Chapter Text
Goodwood House
Bruce looks like a Muppet standing there, thinking in the shower stall. He's watching Tony through the glass wall, head tilted and lips tucked in and it takes everything he has for Tony not to roll over in laughter because it's seriously just that silly but no. No, that's Bruce's serious face.
It would be bad to laugh at the rage monster's ‘serious’ face.
"So what brought this up, Tony?" He asks.
"It's been an incredibly long time since you've had a vacation," Tony shrugs. "A week away from the tower would be good for us. No, two, two weeks away from the tower. I was thinking I could show you the world?"
"You did not just ask me a question using an Aladdin quote," Bruce says, wiping the water from his eyes and the glass so he can see through the fog. "I've also seen the world. I'm not really impressed anymore."
"But maybe you could be," Tony returns. Bruce looks at him as if he's already tired of Tony's smart mouth this morning. "Come on, I bet you've never been to Amsterdam, and I know you've never been to Monaco. We're so close I can taste the canapés. We should go. Let's go."
"So we can crash a few parties and you can show me how rich you are? You said a weekend, Tony. A weekend." Bruce says. "I had things I was working on when I gave my assistants off, you know."
"But you picked those kids yourself," he replies. "They’re totally autonomous while you're out being awesome, so why can’t you be out and awesome with me? Moreover, one of the labs is in Antwerp. You could check in and make sure nobody's stolen your ideas or blown anything up without your being there.”
The shower turns off, and Bruce reaches for a towel. Tony hasn't really spent time looking at Bruce naked, even though the guy is always naked. He's defined but not cut, black-brown hair growing in a pattern down his chest that looks almost manscaped. Almost.
"Stop objectifying me," Bruce says plainly as he hunches over and covers himself with an awkward hand. "It's really hypocritical for you to be asking me to take a few weeks off from work."
"I'm just appreciating the natural growth pattern of your body hair. It's impressive," Tony deadpans. "And I’m not asking you to break up with science. You can have all the video calls you want, I just want you to come to Monaco with me. Just… do this with me. Please."
Bruce lifts his eyes, a calm and skeptical brown as he leans against the glass stall door and wraps the towel around his hair. His posture deflates gently, and he purses his lips. "Let me make a few calls."
"And here I thought you were afraid to be with me in small spaces," Tony says.
"After the last few days, I know what I need to be afraid of when I’m around you, Tony," Bruce replies, flatly. He pauses, thinks it over and smiles a little, too. "And it is incredibly hard to look a gift horse in the mouth, I suppose."
"Even harder if you mean a gift trip to Monaco," Tony corrects.
"Semantics," Bruce snorts.
"And the chance to fuck me into the mattress as many times as you can muster. We could even give the big guy a crack at it, if you play your cards right."
Bruce stares Tony down like he’s trying to find the words. "While the big guy thinks you're attractive, I think you're romanticizing how enjoyable that would be. There'd be more smashing and…"
"Less smashing?'" Bruce groans at the entendre as Tony’s hands fly up in his own defense, "what? That's what the kids call it these days! I asked your lab assistants on purpose that one time. They all said they wanted to smas-"
Bruce's hand rises and he sounds frustrated already, "don't finish that sentence. I’ll come with you, so how are we going?"
"Road trip?"
"As long as we listen to something with more variety than your AC/DC playlist, because it got really old really fast last time," Bruce shrugs.
"We'll flip a coin, it'll be fine," Tony says. "I'll put on some pants, get us a ride. You figure out how we get there?"
Bruce nods, confident. "Can you get something that doesn't make it so obvious you're a narcissist?"
"Already taking all the fun outta things, Banner," Tony groans.
"Tony, I don't think you fully appreciate how kept I look right now,” Bruce points out. “I just can’t help myself.”
"Fine, I'll get something modest," Tony replies, flicking three fingers up in a mock salute. "Scouts honor."
"Well, if you're going to be a Girl Scout about it, I'm almost honor-bound to go," Bruce deadpans, and then blushes when Tony turns his hand and starts rocking it back and forth, waggling his eyebrows. "Go put some pants on and try to be a normal tycoon for once, instead of an eccentric one?"
"Tycoon?" Tony asks as he opens the bathroom door and struts out, grinning with his victory. "You and Steve need ground rules for the things you suggest each other read, Banner. I’m in no mood for 1920s fuckery while we’re on vacation."
Bruce's low chuckle is faint once Tony's out of the bathroom, but it's all the reassurance Tony needs.
Claypit Lane
It's a grey, sexy thing: all carbon fiber, aluminum, and sloping lines like the spine of a body on hands and knees. Tony knows its their ride the second he sees it sitting there, wedged between an old Jag and an even older Jag. It beckons him, he has to have it, and his fingers itch as he whips out his phone and starts pulling up stats. Given the fact it's a few years old, the offer he makes is likely outrageous, but the owner's attached and needs the extra push.
The paperwork is easy to draw up, there are brokers everywhere here, and he even haggles out a test drive on the hill, footloose and cavalier. He skims the title and work history, dials up his personal accountant, and does the transfer over high tea. After the theatrics and negotiations, he calls Bruce.
"Seriously, an Aston Martin?" Bruce asks the first time he sees the thing, hands shoved in shark-grey pockets. He looks bashful and a little reluctant. Also, kind of amused. "What is this, Casino Royale?"
"Well, unless you've spent any significant time driving in Europe, I'll be the one doing most of the leg work. So yes, I think it's fair to call me James Bond in this case," Tony nods. "I guess that would make you the Bond girl."
"I guess I could fill out a white bikini well enough, although I'm pretty sure the body hair would scar bystanders for life," Bruce replies casually. Tony wants to laugh but Bruce's brow is furrowed and he's doing that thing that's not quite pouting, "And I have driven in Europe- Italy, mostly. I just asked you to buy us something modest, is all."
"How is this not modest?" Tony asks, gesturing with his teacup. "Considering the cars I have back home, we can both agree this is downright pedestrian."
"You and I have very different definitions of the word 'pedestrian,'" Bruce sighs.
“If I knew you were going to get huffy, I would have bought the Bentley instead.” Tony shrugs. He looks down at his teacup, the sweet milky dregs of English afternoon tea hugging to the bottom. "I swear they put crack in this tea."
"Because that solves all the problems, here," Bruce amends, his voice dripping with sarcasm. It's a good look on him, with the whole wind-tossed hair and Italian suit thing. "Tony, I sometimes worry about your wealth stunting your personal development past the age of 17."
"You know, Doc, I get that a lot. Stand over there. Yeah, like that." Tony orders as he uses his free hand to push Banner over toward the car and takes the last swallow from the cup. Bruce resists for a second and then goes willingly, a few steps over to the right.
"What?"
"Nothing, you just look very 'disgruntled male model' right now. If you bust out some 'Blue Steel,' I would be incredibly pleased," Bruce lowers his head and chuckles, darkly. "Do you always laugh at jokes when you're the butt of them?"
"I'm just constantly surprised that you always get what you want," Bruce says, softly.
"Of course I do," Tony nods firmly. "No compromises."
The look in Bruce's eyes tells Tony he's probably going to change that.
Bruce slinks away from him, closer and closer to the car until he's brushing carefully against it, pulling the hunch of his shoulders back, lifting his head to take a deep breath, landing in the kind of pose that's all seduction in the angle of his hips and the cross of his calves. His facial expression melts into a smolder as he slides his glasses from his face, bends his wrists so they'll fit against the slope of the car. Once the illusion's complete, he looks like a man with exquisite taste in charge of the world around him. It looks charming, almost natural.
It's not like he's never compromised in his life, but a masochistic little voice in Tony's head tells him to not bend until Bruce makes him, not until Bruce fits him into this illusion, too.
"Like this?" Banner asks, seductive and low.
"You're gonna end up in the papers again if you keep posing like that, Banner," Tony jokes.
"Isn't that what you want, Mr. Stark?" Bruce replies, easily. "And don't you always get what you want, no compromises?"
"None."
The moment hangs for a second, the snarl echoing between them. Tony bites the inside of his lip, incredibly jealous that others are able to see this show and all the imperfections that make it even better. Anywhere else and Tony's sure he would be down on his knees, unable to breathe as he takes Bruce in tribute.
"It'll work just fine, Tony," Bruce says, turning around as the heat between them evaporates as quickly as it arose. "It's a very nice car."
"Knew you'd like her."
"Three hour drive," Bruce changes the subject.
"London?" Tony asks. He could have a good layover in London, he thinks. The last time he was there, it was with Pepper, the two of them wrapped so tightly in each other that they couldn't even claw their way out of the West End. This would be refreshing, pub hopping and a late night curry down in the city center, temptation carried upon an eastbound wind. It would be perfect.
Bruce shakes his head, puts his glasses back on. "Harwich and the boat that'll take us straight to the Netherlands. 12 hours across the channel," Bruce smiles the grin of a man with priorities. "Big guy and I tried to find something that'd get us there without freaking out."
"You're probably really good at that by now, aren't you?" Tony says, fondly.
"It's a gift. It won't be the personalized accommodations you're used to, though. You'll have to be flexible."
"Where's the fun in that?" Tony asks.
Bruce stares at his shoes for a moment, his jaw tight like he's already regretting saying yes. Tony walks up to him, wraps an arm around the trunk of Bruce's body, grounding them together as he watches Bruce deflate a bit. Looking down at the bracelet, he can see Bruce's heartbeat in double-time, and he can't tell if it's in anger or embarrassment or arousal or any number of things.
"I'll spoil you rotten once we get to Monaco," Tony whispers like it's a secret, as if he's confessing to murder. "Until then, I'm just your driver."
"With a big mouth and an even bigger ego," Bruce mumbles.
"We could buy a gag, if you want," he shrugs. Bruce's eyes fly up, clear green. Tony slows down, takes deeper breaths in hopes that Bruce will follow, match him inhale for exhale. "Relax, I trust you."
It works, and Bruce uses the breath and the hand still on the car as grounding, walking back down from the temptation. "Because you in a suit and a ball gag driving me across Europe in this car doesn't sound like the set up for an incredibly well financed soft porno."
"That's the reason why I put it out there, big guy." Bruce's laughter comes out in a choke that rattles the teacup in Tony's other hand. "Oh come on, you know you've had worse offers for rides, Banner."
"Well, when you're right…" Bruce trails off, sighing. "So when are we leaving?"
"Show ends at four. Was asked to keep it here until then."
The car is not the center of attention at the show: far from it. Most people are over towards the Italian cars at the far end of the field, or the Germans just off to the other side of the path. They have been freaking out the old men crowded down around the Morgans at the end of the row for a while now, though. Tony thinks if those guys are gonna fantasize about going 80 miles per hour in a wooden car, they can withstand a little homoeroticism.
"How gracious of you," Banner murmurs. "Last boat leaves at midnight. First boat after that is seven AM."
"We could see how far we go, if you want."
"Yes, Tony," he smiles, fragile and sharpened with double and triple meaning. "I think that’d be best."
Clacket Lane
The sun's still high enough for Tony to pull up near a picnic table and walk around the car a few times.
Bruce kicks a thumb back toward the service building, cliché pile of bricks it is, "I'm gonna get some coffee. Want anything?"
"Whatever you get should be fine," Tony nods.
Tony gets a bunch of compliments on his ride and secretly beams over every single one of them. He even lets a group of ten year olds sneak a peek inside. People seem very long for the wear. Passers by flit eyes across his face without quite knowing 'who' he is, now that the facial hair is popular in every barbershop across the world. Tony considers that there might be something to shaving it down into something less ostentatious.
Bruce comes back out with two incredibly loud-looking cups of coffee, covered with flimsy plastic tops. The corner of a Krispy Kreme bag hangs from two fingers.
"Sorry about the coffee. I trust American brand names more than I should sometimes," he says, softly. "It was either this or something named Beano's."
"You totally made the right choice," Tony says, taking the cup before it's offered to him. He knows Bruce knows the 'don't hand me things' rule, but the guy never seems to care. Maybe it's casual resistance to Tony’s wealthy eccentricity, but maybe it’s all about seeing if handing Tony the wrong thing will send him on a tantrum.
They sit on the picnic table, looking out at the parking lot as people cycle in and out. The coffee's a little burnt, overly sweet but caffeine's caffeine, even when it's from McDonalds.
There is no attractive way to eat a doughnut.
“So, why?” Bruce finally asks.
“Why what? Why did I want to do this?” Tony returns.
“Why did you decide you wanted to do it this way?” Bruce repeats. “I figured you would’ve grabbed a helicopter and dumped us off in the Riviera in like, 15 minutes.”
“Since when did you become so bad at math?” Tony asks. “Also, why didn’t you mention it when I could have requested the plane?”
"I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I've started dating this offensively rich guy in the last few months and I'm trying not to become a sugar baby," Bruce points out. "I'm really sure asking him to gas up his big, strong plane and drop us off in one of the richest countries of the world so I can work on my tan is really constructive to that goal."
“I’m willing to admit that I’m surprised you even know what a sugar baby is, honestly,” Tony jokes.
“Ha ha,” Bruce deadpans. “Besides, I’m a fan of escapes that put you off the grid instead of ones that put you on the map. Occupational hazard.”
The statement darkens the planes of Bruce’s features, makes him look even older and full of unkempt character. Tony asks, “How much did you travel before the big guy?”
“Enough,” Bruce nods, “gave a few talks on those papers you like so much. Never got much time to spend much time in the places we were talking about. More Berlin, Geneva, a little bit of Rome.”
“I think you’ll like Amsterdam. Bit of a party city, but your kind of party.”
“Stoners everywhere and sex in the windows?” Bruce asks, awkwardly. He looks down at his shoes, quirks his lip, “wouldn’t quite qualify that as my kinda party, but I suppose I could adjust.”
“Well, I meant smart people talking about lots of incredibly geeky things. Diamond factories and lots of bikes and levels and water,” Tony shrugs. “Tons of things to do, places to go.”
“Then we’ll have to make a list, if we’re only there for a day or two. JARVIS suggested it was about a hour’s drive from the boat. It gets there pretty early,” Bruce sighs.
“We could always make a pit stop in the Hague,” Tony grins.
“Let’s not and say we did,” Bruce murmurs. Tony wants to joke or ask what Bruce is so anxious about, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t attempt to claw the word ‘criminal’ free from Bruce’s throat. They fall into silence.
It's an hour and a half straight through to the coast. They'll cut it close but there’s a good chance they’ll be able to leave England tonight. Bruce pulls out a coin from his change and flips it to figure out who gets to pick the music. Banner wins, which means they'll be listening to eighties Alt-punk until they stop again. He flicks out his Stark phone and goes through his library, building a playlist like he's been thinking about it all day, sucking errant traces of doughnut glaze from the fingertips of his other hand.
Tony gets back into the Aston, shoves the key into its cutesy little hole. Bruce slides his coffee into the cup holder and pokes around at the stereo until everything's calibrated and connected. "This better be good, Banner. I haven't tested the speakers yet."
The little speakers pop up from the dashboard, and Bruce takes off his glasses, slides them back into his pocket. "Think I'd lead you and your new toy astray?"
"No, you'd just lead us back to the 80s," he says. "Obviously."
Bruce snorts, and Tony can already hear the low rolling baseline of 'Fascination Street' echoing in the tiny cabin.
"Can this work?" Bruce asks as they pull back out to the highway.
"Yeah," the corners of Tony's mouth turn upward as he gets up to speed and falls right into the fast lane, "this can work."
Port of Harwich
"You and I are going to have to work on your taste in music. That was the most metrosexual hour and forty-five minutes in my life to date, Banner."
"Better than cock rock," Bruce points out. "Pull over there, I'll get a cabin."
He slides out of the car and shuts the door, walking into the station. Tony looks down, flicks off the radio, and slides Bruce's phone into his jacket. They won't be in here much longer, anyway.
"Captain's class alright with you?" Bruce asks when he returns.
"As long as it's got a bed and is bigger than a shoebox," Tony replies.
Dinner goes by in a blur because that's what happens when you put Fish and Chips in front of starving Americans at 10 at night. Most people are already tucked into their rooms, trying to fall asleep before the boat begins to move, so they dawdle from the makeshift 50's diner over toward the makeshift 90's bar. It’s late enough that the music has been lowered to a whisper, a lilting generic bubblegum melody.
They sit near a window. The lights have been drawn dim, soft halos of florescent white popping against vivid blue walls and industrial red carpet. Tony watches as Bruce looks out the window, the sweating glass of beer in front of him light brown. They haven't left port yet, so the spotlights along the harbor catch the ocean waves, defining them.
Tony can't tell if the low droning hum is Bruce or the engine idling as it prepares to disembark. Either way, it makes him antsy, full of energy he doesn't know how to work off, in a quiet isolated place with not much to focus on. His leg bounces under the table, the squeak of Italian leather just a little too high pitched to match the engine's drone.
Bruce gives him the side-eye.
"Everything alright?" he asks.
Tony shakes his head, pushes a hand through his hair and wiggles further down into the cheap pub seat. He sits back, scratches an itch through his pants and pulls out his phone, checking e-mails, flicking through his feeds. He bites his lip, his leg bouncing again.
Bruce turns to him, catching the corner of Tony's eye. He leans forward.
"Do something with me, Fidget Man" he says.
"Something like what, Green Lama? Yeah, didn't know I knew about that comic book Rogers gave you, didja?" Tony asks. The corners of Bruce's mouth turn downward, but he starts shaking in laughter, anyway. "Gonna break your face like that, Jethro."
"Yeah, yeah," Bruce says, "sit up straight."
Tony does as told. Bruce takes off his glasses and follows until they're eye to eye. There's just enough light over their table to allow Tony to see the endless brown of Bruce's eyes. It's not enough to show the texture of the irises, the slow bleed of green annoyance.
The boat horn sounds from far away.
Bruce's pattern of breathing is off, too short inhales with too long exhales. Tony matches up with him anyway.
There's a lurch in the background as the boat starts to move. It causes them both to grab for their drinks. Afterward, Tony's focus narrows onto the way they're looking at each other. It's uncomfortable. It's silly.
In Bruce's eyes, Tony can see awe and worship and maybe the tiniest urge to consume. His fingers itch as he keeps looking, staring, watching. He reaches out, wraps fingers around the wrist Bruce is using to hold his beer still.
"Tony," he warns.
"Teach me?" Tony asks.
Bruce breaks his gaze, eyes returning out to the sea as the port slowly drifts from view. A quick glance over at the bar shows they're completely alone, the bar empty. Down the way, the bartender's back is turned and she's leaning against the counter as she cleans glasses and watches a late night replay of Graham Norton.
“Don’t you ever quiet down?” Bruce asks.
"Never really had a need to, before. You do a lot of things different, though. Would you ever," Tony wracks his brain for the best word, "train me? If I asked?"
Bruce's eyes snap shut, his fingers clenching against the glass as he sighs, deep and long and shaking. "Why do you do that?"
"Because I trust you. And I want to know what you know. Sit at the foot of the master and all that jazz, right?"
"I’m not your master, Tony. I’m not going to force you into things," Bruce shakes his head, "Stop asking me to treat you like I own you."
"That's got less to do with the words I say and more the ones you hear, don't you think?" Tony smirks as he leans in. "You're just so reluctant sometimes that I…"
“Imagine a mountain, Tony. Most people just go around mountains, some go through. But what you’re asking for is like…trying to climb the steepest part of the mountain without even so much as a rope. You’ll get to the top, but then you find the steepest part of the other side for the way down. That’s what you’d be training for,” Bruce says. “It’s not sexy, Tony. It’s not fashionable and if you’re not careful it will lead you to something so dark within yourself that you won’t be able to shut it up. It’ll be like stripping every defense, even the ones you didn’t know you had. You’ll be in shambles."
"So you'd beat me into a pulp?" Tony snorts, looking down into his whiskey. He's been in these kinds of situations before, he knows it's all talk.
"Please," Bruce snorts like he's tried that before and it failed. " I won’t go there for you, I wouldn't do that even if you begged for it. And look, I know you’re asking for the physical, I know what you want but trust me. The further along you go, the more you just become exposed, helpless. It just happens. And then you get this… hunger, this itch."
"Are we talking about the same thing, here?"
Bruce closes his eyes, like he's listening to the big guy again. His voice is careful, gentle. "I know from the outside it looks like breathing and chanting and coming all the time if we just look at each other right. But it’s more than that, when you start looking deeper. You endure everything, you ride the edge of total self-destruction all the time. All you have left is the gaping hole that resides inside you, slowly filling with worry and self-pity and nightmares, every nightmare you’ve ever had.”
“I just want to point out that this sounds legendary,” Tony shakes his head.
“I’m trying to tell you,” Bruce stops, closing his eyes and counting backwards, “I’m trying to tell you it would turn you into me. Would you really want that?"
"Could be useful," he shrugs.
Bruce’s eyes go soft, his mouth flattening out, "Everything’s always a joke, isn’t it?”
“You could use a few more jokes in your life, Banner. And you’re not going to talk me out of this, Bruce. I want to know.”
“I don’t expect you to feel obligated to know it. I just…do things a certain way. You don't have to learn anything." Bruce shrugs. "Only real reason why I'm good at it is because the big guy hates yoga."
"That's a shame. I imagine you're really flexible when you put your mind to it," Tony says. "I wanna make this work. So you have to teach me, Banner. I don't expect to know it all-- I know you're not some guru or anything and it's not like I'm expecting to connect with my inner anything, really. I just want to know you. This is obviously a part of you, so it's important to me. I'll be a good student, promise."
Bruce takes a drink, looks like he doesn't trust him, "I just could see you playing with that phone in the corner of my eye and it was driving me nuts."
"Good a reason to start a Karate Kid montage as any," he smiles.
"No montages." Bruce replies.
Tony's already breathing in time, already starting the chain reaction, and Bruce is there with him, single-minded. When their eyes meet once more, Bruce looks at him like deep down under that serenity he's a dog on a choke-chain, control over himself so tight it's scary.
Tony itches for more in the silence. He itches for it all over, like his skin is crawling with the need to touch and kiss and have, have, have now rolling in his gut and rising in his throat.
Bruce's free hand reaches out and grabs at Tony's across the table.
"Stop thinking so hard. It's not a staring contest," Bruce mumbles. "We can have one of those later."
"Let's not and say we did," Tony replies.
"Never gonna let that slide, are you?"
"Where's the honor in letting you off easy, Banner? What'd you do, sleep with the Sheriff's daughter? Steal books out of the European Library? Shoplift out of De Passage? Tell someone from the New European Ensemble they needed a better DJ?"
"Did you commit the whole Wikipedia entry to memory from your phone?"
Tony pauses, narrows his eyes. "Touché."
Bruce laughs, pushes his hand through his hair, long and curly and greying constantly. "It's late, Tony. I’m tired. We should go."
The lights dim even darker as the bar begins to close. The room's waiting.
Bruce looks away, tips the glass of beer to his mouth, and makes a face of disgust. He finishes it anyway. After, he steals the glass of scotch from his hand and takes a swig before pushing it back.
"Damn," he curses. Tony imagines how the inside of Banner's mouth tastes, sour and oaky. He longs for that taste, too.
"Thought I saw some tea in the room," Tony murmurs. "Could make a cup before bed."
"Thanks, Mom," Bruce says, flat and easy.
Tony swallows the rest of the scotch, leaves a few euros on the table in apology. The bartender looks as they pass, but doesn't give them much of a second glance.
Tony whips out his phone, flicks through more messages and lands on a picture of Bruce, leaning against the car, teasing smile on his face. Bruce leans against in the corner of the tiny elevator and Tony stands next to him.
"For you, Mr. Popularity," he says, handing Bruce the gadget. "British press is really into 'the Hunk.'"
Bruce's fingers brush against Tony's as he takes the phone, a long, sensuous caress of a touch. The photo's obviously been taken on a telephoto lens, it's composed like the photographer was just over Tony's shoulder when all of 10 people came up to the English line up all day.
Bruce is bright red in embarrassment. Tony hopes it's embarrassment, anyway; it could be the scotch. "I think I might need that tea, come to think of it."
"Maybe," Tony shrugs and turns back to face the elevator doors.