Chapter Text
Bruce shuffled the note cards in his hands and scanned the crowd for the fourth time in five minutes. The drafty, dank, church basement, large enough for fifty men, a coffee table, and a cheap sound system, held an arctic chill despite it being seventy-five Fahrenheit outside. Additionally, the taint of cigarettes clung to the frayed and stained brown carpet; initially Bruce thought he'd joined a non-smoking group, but the stale smell hinted otherwise. He glanced up at a popping sound - a few of the misfiring fluorescent lights were chugging away, but they'd blow soon. He smirked darkly. The entire atmosphere was reminiscent of an old Bela Lugosi horror film.
Bruce wet his lips and winced at how dried and cracked and peeling they felt; he wished he’d remembered chapstick before leaving the house.
He absently checked the crowd again, looking but not finding. He knew the moment - their moment - had passed. That particular lifetime moved forward while he froze in time, broken and rooted, like a diseased oak. He had wished differently. Sometimes he woke from dreams believing things were different. But it wasn't the truth and he couldn’t return to that place, not without choking on his own metaphorical and literal vomit.
He fucked up. So now he had to live with it.
“Here.” Alan handed him a cup of water and scooted beside him on one of the hall’s bent and dumpster-bound folding chairs. Bruce was nervous enough to choke on his own tongue, but downed the water so his mouth wouldn’t feel like leaves in winter. He swallowed thickly and some of the tension bled from his shoulders. Nodding his thanks to the older man, Alan offered a patient smile in return. Bruce had only known him for eight days but felt better for it; tall and lanky with an easy grace, the African-American man in his sixties sported a mop of Einstein hair, with a shock of black in the temple - like someone drew through the strands with a permanent marker. Alan was an English professor which probably explained why they got along fairly well. Well. That, and other reasons.
“Too bad I don’t drink,” Bruce quipped with gallows humor. Joking wasn’t doing so they could joke about such things in this safe zone. He ran a hand through his hair and made a face. His hair was about as long as Alan’s but Bruce's hair was more a loose mess of tangled waves and curls, and a far cry from his past collegiate styles. He looked more like a student than his former students. Bruce ran a shaky hand past the nape of his neck, envisioning a nest of matted hair licks. He needed a haircut, he should’ve shaved—
“You don’t have to do this right now.”
Bruce breathed deep and exhaled a half hitch, half laugh. “No, I do. If I don’t do this now I never will and I don’t want to go back. I can’t.”
He smiled at Bruce reassuringly. “You know yourself best. If it helps, picture everyone naked.”
“Oh, God no,” Bruce said, laughing. He had an ironic joke to share about that, but he’d save it until he went forward.
“Hey, guys, let’s get started,” Bruce heard, tensing. Alan squeezed his knee reassuringly as Bill (of course his name was Bill) came up and settled the room.
“I know we’re all rip-roaring to go,” Bill said. Bruce wasn’t sure if he liked the short, balding man, despite him being the secretary of the meeting, but he couldn’t judge. Here, they were all the same. “Bruce has decided to take the floor this afternoon. So give him your love.”
“Here goes nothing,” Bruce mumbled as people clapped. He stumbled to his feet when Alan gave him a reassuring pat on the back.
As Bruce took the podium he forced himself to pretend he was still a physics professor and it was the first day of class. They’re eager juniors, he told himself, and this is their last lecture of the day. Just kids. And truthfully some were, although most were his age or older. He wanted to make believe he wasn’t alone as well, but that would only lead to darker thoughts.
Bruce cleared his throat. “Ah, um. Hi. Hello. My name is Bruce, and I’m…an alcoholic.”
The room chorused his name back and as corny as that sounded on TV or the movies, it bolstered his courage to continue. “It’s been—“ he checked his watch “—twelve days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes since my last drink.” He got a few chuckles from that. Everyone in the room went by minutes and seconds, not days.
“We all have stories. But I wanted to share mine while I still had the nerve. It’s probably no worse or no better than anyone else but I will say this, I don’t think you could call it boring.”
***
Four years ago.
He hated conferences. Conferences were corrals, pressing you close to vain cattle and bullshit. Bruce’s roundtable luncheon had some interesting topic discussions on sustainable fusion reactors in a global economy, but none of it was new. And when Bruce ended up interjecting something it crushed the mood and the table shut down, and he was left fingering his napkin and turning it to shreds.
Sometimes he hated being that much smarter; no one got what he meant.
Dr. Mellinger suddenly nudged Bruce’s shoulder, waking Bruce from his fog. “Take a look at our morning keynote,” he chuckled. “Guess he started at the champagne bar a little early.”
Champagne bar? No one said anything about a champagne bar...Bruce took casual glances around the hotel ballroom but didn’t see the bar - maybe it was in one of the main floor suites? He’d have to locate it later.
Though Bruce really didn’t care about their keynote’s shenanigans he caught his eye anyway. The dark-haired man had a woman beneath both arms and they draped across his form like Greek slaves. He was listening to whatever tripe they spewed and poured them both generous licks from his champagne bottle before tipping the neck into his own mouth. Bruce watched for a moment because this mystical figure seemed so out of place in a room of introverted headcases.
“Is that--”
“Anthony Stark? Owner of Stark Enterprises?” Mellenger nodded. “He’s a brilliant asshole, I’ll give you that much. Did you catch his keynote? Spectacle, more like.”
Bruce shook his head. Really, he caught most of the speakers he wanted on Thursday and the rest he’d see in a few hours. Saturday was a wash and Sunday was checkout, so it worked for him. He had carefully and meticulously planned his Saturday schedule.
Mellenger nervously caught the eye of the other scientists at the table. “Bohr does Vegas,” he chuckled, licking his lips at his tired little joke. “Can’t you see it?”
“Maybe,” Bruce said, with a tight smile. He accidentally locked eyes on Stark, and Stark saluted him with the bottle before quaffing it.
Bruce swallowed. Really, he had other things on his mind than some hypersexed salesman. “Oh,” he said, drawing back his chair. “Looks like my next session is in a few minutes.” Not really; he had more than an hour, but he wanted to get away. Maybe take a look around the conference center; the idea of a champagne bar was too good to pass up.
He beat a gracious yet hasty exit, and grabbed a conference map on the way out. On a whim he turned back to see if Stark was still with his harem, but the man had already fled.
***
Punctuality was never his weakness. Nor was efficiency, specificity, or meticulousness. People could set their watches to Bruce and he would never disappoint - he kept to his schedules, and apologized profusely if he were more than three minutes late to anything. Even in this, in what he would admit to be his biggest, darkest weakness (one he kept close as cards to his chest) in this he did not falter.
He meditated after his last session, to keep himself calm, ate a light but filling dinner, and watched a bit of the evening news. After a long, soothing shower he brought out a few of the new books he’d purchased from the book tables and read the first few chapters, highlighting and writing in margins where appropriate. When his leg began an unconscious jiggle he knew the time was close, and he was right when he briefly checked the time on the television: 11:52pm. Nodding and satisfied with himself, Bruce forced his heart rate down. He quietly closed the books, turned off the television (where some late night sports commentators were arguing about the Jets, whether they were bowl bound or not). But Bruce would not rush. He refused to.
After carefully pocketing his glasses in his front pocket he made a quick survey of the room. Then with a deep sigh he double tapped the keycard in his shirt pocket, left his room, turned off the lights, and headed down to the nefarious champagne bar he heard so much about.
The elevator ride down nearly undid him; the expectation of what he was about to do, after three weeks of busyness was nearly enough to send him to the edge then and there, to run and not walk. But he forced a calm on himself that he did not feel. He took deep breaths. He listened to the outdated Muzak telling him love was a feeling. And he did not think about champagne bubbles dancing in his glass, tickling the tip of his tongue, creating giddiness where there was none...his hands were shaking. He jammed them in his pockets.
Bruce couldn’t quite halt his quickened pace when he found Suite 131A. To anyone else, it would appear he was late for a meeting or a rendezvous, perhaps a tryst with a wanton lover. No matter the case he didn’t have enough resolve not to walk at a questionable pace. He began reciting the periodic table backwards in his head. And he took a huge breath before entering the suite. He had to. It would be unseemly of him not to.
The sound of raucous laughter exploded when he swung wide the door - the room was far larger than he expected, and there were more people than he thought there would be at such a late hour; but this was good. This was more than good. The people here had been imbibing since 9, and he would hardly be noticed among them.
Swallowing, Bruce took determined steps to the bar, where a few half-drunk scientists discussed the merits of clones in a post-apocalyptic world. Bruce snorted. Of course the party started when scientists threw out their science fiction street cred.
“Can I help you, sir?” Bruce straightened when the bartender addressed him. He pretended to be casual as he searched over the tops the the various types of champagne. So many...
He gestured at the bottles. “What do you have?”
“Oh, the standards. Korbel Sec, some Brut...”
Bruce smirked. “So no Cristal, eh?”
The bartender chuckled. “For complimentary champagne? Not likely this century.”
His eyebrow quirked. “Complimentary?”
“Until I think you’ve had enough,” he grinned. “Or,” he said gesturing to a table in the far left. It seemed rather crowded, and Bruce couldn’t see beyond the first tier of people. “If you happen to be Tony Stark. Then you can drink as much as you want. Because he tips me twice as much as anyone else.”
Bruce laughed. “Okay, I got it. Okay. Give me the best complimentary champagne you have.”
“You’ve got it.”
Bruce forced himself not to watch him pour. Instead, he rubbed his knuckles and took nervous glances around the room, checking to see if he knew anyone. He didn’t - but then, he didn’t expect he would; he made sure he didn’t make any long term connections. Just in case.
“Here you are, sir.”
“Ah, thanks,” Bruce said with a sigh. He saluted the bartender. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Bruce took a few seconds to savor the aroma, to calm down his beating heart. He sniffed the flute like a connoisseur. He knew his wines after all and he knew this was a cheap one, but it was to be his first congratulatory drink of the evening. He had been good for three full weeks. He deserved this.
He refused to admit that he moaned when the wine burned his lips and palate. He refused to admit it. He downed the glass in two goes, and nodded. He handed his flute to the bartender with puppy eyes. “Fill it up?”
“Sure.” The bartender grinned. “Rough day?”
“Rough three weeks.” Bruce’s eyes followed the bartender’s hands, and he licked his lips as his glass was refilled.
“Then you should stick around here. I won’t let you go dry.”
He grinned. “Sounds like a plan.”
And Bruce did stay, and he chatted with the bartender on purpose. Mostly because he became chattier and friendlier after a few, but also because the night was busy and the bartender (who Bruce discovered was named after his great-aunt’s boyfriend, Quincy), was young and by himself and wouldn’t remember how many drinks he poured to a chatty, personable, loopy scientist. But inevitably the alcohol caught up with Bruce, and his words came out a bit slower; more slurred. And Quincy wasn’t so busy that he didn’t catch it.
“Sorry, Doc,” Quincy said when Bruce waggled his glass at him. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight. If I continue serving you, one of us will lose his job - and I don’t think it’ll be you.”
“Aww. I understand, Quince. No worries.” Bruce patted him awkwardly. “You fought bravely. Keep being the watchdog for all us repr...reprobates.”
Quincy laughed. “Nice talking to you, Dr. Banner. Go to bed.”
“Mm,” Bruce sighed, and he saluted Quincy with a half-drunk, Hawkeye Pierce-ish military salute. His walk was a little wobbly, but he wasn’t ridiculously loaded; others at the Stark table looked out or ready to drop. Even the blond Stark had in his hands earlier cradled her head in her hands. Although Bruce could see Stark through some of the throng, he only now paid attention because...well. Stark was indiscriminately sharing his drink. And it was free.
“See ya, Quince,” he waved, and the bartender’s lips set in a small frown when he saw where Bruce headed. Bruce caught it, but didn’t comment. His continual drunk was out of Quincy’s hands, and if he wanted to go beyond it, it wasn’t Quincy’s problem anymore.
One of Stark’s happy throng had slipped out of a chair, and was propping up a wall, so Bruce stole his chair and sat in it leadenly. “Amateur,” he cooed to the passed-out man.
Stark acknowledged Bruce with a simple quirk of his lips. “So now you want to join the party, huh?”
“What?” Bruce’s reaction was a bit slower, but he turned his gaze on this man who sounded a trifle mocking (asshole). “It’s after midnight. I’m legal.”
Stark chuckled and searched for an unused glass. Not finding one he plucked a glass from his lady friend, pointed to it and the champagne, and jiggled them both at Bruce. Bruce grabbed the glass and Stark poured. “You don’t look like a minor to me.”
“Nope. Not what I meant.” Bruce yanked the glass from him when he stopped pouring and began drinking. “I mean I’ve had stuff to do, and I haven’t had a drink in a long while. Been looking forward to this.”
Stark’s eyes softened but his smirk was anything but soft. Bruce could almost make out the bloodshot eyes behind the sunglasses. “Tony Stark,” Stark said, holding out his hand.
“Dr. Robert Bruce Banner,” Bruce returned. “And I know you, Stark. I’ve heard of you.”
“Tony’s fine, Dr. Banner. Hmm...do I--”
“Bruce,” Bruce interrupted. Tony paused, prompting Bruce to continue. “I go by my middle name. Bruce. Which is also fine.”
Tony’s smile brightened. “Right...right! I remember now. Bruce Banner and his anti-electron collisions. Your work is reportedly unparalleled.”
“So they tell me,” Bruce said, knocking back his drink. He sighed happily and held out his glass again. Tony refilled it.
“You’re a hard man to find, Bruce,” Tony muttered. “I was trying to look you up for a few design ideas I had, but Culver cockblocked me. Wanted to test your theories, ‘cause I had some questions that even you might have trouble answering.”
Bruce’s eyebrow quirked over his glass. “Yeah? Like what. Surprise me.”
And Tony started surprising him. The other man spouted things that Bruce had heard only in rare company, with those fellow scientists who really got him. It pricked his slowed consciousness and he pushed his glass to the side. Even drunk he could follow Tony’s ideas, and he shook his head when Tony brought out one proposal. Taking out a pen, Bruce edited an equation Tony had scribbled on the tablecloth. Tony, suddenly animated, disagreed and added to Bruce’s work...and soon they went at it as if they’d been partners for years, adding and subtracting to the stream, doodling and erasing, swearing and yelling. Oohing and aahing at the results.
“Huh,” Bruce said after a long pause. He took a noisy slurp from his glass while his eyes scanned the rows of scientific brilliance. Tony had been the last to add anything to the lines of code, and it felt like a puzzle. Bruce’s vision was incredibly blurred but he could still make out the important parts and the pieces tickled and teased his hindbrain. After a few minutes he broke into a grin. He put a line through an earlier portion and added a section that would complement and complete the strange stream of numbers and symbols.
“There. Finished.”
“Ah-HA!” Tony poked the table several times and grinned like a shark. He took off his sunglasses for the first time that evening and peered down with a critical eye. “That. That’s brilliant. And you’re fucked up. I’d love to see what you’d have cookin’ in that brain of yours when you’re sober.”
“This?” Bruce snorted. He tossed his pen on the table. “Child’s play. Fuckin’ child’s play. I could do this shit in my sleep, Shtark...er, Tony.”
Tony snorted and clasped a hand around Bruce’s shoulder. “I’m sure you could.” Even at this point Tony seemed more lucid than Bruce, but the way he held his wrist away from his face told a different tale. “Fuck, it’s three in the morning. I’m givin’ a talk at eight. I’m gonna try soberin’ up - you ok?”
“No,” Bruce said honestly. The room was tunneling and he knew standing would do him no favors. He was ready to get to his room, though. If he decided to drink from his own stash, he’d need to be there.
Tony snorted. He stood, and braced himself against the table. “Which floor you on?”
Bruce took time to think about it. “Eight,” he said, then grabbed his keycard from his pocket and checked it blearily. “Yep. Eight.”
The other man smiled, but his smile was less showy and more honest. “That’s my floor. Seriously, it is.”
“I believe you.”
Tony shook his head. “You wouldn’t if you knew me. C’mon, Banner. I’ll help you back.”
Bruce bobbed his head and took Tony’s proffered hand. He stumbled into him, and Tony made some off-color comment that Bruce snickered at, though he really didn’t hear what Tony said. “That equation,” Bruce muttered as they careened out. They were really helping each other up, but Bruce was the one doing more leaning. “No one gets it.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” Tony sort of nodded and put his arm around Bruce’s shoulder. “No one gets me either. Kinda okay, though. As long as you have one person in the world who gets ya, life comes out all right.”
Bruce’s head moved in a semblance of understanding, but he wasn’t listening.
Tony hummed when they went into the elevator while Bruce patently ignored his reflection in the gleaming metal. He was glad he was too drunk to make himself out. “Hey,” Tony said. “You wanna go to my room for a nightcap...or something?”
Bruce understood that bit, though. He shook his head and stumbled until he hit the other side of the elevator with his shoulder. “Nah.” He let a giggle slip past his lips. He felt himself slipping down the elevator wall, but Tony came over and propped him up. Bruce thought Tony just wanted to get into his space, and he shoved the man gracelessly until he was arms length. “Not that kind of a...guy.”
Tony shrugged and checked the numbers on the elevator, and Bruce drunkenly followed his gaze. 6...7...ping. The car bounced, and Bruce nearly fell. Tony caught his arm and pulled him out of the elevator.
“Hey, it’s fine. No biggie if you’re not into guys. I like both, so...yeah.”
“There’s another guy?”
Tony scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Man, you really are tanked. No, man. Male and female. Women and men. What’s your room number?”
Bruce waggled a finger in his face. “No hanky-panky.”
Exasperated, Tony let out a long suffering sigh. “Hanky-panky? You serious? My mother used that word, and I’m forty-one years old. On my honor. I’m not gonna bang you, Banner. I’m dropping you off, is all.”
Bruce sniffed and pulled out his card. “Twenty-six. Eight-Two-Six.”
“Got it. I’m five doors down, on the left. 831.”
Bruce hummed and fell casually against Tony’s shoulder. Tony wasn’t very steady on his own feet, but he let Bruce sidle next to him, propping him as much as he could. When they arrived to Bruce’s room, Bruce stuck out his hand. Tony stared at it. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Stark,” he said with exaggerated slowness.
Tony nibbled his lower lip and then laughed. “What the hell,” he said, shaking Bruce’s hand. He bowed and headed for his own room. “Likewise, Dr. Banner. Hope you remember me fondly tomorrow.”
“Kinda drunk off my ass, so it’s doubtful,” Bruce muttered. It took three tries but he finally got his door to accept his card. “But I’ll try.”
“You do that,” Tony called after him. But Bruce had already slammed his door and gone inside.
Bruce fumbled awkwardly for the light switch and said a vicious swear when he couldn’t locate it. “Fuck it.” He tripped on his suitcase which was okay, because it forced him to face-plant into his bed. Which was fine. He didn’t bother taking off his clothes. He simply allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness.