourne and everything, but Tony knows from experience that life so close to the ground isn't exactly filled with glamour.
So it takes a second when just after takeoff in one of the Stark planes, Bruce turns down a stewardess' offer to make a kobe beef burger with a charming, if awkward, "Sorry, I just ate. I wouldn't mind a glass of water, though, if it won't be too much trouble."
"We don't have a tap," she says sympathetically, as if she knows that's what Bruce is really asking for. Tony notices the way she looks at Bruce, like she sees how uncomfortable this whole excursion really is. "Would you mind a bottle?"
"A bottle will be fine, thank you. I don't need ice."
It's even more alarming forty five minutes later when he pulls out a fresh apple, acid green from a bag Tony hadn't even realized Bruce'd packed. Bruce snaps off the stem, weighs the fruit carefully, places his thumbs on the sides and flicks his wrists, breaking the apple down the middle in his hands. Bruce gets a feel for each piece, and then hands one across the table to Tony. It's slightly bigger, even though Tony just ate.
After, Bruce leans back, curls up and eats his half, a copy of some DNA journal in his other hand. He chews slow, like he's savoring the flesh of the apple, mouth wrapping around what little of the core he has, sucking the poor thing dry. Tony does his best not to stare but he's sure he's failing.
Banner puts the inedible parts back into the little compostable napkin from the Stark commissary on the 50th floor, colored a prim shade of pale green. He returns to his book.
"How do you even exist?" Tony asks in surprise.
Bruce chuckles at that quietly, a sound Tony can barely even hear over the dull hum of the plane's engines. "I'm pretty sure I picked one that will go well with your champagne."
It does, but Tony's not really shocked at that. "When did you eat?"
"About an hour before we took off," Bruce shrugs. "Pepper says hello, by the way."
"You had dinner with Pepper? Corsa?"
"She was gonna pull CEO privileges there for a table, but hedged when she saw me already sitting at the milk bar," Bruce shrugs. "I like the scenery better."
Momofuku definitely has the best view of Manhattan out of the Stark restaurants (let it be known that if you shower Tony Stark with baked goods as part of a first impression, he's likely to be incredibly generous in return). He's already seen Bruce eyefucking the pastry case that overlooks the Avenue with the kind of intensity that makes Tony really worried that Banner's big green sidekick would do anything for a blondie. He imagines the Hulk would have been the kind of child that would tug at Bruce's sleeve impatiently, pleadingly, pouting and pointing at the display just behind the glass until Bruce can't stand it anymore.
"How was the dinner conversation?" Tony asks. "She give you any pointers on how to deal with me on weekends like this one?"
"Not really, just that she's relieved she doesn't have to do that with you anymore," Bruce shrugs. "She compared it to wrangling the world's most self-centered cat."
"Why a cat? I always thought I was more of a bird."
"I don't even want to know," Bruce says, placing the magazine down on the table. "It wasn't all about you, Tony. We do have other things in common."
"Such as a love of shoes and an affinity for watching trashy television in your spare time?"
"What can I say, you should have expected I'd get around to watching all of Ugly Betty when you hooked my television up to Jarvis' netflix account," Bruce prods, softly.
"And here I thought the only person in my life into telenovellas was our friendly neighborhood Norse God."
"I debated starting Desperate Housewives, but the big guy isn't really a fan of Terri Hatcher," Bruce looks up, smiles gracefully as he watches Tony try to stifle the laugh that wants to come out. "Don't do that. If you want to laugh at me, please laugh before you break your face."
Tony does. Hard.
2.
"We're sleeping in the same room?" Bruce asks.
"The bed's big enough for two, but one of us could take the sofa if it's not your bag." Tony drops one of the bags onto the ottoman biting the inside of his lip. "Is that going to be a problem?"
Bruce thinks about that a little harder and longer than Tony's really comfortable with, but he stands up straight and smiles. "No, I don't think so. Just wondering if your real plan hinges on spooning again."
"Always with the spooning," Tony shakes his head.
"It just seems like it's on your list of things to do with me before I get tired of you," Bruce says, obliviously.
"That was very carefully worded, wasn't it Dr. Banner?" Tony asks. He walks over to the bed, tries to sit down without making it too seductive. "Especially when we both know what I'd really want."
The bed's plush and Tony knows it'll be warm just from the way he sits, then lays back on it, arms open wide. It's June, but maybe nights here are still a little more cool than either of them are really prepared for. But then, Banner's crawling on top of him, awkward and just a little shaky and a bit flustered but getting better at acting like he's not.
"You know I'm poison," Bruce whispers, hands reaching for Tony's arms, sliding up to Tony's wrists.
"Then poison me," Tony suggests, with every bit of seriousness he can muster while being 'held down' by someone a little smaller than him. "I could use a little gamma in my life. It will make things interesting."
The truth is that Tony's already programed the Arc Reactor to fight the effects of Gamma on his body a long time ago, and that Bruce's constant temporary 'cures' help from leaving behind enough radiation to be poisonous to anybody else. The reign he has on the Big guy probably helps, too.
Still, apparently the line works because Banner's mouth is on his, chapped lips and soft tongue. Banner kisses like Tony's fragile, like he'll break if this isn't done just right. Banner kisses like he's solving equations with his mouth, making hypotheses about what Tony will want, will expect, will like and then proving or disproving them one by one.
And Tony knows the feeling when Bruce's hands slide further up, further still and one reaches Tony's hand, clasping their fingers together while the other hits metal and stops.
Banner's eyes pop open, and under the great wide brown there's just a tinge of green.
"What's that? Is that the other heart monitor?"
"Yeah," Tony says, making the word sound six syllables long. The shrug he gives is a tad half-cocked, literally and figuratively, "But a bit more like a claim. Property of Bruce Banner: Hands Off, Could Be Dangerous."
The snarl that line gets him in return is just this side of electrifying, and Tony stares his fear in the face as it kisses him. Bruce's mouth is like a firebrand, the hand around Tony's wrist a shackle, the erection that grinds down against him a threat that is full of potential follow-through.
They stay like that for an embarrassingly long time.
1.
The day on the hill has been fantastic: filled with champagne and conversation with all kinds of people Tony admires. And there's Bruce, with a sparkling smile and low, private comments built like equations. This feels good. It feels right.
The day starts timid and Tony knows Bruce is a bit unable to cope, but as soon as Bruce hears the roar of engine after engine climbing the hill, he perks up. They watch as each car drifts gently around the bend and launch into long descent. It's surprising when he takes the alcohol offered to him during the picnic on the lawn. The walk in the paddock is filled with mechanics, engineers, real race car drivers that still bust his balls about that one time in Monaco.
It's there where Bruce shows just a little bit of how debonair he can be, with averted eyes and just the right amount of wit, a little more pride in what he knows each time. He's almost unafraid as he paints himself as an enigmatic humanitarian, speaking of time spent in Algeria, Somalia, Calcutta, Romania with shaking hands and incredible humility, stories meant to show how magnificent survival is there instead of stroking pity or guilt. The accents on his Hindi are spine-tingling, and Tony could listen to that French mumble all day.
A classic 340Z swings into the paddocks and Tony can smell just how well tuned the beauty really is. He turns, watches Bruce in the middle of a self effacing story of time spent in Brazil when Tony sees it, the flash of gunmetal at Bruce's wrist. His breath hitches, and he watches the little red dot at the center of the bracelet as it blinks rhythmically.
Then it happens, second nature. Tony slides a careful finger around the metal in a lull in conversation. Bruce looks like he's about to say something, but decides against it, sliding into his space a little bit closer instead as they walk down the paddock row.
"What made you change your mind?" Tony asks him later, back when they're in the hotel. Bruce has taken one of the old wooden toy cars off from the shelf, rolling it back and forth after he'd realized the wheels worked.
"I didn't need it," Bruce shrugs. "So I modified it to be something I did need."
He doesn't go into further detail, but smiles gratefully when Tony peels back the leather of the mystery weekender bag to reveal yet another gift. The Tux fits well, cut slim and articulated through the shoulders, the clean lapels. It's a tux Tony wouldn't ever dare wearing himself, but looks pristine for the man who'll be standing next to him.
"Wait," Tony says, right before they're shutting off the light, slipping out the door. "Give me your hand."
"Tony," Bruce warns. But Tony reaches for the arm with the bracelet, undoes the cufflink, and gently pushes it backward, hiding it from view. A few curls of Bruce's hair have fallen into his face, and Tony pushes them out of the way before dropping back to Bruce's shoulders. "Tony?"
"What?"
"Feeling pretty claustrophobic right now. Might have to 'Notebook' out," Bruce says, nervously.
"Are we seriously using 'the Notebook' as a safeword, Banner?" Tony asks, lifting a hand to the cut of Bruce's shaven jaw. "Seems a bit out of character."
"Having a safeword is out of my character, honestly. The big guy could use one, though," Bruce chuckles nervously. And the air changes as he leans in and slides his lips right against Tony's.
It's not a 'thank you' kiss, no. It's the kinda kiss that Tony's ever felt when someone is making an exception to their rules for him and Bruce is holding him tighter than is really fair, setting lines in the wool of his tux that Tony won't regret for a second. And when they part, the breath between them feels like a revelation.
"We better go before we're late," Bruce points out.
"It'll be fine," Tony replies. He slides his face against the place where Bruce's neck disappears into the high collar of his shirt. It smells good there, like olive and honey and a touch of smoke. He reaches behind him, gropes for the door handle. It opens with a snick, and then they're separating, tugging down and straightening, and walking down the corridor toward the elevator as the door snaps shut behind them. "So where'd you get 'The Notebook' from, anyway?"
"Betty's book club in the lab, before the accident and Harlem and," Bruce waves a frantic hand. Tony doesn't know what that means for sure, but can estimate pretty well, all things considered.
Tony asks. "Did you rue the day they watched the movie?"
"Like no other," Bruce says, ruefully."She wouldn't shut up about Ryan Gosling for weeks."
"Gosling, seriously?" Tony asks. "I was thinking she'd be more of a Joseph Gordon Levitt girl. Or maybe Christian Bale."
"They're both pretty dreamy, I suppose," Bruce's voice turns wistful, like he's remembering the time he saw Inception in Jakarta or something and suddenly, there are too many wisecracks Tony could make and too little time to execute. Bruce stares at him, amused. "You're doing that thing that'll probably break your face again."
The elevator doors clamp shut and Tony laughs until he can't breathe.
0.
"We have to do press?"
"A little bit, yeah. Not much, it'll be painless, I swear."
"I should've packed cookies."
"The big guy will be fine. And you will, too... So nice to see you again! It has been a very good weekend, hasn't it? Allow me to introduce my partner, Dr. Bruce Banner."
"How do you do."
"Bruce is being modest, he's ecstatic to be here."
"It…is my first-"
"Had to pop your cherry sometime. Trust me, it won't be his last!"
"Yes, well. The competition certainly has been fascinating."
"Real fan of things going 'vroom', this one. What's that? Ah, yes, Bruce can tell that story so much better than I can."
"We met on a project, Stark saved my life, I saved his, we started hanging out."
"See? So much better than I could."
"I try, Tony. For you."
"Oh, yes! He always tries for me."
A flashbulb goes off, and Bruce's eyes finally connect with the shapely female reporter that seems torn between feeling forlorn about Tony Stark marching out of the closet and absolutely ecstatic about his new beau. She gasps, and Tony knows what she sees in those eyes: the menace of green just beneath the brown. Bruce's nervous closed lipped smile evolves into a charming grin, wide and thick and almost predatory.
"Nice word choice there, Mr. Stark."
"I always appreciate your feedback, Dr. Banner," Tony replies. "Now if you excuse me, I'm going to have to get this guy some champagne before he gets testy. No good, when he's testy."
"It was a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Banner," the reporter says, staring.
It's like something in Bruce has broken down the middle, Tony's not sure, but when Bruce holds Tony a little tighter and purrs, "the pleasure was all mine," it's shocking that nobody faints.
1.
Bruce is in the middle of a conversation with an aero engineer from Toro Rosso when Tony approaches, hands clasped behind his back. He hangs back, listens to the way Bruce's mouth bends gently around vowels of informal Italian that Tony wasn't even aware Banner knew.
"May I cut in?" Tony asks. Bruce translates, says his goodbyes and pivots into Tony's space. The facade of confidence slips just a bit, and Tony sees the question in Bruce's eyes. Tony clears his throat. "Will you dance with me, Doctor?"
"I don't see the harm in it," Bruce shrugs. He takes Tony's hand, walking through the crowd to the open space in the floor. Tony watches as he pulls his shoulders back just a little and reaches for Tony's other hand, sliding until they're palm to palm.
Tony holds him just a little tighter than he needs to, and while it takes a moment to figure out who'll lead, they fall into a box-step easy enough that it kinda feels like nobody needs to lead.
"You've been busy," Tony says.
"I have," Bruce says. "Figured I would be little use to your networking, but I suppose I've held my own."
"Always with the understatements," he tisks. The last bit of variance in his body has matched up to Bruce, from posture to grip. "You're fearless. Pepper coached you."
Sure, Pepper's a master negotiator who has been known to make grown men cower in fear at the sight of her in a ball gown coming their way as Tony watches, but watching Bruce walk up to every face they've met today and then approach new ones, people Tony sometimes writes off as guys either too shy to really qualify for his time or too unapproachable for even the famous Stark repartee…it's different.
"A bit," Bruce murmurs. "I'm…really not comfortable."
"I know," Tony says, softly. "People just like how awkward you are, I guess."
"I guess," Bruce parrots.
They're chest to chest, and Bruce closes up the last tiny bit of space, leaning his head against Tony's. The two of them stay silent, swaying back and forth. They're closer than any other dancing couple, and Tony can feel the eyes on them as the gallery builds around the floor, but that shrinks away when Tony realizes that they're breathing in time together, inhale, exhale and inhale once more.
They're in the long, sweeping curve now, the calm before the storm. The air is thin, as Bruce turns his face in slightly, so close Tony can feel the movement of his eyelashes against a cheekbone. Tony's little heart monitor chirps.
"Should I be worried, Stark?" Bruce whispers in his ear, the most seductive thing he's heard in days.
"You just have that effect on me," he replies.
The song seems to keep on forever, as a few of the other couples stop and make a little room. Tony's a bit glad that Bruce's eyes are closed, because the way these people are looking makes Tony feel protective. Maybe they thought he'd brought Bruce as a red herring, a debutante training for a fundraising ball. Maybe some of them couldn't believe Tony was attracted to men, after getting so comfortable watching him parade around with the entourage of beautiful women he'd been attracted to, too.
Maybe they're all realizing they were wrong, as Bruce breaks hold to spin Tony around. It's not in the least bit awkward. No, it's just sweet and easy between the two of them.
"You don't seem nervous," Tony says. "You're always nervous."
"I'm always nervous, but I'm trying very hard not to show it," Bruce replies, "I don't want you to regret bringing me, okay? I just want to make you happy. I just want-"
Tony's leaning in, then, their lips sliding together easily. Bruce doesn't freeze, but doesn't particularly respond, either. Not until the hand Tony's place on his hip is grabbing at the jacket of his tux, not until Tony's tongue is flicking against his lip molasses slow. Bruce's mouth opens, his tongue flicks back, his hand moving from Tony's shoulder to the back of Tony's neck.
"What do you want, Bruce?" Tony doesn't actually care what it is, he knows he'll give it. He also knows this dance will be all over international press, and Pepper will probably have to do some double-timing with the stuffy old men holding Stark Industries contracts but he'll make up for that too, totally unconcerned right now.
"You, Tony," Bruce says like it's a death sentence. "I want you."
"Sorry," he teases, "you couldn't afford my going rate. But I like you, so maybe I'll cut you a deal."
Bruce's smile is dazzling, the curl of his hair hanging into his eyes. But Tony knows this is getting more uncomfortable by the minute as the song ends and they break apart. The crowd around them dissipates as Tony watches Bruce slowly recede back into his shell.
Tony presses his mouth shut and knows what he has to do.
2.
They're sprawled out on the hill. The grass stains will be hell for the Stark cleaning service to get out, but that's what he pays them for. Bruce is starfished out, watching the moon so full and low it's a shame they can't touch it. Tony's up on his haunches, holding the bottle of champagne he swiped in one hand and staring at his heart monitor as it hangs on the other.
"Thanks," Bruce smiles.
Tony turns at that. He knows he's smiling like an idiot, but he says it calmly in a way he rarely says anything to anyone else.
"You're welcome."
3.
It's 2:30 in the morning, the English chill driving them inside.
Bruce has taken his jacket off, rolled up his sleeves like he always does. Force of habit, Tony thinks. It looks a bit off, with the bow tie of his tuxedo. They stop at the door, Tony fussing for the key. Bruce isn't drunk but he turns, leans against the wall just beside the door frame. In the quiet, he traces the arc reactor in the middle of Tony's shirt, the outline almost invisible under the heavy linen of his shirt. The touch is soft, casual intimacy, molecules against molecules, the friction just the repulsion of electrons.
The door opens and Tony looks up from the hand caressing his chest to look at Bruce's face. The gel in his hair has disappeared, the curls almost unruly as they frame his face. The green of anxiety and fear and frustration in his eyes has receded, leaving nothing but bottomless brown. Tony puts his head down, swallows the words he'd like to say and walks inside.
Bruce doesn't follow until the door has almost closed. The tension in the room is thick, claustrophobic as Tony shrugs out of the jacket, plucks at the knot of the tie, undoes his cummerbund. He knows where this leads, in the core of him as Bruce comes up behind him, hands gently undoing the buttons of Tony's shirt, helping him shirk the material off. Fingers skim the waistband of Tony's pants, but instead grab at the tail of Tony's undershirt, drawing it up and off, too.
Tony's cologne has worn thin, just a little herbal tint to the smell of his sweat. He imagines Bruce's has worn thinner: a soft pang of honey against the smell of salt and skin.
The light of Tony's heart bracelet flicks, flicks.
He turns and sees Bruce standing there, shirt open and tie undone. They're breathing in time once more, leaning into each other, staring. Bruce's hands are soft as they reach up and slide around Tony's neck, the curve of his jaw. And then they're kissing again, finding all the ways and places they fit.
When they part, Bruce looks a little more sober as he takes off his dress shirt, unbuckles his pants, undoes the wide waistband of his pants and then reaches for Tony's, too. It's kind of easy to imagine the war going on inside Bruce, the knot of intimacy twisting into need and fear.
"Banner," Tony groans as Bruce skims his fingertips over the erection in Tony's pants. Even though he wants to say something else, something like 'you deserve this' or 'please, Bruce' or even 'fuck me, goddamnit, I don't care if you turn green,' but Bruce is pushing against him, kissing him as they push back toward the bed.
"Lube?" Bruce asks.
Tony breaks away, squirming against the bed to grab the Vitton bag. It's a quick toss, like all their 'I'll trade you's in the lab. There's a chance to lift his hips and then Banner's got him right where he wants him, naked on the bed again. It's already different, though, the long tease of fingers sliding into Tony, flicking open like surgery. Bruce's spine stretches, his head raising to look at Tony in the dim light of the reactor.
He almost looks drugged, the way his tongue slides out of his mouth as he pitches down, licks at the skin that runs right up to the reactor cuff. The gurgle Tony makes is downright embarrassing. Bruce's mouth traces a pattern all the way up Tony's collar, his neck, his chin to his ear.
Bruce's whisper is mutinous. "You don't know what you're going to do for me, Tony. Not the slightest idea of the chance you're about to take, do you?"
Tony's hands are coming loose from their knots in the bedspread to grab at Bruce, all reaction. He doesn't want to fight, maybe they'll do that later. No, what he wants is a claw in Bruce's back, another at the nape of his neck, show Bruce how good he can come apart.
And then prep's over and Bruce is pushing in and Tony's stretching, taking, accepting, thighs against the material of woolen pants. It's progress, Tony's been wanting this for months, but he's not really ready for the way Bruce twists him up and sits them both upright so they're eye to eye, wrapped around each other.
Bruce repositions his hips just a bit, and Tony's gasping once more, the pressure against his prostate so hard it's overwhelming. Bruce's hand, slightly calloused and lube-wet on his thigh, reaches for Tony's dick, holding it with a steady hand that seems to push orgasm away. Tony looks down, then back up for an explanation, anything that will explain why he's being driven crazy.
He doesn't even know where it comes from inside him, the need to fuck himself on Bruce, but it's kinetic and evolving and spinning, spinning spinning until Tony's trying to move for the both of them, breathless in rolling up, and down, and up once more.
"Not that this isn't fantastic, Stark," Banner groans as he clutches at Tony's back, his hips, trying so desperately to stay calm, "but I need you to not do this. Please, I want this so bad you have to stop."
The words sound so vulnerable, ragged and torn from Bruce's throat like he's trying to reign himself in, collect himself to draw this out, keep this for the both of them. So Tony stops and pitches forward, the two of them forehead to forehead.
Bruce's hand slides over the skin of Tony's back to fit up against his cheek, dropping his head to bring his mouth to Tony's neck, trace the groove of his collarbones.
It builds once more, Bruce's hips curled just in, just the right kind of pressure to drive Tony insane. And it's slow and unchanging, unerring even as they change position: slow, gentle wobbles of pressure that radiate out in waves, body worship that rolls into every crevasse.
Tony's laying on his stomach, Bruce's hand carefully arching Tony's back, holding him still as he sits in the space between Tony's legs. His cock slides back in, and Tony takes him warm and easy, like he's been custom made for it. Bruce's mouth presses wet, earnest kisses into a shoulder absentmindedly.
"Oh I swear to God I hate you," Tony gasps, the head of Bruce's cock hitting at him just right.
Banner laughs at that, all out laughs as he takes one of Tony's hands and links Tony's fingers with his. His hot whisper sends chills up Tony's spine, as he fights for every ounce of pleasure Bruce wrings free.
"Love you too, Tony."
4.
Tony has no fucking clue what kinda magical sex technique Bruce picked up in his travels. He knows there's a story there somewhere, knows it's long and heartbreaking and tedious but right now? He really doesn't care.
It's 5 in the morning and it's been nothing but start and stop, the intimacy cranked up so high it's almost tedious. Bruce takes the two of them right to the edge, all push and pull and Tony arching to receive hips that are lazy and loving and strokes so long they frustrate. And right when Tony's close enough to forget everything, Bruce stops, shows the kind of self control Tony envies, and finds another place to touch, caress or kiss.
Bruce is kissing him like a catholic school girl on prom night, but Tony doesn't think he can take this any longer.
"Listen, I want this, I want to figure out how to do this for you but I need you to fuck me. Hard." Tony says, because it's crazy how much he needs relief now, and it's crazy how selfish he feels for asking, "I want you to make me come, I need you to force it out of me."
Bruce's mouth widens into the same predatory smile he'd given that reporter in the Gallery, the same smile he gives a challenging problem he has to solve in the lab. "You've been so good, though. I know it must be so hard for you, asking for what you want."
Bruce's hands harden around Tony's wrists, pushing them above his head in molasses slow surrender. Every line in his body pleads for release as Bruce slips away, grabs the lube once more. His hand settles on Tony's knee, sliding it up gently and then using that leverage to shove in, so deep he's snarling.
The pace snaps into high gear, fucking deep in and then sliding all the way out.
"Tell me what you want, Tony," Bruce says, his voice just a bit uneven.
"More. C'mon, I've had robots fuck me better than you have."
A pause, and Tony's pushed up on his knees, the bed's creaking, and cock's so deep it might be in Tony's throat, he can't be sure. Bruce subdues him easily, pins him back down to the bed with a forceful hand and a little bit of strength. The other hand comes down, wraps itself in Tony's hair and arches him back, the position so uncomfortable because Tony can't fight it, doesn't want to take it easy.
"This is what you want?" Bruce asks. "You want me to break you in half? You wanna see if you can get him out of me?"
"Fuck."
"Not an answer," Bruce snarls out the response. His voice is determined, a brick wall he can push Tony against with the knowledge that he'll go willingly. Tony can't be sure if Bruce is actually angry and that makes him buck and fight and provoke Banner even more. And the angle of the thrusts change, pushing down into Tony instead of just straight across, hips swiveling with unintended ferocity. "This is what I am to you, right?"
The bed is beginning to shove against the wall, and Tony's stuck and ready to scream with how good it is, drawn out and hard and ruthless and Bruce can maintain this tempo just as calmly as the one they'd been using before.
The hand in his hair pulls him up, straightening his spine, making him work for breath with his head at that angle on Bruce's shoulder as hands like vines roll down the lines of Tony's torso, his thighs. The skittering sensation short circuits his brain and as his hand reaches for the base of Tony's dick and jacks him off, achingly hard and insanely slow. His free hand keeps Tony's head arched back so he can shove his mouth against Tony's ear.
"I think you want it, sick fuck. You want me to destroy you," he whispers it like it's dirty talk, echoes away from mild mannered and charming. Tony grabs hold of whatever flesh he can find and comes like he's getting turned inside out. Even when his come is all over the sheets he can't stop coming, can't stop the way his body's buzzing and his heart's beating and is he twitching?
Tony Stark never gets fucked good enough to twitch.
"Fuck, Banner. What'd you do to me?" he sobs. "Did you even…"
"Thanks to all that deep breathing stuff that apparently bored the crap out of you, I've been coming for the last 20 minutes, Tony."
Tony drops face first into the pillow, grabbing it as he clenches around Banner's still hard dick once more. "Fuck."
Bruce's thighs shove Tony's together and the angle changes and sweet sexy large green Jesus, he's ejaculating again.
"Have you seriously never had a multiple orgasm before, Tony?" Bruce asks as if he's been giving them away to all who dare approach for years. "For a billionaire playboy philanthropist, I gotta say I'm sorta disappointed."
5.
Bruce may be asleep, but Tony's watching the way Bruce is tossing and turning, growling. The muscles in his back are popping, his skin turning just a little pallid. Tony's seen this transformation in slow motion before, knows he needs to get out of be--
The bracelet with the heart monitor beeps so quick that it gives out with a hiss, and Tony watches as it flashes 'RELEASING SEDATIVE'. Within seconds, the muscles in Bruce's back are shrinking to their normal size and he moans lowly.
Oh, Tony thinks, I should have thought of that.
6.
"'Last night's Gala for Speed was full of familiar faces and new surprises, but none as surprising as Tony Stark's newly minted boytoy, a rather mysterious Doctor Bruce Banner.'"
"Tony," Bruce warns, lifting the demitasse cup to his mouth. He's bent over his bracelet with a micro-screwdriver and a syringe and it looks like surgery over there so Tony's just going to sit and read the paper across the table. Aloud.
"'…Doctor Banner was the talk of the night with a quiet charm and great conversation, as well as the super romantic story of how...' See, I told you everything would be fine. There's even a great picture of us kissing," Tony says, turning the paper around and looking for Bruce, who brings his head up and has to squint. "See?"
"Fury will love that," Bruce sighs.
"I'll make Pepper frame it!" Tony grins, turning the paper back around to continue reading. "'Our intrepid fact-checking department has also already unearthed a juicy tidbit about everybody's favorite canoodling doctor without borders. He's also known as 'the Hulk'. Make it 'the Hunk' and we'll totally be cheering for team Stanner!"
"Stanner?"
"Like Brangelina, but without the whole troupe of small children or the movie star thing," Tony explains. "Maybe someone's already written about us being the real life Mr and Mrs Smith, I'd totally read that on the plane back home."
"Why do I even put up with you, Stark?"
"Oh stop that, you love me. I'm not really sure I'd be down for biological children, though. I would be up for sponsoring a few of Professor X's recruits. Y'know, if you were."
"We can talk about adopting X-kids later," Bruce says, soothingly. "When you're less worried about being the second coming of Angelina Jolie, perhaps."
"And here I thought you were going to ask me what a Brangelina was."
"It was Calcutta, Tony. India," Bruce says, taking his glasses off as he slips the bracelet back on his wrist. "People in Calcutta know who Brangelina are. It's not the moon."
"Finish your coffee and get dressed. Car show's today and I can't buy you and the big guy an appropriate ride with you dressed as obscenely as you are right now."
"Tony, I don't need a car in Manhattan," Bruce grins as he brings the cup and saucer with him to the closet, reaching for a shirt, vest and slacks. "And I don't think it'll be helpful to teach the big guy how to drive, especially in New York."
"I'm sure 'the Hunk' will be a citywide cure for road rage."
"Please don't make that his new nickname," Bruce mutters as he disappears into the bathroom and closes the door behind himself.
For a moment, Tony stares at the picture of the two of them dancing. They're indecently close, laughing. He thinks to himself this was a wonderful idea, showing off Bruce the way he should be, the person he really is under all the worry about the big guy. And there's a new plan, bubbling in his head. They could take the European press by storm by just existing in the right place at the right time. Like a long drive to London, then an underwater bullet train to Amsterdam, another long drive to Paris, Monaco, Cannes.
He wonders if Bruce has ever been.
He wonders if Bruce could say no.
Tony gets up, and knocks on the bathroom door.
"What? Don't make me 'Notebook' out this early in the morning," Bruce asks, sticking his head out of the shower as Tony pushes the door open. Bruce's head is half-covered in shampoo and he looks like he's really afraid it's going to get in his ear.
"Listen," Tony starts, "I need you to do me a favor."