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There is no flash of fire and brimstone, or thunder and lightning, or any other glitz and glamor that Bruce imagined would accompany summoning a demon.
Instead there is an empty circle, and then there is a man sitting in it.
If his entrance doesn’t measure up to Bruce’s expectations, then the demon himself certainly does. With tanned skin, hair as black as coal and a very devilishly trimmed beard, he does rather look the part of ‘demon’. The onyx eyes glittering at Bruce help too.
“Um… hi. Welcome to my basement.” He says, because the books don’t really give much information on how to converse with demons once you’ve summoned them. Bit short-sighted of the authors, that.
Judging by the demon’s expression, saying hi and welcoming him to Bruce’s basement is not the usual track summoners take.
“…Hi. Please tell me you didn’t summon me so that I could compliment the décor, because 1) not happening, I’m not a demon of deceit, and 2) that is so pathetic, it might actually make me feel guilty when I break free and kill you.”
Oh. Huh.
“You really call yourself a demon?” He asks brightly. “I mean, I always thought that was more of a contrived human term than a nomenclature of your people.”
He scribbles down a note on this discovery in his notebook, and when he looks up the demon is staring at him like Bruce is the demon here.
“Are you selectively deaf? Did you not just hear the ‘kill’ part of that statement?”
Bruce shrugs. “Like you said, first you’d have to break out of the circle, and I’m relatively confident in the stability of it.”
The demon glances down to gauge this statement’s validity and then glares at Bruce. It would be rather frightening, if the next words out of the demon’s mouth weren’t:
“You did not summon a high-level demon using a fucking Hula Hoop.”
“Well, no. As far as I can tell, the Hula Hoop has been relatively abstinent.”
The demon groans rather theatrically, collapsing into a cross-legged position on the floor. His expression soon darkens further when he gets a good whiff of the candles surrounding the hoop.
“And are these scented candles? For the love of—are you trying to seduce me or something?” He looks at Bruce narrowly.
Bruce blushes deeply, but valiantly keeps from flailing and stuttering.
“They don’t affect the spell, and I happen to find the scent soothing.” He says as coolly as he can. The demon squints at the label on one.
“You summoned a demon using a lime green Hula Hoop and apple pie-scented candles.” The demon deadpans.
“Well, the fresh linen ones make me sneeze…” Bruce explains feebly. The demon nods as if this makes total sense, although his eyes still look like they think Bruce is the real monster here.
“You know what, I don’t have time for this.” He surges up and forward, and Bruce flinches, not because it’s a demon coming at him but because it’s anything coming at him, and he flinches when puppies come at him for goodness’ sake, so there’s no reason for Mr. Demon to be smirking like a flinch is some big deal.
Luckily the smirk falls away rather quickly once he hits the edge of the Hula Hoop and is stopped dead, like he’s striking a thick wall of Plexiglas—which probably actually wouldn’t stop a demon so Bruce is glad that the spell is only ‘like’ one.
“I told you. I wouldn’t have summoned you if I thought I couldn’t contain you.”
The demon watches him with dark, calculating eyes.
“What exactly do you want, Summoner?”
“Really? He tried to summon you in a heart-shaped containment sigil?” Bruce chokes out between giggles.
The demon snorts out a laugh. “Wanted to make some poor chick fall in love with him. You know, next to him, your Hula Hoop is positively austere. At least it does the job.”
“Thank you.” Bruce grins.
“The apple pie candles are still the saddest thing I’ve seen in a thousand years.” The demon tells him quickly, as though a simple backhanded compliment might make Bruce too big for his britches.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your ‘deep breathing exercises’. They’re awesome, don’t lie.”
“Well, I am a demon…”
“Not of deceit.” Bruce echoes his earlier statement. The demon scoffs.
“Oh please, those are more guidelines, really. Evil is evil.”
“Fixing my laptop wasn’t evil. Unless--you didn’t give it a virus or something, did you?” He looks doubtfully at the innocent piece of technology and decides to run a security scan just in case. Do those work on demonic Trojans?
The demon points at him accusingly.
“I take it back. You’re worse than Heartsick Man. At least he wanted me to do something sinful. What sort of moron summons a demon to fix his buggy computer?”
Bruce smiles at him cheerfully.
“An idiot who knows that the demon of mechanical arts will be able to fix it? IT was stumped and I really can’t afford a new laptop without cutting into my scented candle budget.”
“You are insane.” The demon tells him honestly.
“But right. Besides, I also got a great conversation out of it.”
The demon rolls his eyes. “Not many people summon demons for our sparkling wit and congenial company.”
“That’s a pity.” Bruce says before he thinks, without guile or rancor. It’s true; the demon is a gifted storyteller with a wicked sense of humor. None of the summoning texts ever mentioned that. He supposed they probably wanted to avoid sounding like an eHarmony profile.
The demon shakes his head and rolls his eyes again, but he’s smirking again in what Bruce hopes is a fond way rather than a ‘I’m planning which organ I’m going to tear out of your body first when I get free’ way.
“Do you have an unruly toaster for me to fix, or are we done here?”
“Oh.” Bruce tries not to visibly deflate. “No, my toaster is very deferential to my toasting whims. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“That’s not what I—“ The demon stops, gritting his teeth for a moment. Bruce watches as he flexes his hands where they are resting on his lap. “If your toaster ever mutinies, I wouldn’t be completely pissed off if you called me in to quash the rebellion.” He says, slowly and casually, as though Bruce would just be ringing him on the phone rather than summoning him from the depths of hell through a Hula Hoop.
So. What do you say to that?
“I’ll do that. Thank you very much.” Is what you say. Apparently.
“Don’t thank a demon, idiot. It shows weakness that we can exploit.” The demon scolds.
“Okay. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize either!”
“Sorry for saying sorry then.“ He quips. Upon seeing the demon’s sharp look, he swallows and tries again.
“I will.” He says, firmly, while drawing the return symbol on the floor using a washable marker. The demon doesn’t even bother complaining of this indignity, just watches Bruce work. He looks up after he’s finished and meets the dark, deep eyes of his guest. “Um… have a safe trip?”
The demon sighs deeply. “Could you at least offer a sacrifice next time?”
And Bruce smiles at the empty circle of the Hula Hoop and blows out the candles.
The next time Bruce calls the demon, he places a BK meal and a book in the circle before he summons.
The demon looks rather bemused.
“You do realize that a Whopper doesn’t actually count as an animal sacrifice, right?”
He sits though and unwraps the burger. Bruce smiles at him.
“Tell that to the cow.”
The demon nods the point and looks at the book’s title.
“The Baby Name Wizard?” He looks conspicuously at Bruce’s crotch. “You are a man, aren’t you?”
“Maybe I’m married and about to be a happy father.” Bruce points out. The demon pauses in his chewing and raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. Bruce is a little put out. He could be married… maybe.
Okay, fair point.
“It’s for you to pick out a name that I can call you. ‘The demon’ seems so impersonal.”
The demon watches him for a moment, taking a long sip of his cherry slushie. It looks rather uncomfortably like blood. Bruce thinks he should have opted for the Coca-Cola flavor.
Finally he picks up the book.
“It’s not my real name, you know. I don’t care. Usually the summoner just gives a summons its name.”
“Well, yes, but. What if I picked a name that you hated? I want you to be comfortable.”
“Obviously.” The demon says, giving his demolished burger a significant look in between thumbing the pages of the book with a smirk. Bruce blushes.
“I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea. I’ll just call you—“
“Anthony.”
“—Damien or something—wait. Really? Anthony? Was--was that just the first name in the book?” He asks suspiciously.
The demon shrugs. “It’s better than Damien. Cliché to the extreme.”
Bruce has to agree.
“Okay. Anthony.” It does seem to fit somehow. Bruce wonders if the demon chose the name from the book, or if he’s just continuing with a name that another summoner gave him. “It’s nice to meet you Anthony. My name is Bruce.”
“…Please tell me that isn’t your real name. Because no one should be dumb enough to tell a demon their real name.”
“There seems to be a lot of things that you shouldn’t say to a demon. It’s a wonder you can carry a conversation at all.” At Anthony’s flat look he relents. “It’s the name I like to go by, given the choice.” Technically it’s his middle name, so there. He supposes his ‘real’ name is Robert, but he will never be Robert.
He will never let himself be.
“’Bruce’? Really? You couldn’t have chosen something a little more menacing?”
“I’ll take it under advisement, Anthony.”
Anthony is apparently assured in the menace of his chosen name, and chooses to forgo answering to noisily suck the remnants of his slushie through his straw.
“So is this a social call, or is that toaster giving you lip?” He says when he finishes.
Bruce clears his throat and holds up his cell phone.
“I might be a wee bit technologically challenged. What do you know about texting?”
Anthony grins at him darkly. “Who do you think invented it?”
Betty says that she’s never seen him this chipper in the morning when he agrees to meet her for coffee. She also says that she’s missed seeing him at all.
Bruce wants to say that he missed her too, that he meant to get together before now, that work was just keeping him busy, but only the first bit would be true and he doesn’t want to lie to Betty.
Instead he just smiles as genuinely as he can and takes a sip of his chai latte.
“How have you been?” He asks her, because this he can say without having to lie. She looks happy, healthier than she did the last time Bruce saw her. That had been fifteen years ago, of course, and considering the circumstances she could hardly look worse than she had back then—not that Bruce was up for any beauty pageants at the time either.
He almost asks her how her father’s doing, but decides that he doesn’t want to know, just in case the answer is ‘dead’ and he can’t stop his burst of brutal laughter.
“Come now, Bruce, it’s just a little blood. Don’t you want to help your kin and country like a good little soldier?”
Betty smiles and tells him all about her recent work at a lab conducting stem cell research. Bruce is duly impressed, and for a while he almost forgets why he doesn’t like talking with Betty, much as he loves her.
Then she asks him how his ‘episodes’ have been and it feels like his downed chai latte might be making an encore appearance.
“Better. Really.” He adds, seeing her skeptical face. “It’s been… close to a year, now.” 356 days, thirteen hours and twelve minutes, to be precise. He thinks he’ll be making a better case for his mental stability if he avoids being precise, at least in these circumstances.
Betty lights up. She really does have one of the loveliest smiles he’s ever seen. She’s never shown a hint of magical ability in the time he’s known her, but when she smiles Bruce is sure that she must possess some latent glamour talent. His own smile becomes considerably less forced.
“Oh Bruce, that’s wonderful! Are you seeing someone?” At Bruce’s startled look she amends hastily, “A therapist, I mean. I know you don’t… you haven’t…” She trails off, flushing prettily and avoiding his eyes. It’s not hard to do, considering Bruce is currently attempting to memorize the woodwork of the café table.
Betty is a wonderful woman, and in another life Bruce imagines that there might be something there. Something big. But as it is, there’s too much history between them already, so little of it good (though of course he knows that this fact is no fault of Betty’s), and to be honest there’s more to it than that Betty isn’t safe around him.
As horrible as it is, Bruce doesn’t feel safe around Betty.
Lab coats and needles and cigar smoke and anger, so much anger.
So these coffee dates, in a sleepy café with neutral colors and stilted conversation, are acceptable. But nothing more.
“I’ve worn out more than my fair share of therapists, Betty. No, I’m just… avoiding stress.” By never leaving his house and avoiding reality. “And I’ve taken up a few hobbies to pass the time.”
“Something to keep that great big brain of yours busy?” Betty asks him, smiling understandingly.
Bruce thinks about smoke and candles and a flash of a bone-white grin in the dark. He smiles mildly at Betty and gestures for the check.
“Something like that.”
The third time Bruce brings his iPod. Anthony laughs himself sick over his music library, especially when he finds out that some of the songs are actually downloaded legally.
Bruce plays his newly minted ‘Devil Playlist’ just to spite him. Apparently demons aren’t the best violin players around, even in Georgia. Then again, Anthony points out, who the hell would want a fiddle made of gold anyway? The thing would sound horrible. Bruce is inclined to agree.
Anthony apparently has a thing for classic rock, especially Black Sabbath. In fact, he forces Bruce to write down a list of ‘decent tracks that won’t make Anthony’s ears bleed—and for the love of all that is unholy, pirate them, Bruce.’
Bruce promises that he will not pay for any of the songs, merrily omitting the fact that he still has a $25 iTunes gift card from Betty to burn through. What Anthony doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Bruce also reveals a teetering stack of literature that mentions demons and begins asking questions on their accuracy. Oddly enough, even with libraries’ worth of books on the subject of summoning and subduing, no one to date has done a history of demon anthropology, which seems a little myopic to Bruce if he’s being honest.
Anthony seems to find the whole thing quite amusing, but he’s willing to play along provided he is fed a nourishing diet of fast food and baked goods and is allowed to interject with snarky commentary at his leisure. Bruce is about 90% sure that about 90% of what he’s being told is bunk, but Anthony’s comments are funny and it’s not like frequenting Burger King is breaking the bank. Besides, that 10% still makes him the foremost scholar on demon behavior. Chapter 1 of his magnum opus will be: Why Trying to Make Your Demon Get Apple Fries Instead of Onion Rings Is an Exercise in Futility.
He’s got a lot to say on the subject. Anthony generously offers to write the foreword.
They toss around other humorous book ideas for a while and then just start talking about books in general. From there it’s movies, and television (guess who started reality TV?) and by the time Bruce is wishing Tony a good night and collecting the candles, they’ve talked the night away.
Bruce blinks at the sun rising over the horizon before pulling the blinds and burrowing under the covers. He’s out like a light, and for the first time in recent (and distant) memory, there are no nightmares to be found.
After the first few sporadic meetings within the Hula Hoop are met with general congeniality by the demon, it becomes a weekly event.
Bruce brings a few projects the next few times just to have an excuse to summon Tony—who arbitrarily decides that he wants to shorten his name after a few meets, a maneuver Bruce suspects is enacted because he finally got used to calling Tony ‘Anthony’—but eventually he runs out of shoddy electronics and Tony doesn’t mention it when Bruce fails to produce a buggy toaster during his visit. From then on he calls Tony just to chat.
After a few of what can only be described as social calls, Tony surprises Bruce by asking, while they are in the middle of a discussion about atomic manipulation magic,
“So when am I going to meet your daemon?” At Bruce’s blank expression, he elaborates. “You know, your familiar? Your shoulder devil? Your personal companion for all things sorcery?”
“My familiar?” Bruce echoes. Tony nods, looking somewhat… impatient? Agitated, certainly.
“They must be feeling neglected, with you spending so much time with another demon. Oh! I’ve never been ‘the other demon’ before. It’s sort of racy.” He wiggles his eyebrows at Bruce, who normally would probably snort and call Tony an idiot, but at the moment is feeling too off kilter.
“I, ah, don’t have one, actually. A familiar, I mean.”
Tony cocks his head curiously.
“I thought that was like the first thing they teach you at Kiddie Sorcery School.”
“It… is.” Bruce allows. “I never… that is… I’m not schooled, as it were.”
Dark and cold and it hurtshurtshurts. He can’t breathe through the painangerhate, and this is what they made him, what he promised he’d never become.
This brings Tony up short. There isn’t a hint of his previous humor in his black eyes as he regards Bruce. Instead there is a sharp interest that hasn’t been present since their first meeting. Tony leans in closer until he is edging against the Hula Hoop, eyes never leaving Bruce.
“Now why would that be, Bruce?”
“Reasons.” Bruce snaps back, acutely uncomfortable. “Drop it.”
Monsters belong in a cage, don’t they Bruce?
He has never been so aware that Tony is demon as he is now, staring at Bruce with that blank, focused expression and ignoring any decent course of action.
“Why? You’re smart enough, certainly, and you’ve got power to spare. It’s law for anyone who shows even a shred of your talent to be placed in an instructional facility until their powers stabilize.”
“Drop. It.” When Tony opens his mouth, Bruce says, softly, “Please, Tony.”
The demon’s mouth snaps shut as if Bruce had uttered a spell rather than an entreaty. His eyes are still watchful and dark with questions, but all he says is,
“So have you humans figured out dark matter yet? Best April Fools’ joke ever.”
He doesn’t mention it for a while, but one day when Bruce calls him he says, as soon as he appears in the circle,
“I think that I should be your daemon.”
“…Shouldn’t you be on bended knee for this part?”
“No, seriously. I love spending time with you Brucey, you know that, but I’m getting some major vertigo from all this travel back and forth from hell. If we make a pact, then I can stay here all the time!” He beams proudly at Bruce, as if the man couldn’t possibly have thought of this without Tony’s aid.
“Is that supposed to be an incentive?” He asks wryly.
“Hey!” Tony crosses his arms petulantly. “You like me enough to summon me at least once a week.”
Bruce smiles softly to himself, realizing that he’s ruffled the demon’s feathers more than he intended to—or thought he had the power to. “I do like you. It would be wonderful to see you more.”
Tony settles, mollified. “So you’ll do it?”
“I never said that.”
“Yes you did! You just said that you wanted to have me around more!”
“And I do. But I can’t… I don’t do soul pacts.”
“But—“
“No.”
“You know, I really don’t think you’re understanding the gravity of the situation. Not to brag—okay, yeah, totally to brag, but I think I’ve earned it—but I’m kind of a big deal downstairs. Tech is the new black. And I don’t offer deals to just anyone.”
“And I appreciate the sentiment, but I really can’t accept.”
Tony growls, clawing at his hair in frustration.
“Is this that weird martyrdom thing you humans do, because I’m telling you, I didn’t get it with Joan of Arc and I’m not getting it now.”
Bruce decides to ask about Joan of Arc later. “Tony, I’m sorry.” He’s never seen the demon so upset.
“So it is a martyrdom thing? ‘Oh, I don’t deserve a daemon, woe is me, blah blah blah?’ Because if so, may I suggest that you get the fuck over it and make a pact with me? Sooner rather than later, because one of us doesn’t have all eternity to waste?”
“Tony…” He’s not sure what to say, because the truth is sure as hell out of the question. Tony looks at him, sighs.
“Look. I just… most summoners can’t do what you do. This serial summoning thing you’ve got going, it’s attracting attention. And not the good kind. You shouldn’t be able to do the things you do without a pact, and every time you call me, more and more of the higher-ups are taking notice.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Bruce says honestly. “I didn’t intend to make things difficult for you, I was just…” Lonely. He can’t say it.
From the way Tony’s watching him, he’s not sure he needs to. He feels his face burn with shame.
“Bruce.” Tony says, enunciating carefully. “I can’t keep answering your summons unless we make a pact.”
Bruce swallows hard against the lump of pain lodged in his throat. When he speaks it’s a hoarse whisper.
“I can’t make a pact with you, Tony.”
Tony’s face drains of his earlier ire. Instead there is a cryptic vacancy that Bruce cannot read.
Slowly, gracefully the demon unfurls from his cross-legged position and stands. Bruce wants to rise as well, but finds himself unable to make his legs obey. He looks up at Tony with a sort of sick resignation in his belly, frozen in place.
There’s just the smallest quirk of Tony’s mouth, but it seems wrong to call it a smile.
“Goodbye, Bruce.”
And the candles go out.
The next time Bruce lights them, Tony doesn’t appear. Bruce doesn't force, doesn't pull the way he can, like an angler reeling in an unwilling fish; instead he waits. He waits until the wicks flicker out, drowned in the wax, before the he stands slowly and goes to bed. The sun is rising once again, but this time the nightmares come.
And stay.
Bruce would like to make it very clear that the next time he summons Tony, he’s not thinking in any pattern resembling rationality. Indeed, he’s a little amazed that he manages the ritual at all; it must be from muscle memory, because he’s not really up to lucid planning at the moment. He knows that Tony doesn’t want to see him, and normally he would respect the man’s wishes. Normally.
But just now all he can think is that he hurts, a lot, and he hurts less when he’s with Tony. So he closes his eyes, reaches inside himself to that bright, cold, seething part of him that he'd quarantined from the rest of his magic (locked in a cage so that it would never, NEVER get out), and he pulls like he told himself he wouldn't.
The candles flare briefly as Tony appears. Tony’s temper seems to match the candles, if his glare is any indication.
“You kno—What the hell, Bruce?” The anger leeches from his face, along with any color. He steps towards Bruce instantly, only to be rebounded by the Hoop. He rubs his stung face gingerly. “Fucking hell, really? You’re half-dead—how the fuck are you powering this thing?”
“Only… a quarter or so dead. Being… generous.” Bruce winces as his shoulder throbs. Fucking Ross. “Ow. A third, maybe.” He blinks owlishly at the scowling Tony. “You’re pretty in candlelight.” He says seriously, because he’s pretty sure he’s never said this before (as much as he’s thought it) and why hasn’t he said it before? “You're always pretty.”
Tony blinks back at him, mouth falling slightly ajar for a moment. He’s got a nice mouth too. Bruce even likes it when it’s talking, most of the time. Why hasn’t he said any of these things before?
“…Okay. Thanks.” He toes at the edge of the Hoop while considering Bruce. Bruce is fine with the considering bit, but his legs apparently didn’t get the memo, because they choose this time to go on strike. That’s okay; the floor is cool and he’s so hot…
“Bruce.” He opens his eyes, but it takes longer than it should. “Bruce, I need you to break the circle so I can help you.”
Bruce immediately feels rusty, dusty alarm bells ringing in his already ringing head.
“Bad… bad idea.” He closes his eyes again, satisfied that the conversation is at its end.
“Bruce!” Bruce makes a vague sound of interest, but he can’t open his eyes… or maybe they’re already open and it’s just dark? “Bruce, you’re dying.”
Bruce smiles at the thought.
“Of course that makes you happy, you--Fucking hell, just—Bruce—“ He’s saying something else, Bruce thinks, but his ears are full of static or something, and the only part that he hears at the end is,
“—Don’t make me watch you die.”
He opens his eyes. Tony is as close as he can get without leaving the circle, pressed fully against where his tether ends and looking so sad.
Never break the circle, Bruce. Never set them free. Never... But...
He doesn’t want Tony to be sad.
“Please, Bruce.”
Bruce lifts one shaking hand and lets it fall over the rim of the hoop. Tony grabs it in his own. Bruce thinks, vaguely, that Tony has rough hands, but they are very warm, and his mind goes dark.
Bruce wakes in his bed rather than on the floor. For a second he thinks it was just a dream (nightmare?) and then he sees who’s sitting next to him in Bruce’s favorite wingback.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Bruce groans and tries to bury his head under the covers, since sand isn’t available.
“Aw, don’t do that. Then I can’t see your pretty face.” The blankets are tugged from his grasp, which gives him his first opportunity to see that he is in his periodic table pajama bottoms (where the hell is his shirt) and not the clothes he lost consciousness in.
“Tell me you didn’t look.” Tony grins at him toothily.
“’Course not. That would be ungentlemanly. My camera phone might have sneaked a few peeks though.”
Bruce looks around for something to bash his own or Tony’s head in with. When nothing avails itself, he settles for saying,
“The scoundrel. Did you or the camera phone pick the pajamas? And whichever of you did, you do realize that there is a top to these bottoms?”
“Of course." Tony smiles, and proceeds to say absolutely nothing about why he decided to ignore this fact when dressing Bruce. "So… who exactly did you piss off?”
“They’re not that bad. You should see the Star Wars ones that Betty got me.”
“We can have a private viewing, later.” Tony leers, and then in the same perfectly blasé voice says, “I was referring to the fact that you had a death curse thrown at you, though. And about twenty bullet wounds, but I’m more curious about the death curse.”
“Ah.” Bruce says intelligently.
“Yeah, ‘ah’.” Tony returns. When there’s no immediate answer, he prods with a bit more bite. “I could find out myself, now, but I get the feeling that you don’t like people rummaging around your head.”
“Don’t.” Bruce says, more harshly than he should, considering he’s confined to his bed at the mercy of an unfettered, pact-less demon. Tony’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t push the point.
That point.
“Right, well then why don’t we start with why a death spell didn’t spell death. I’m pretty handy with the dark mojo, but that much demonic energy should have killed you.”
“It should have.” Bruce agrees, trying not to let his own thoughts on the missed opportunity slip into his voice. He fails.
“Ignoring your frankly irritating suicidal tendencies for a moment, either the Universe is as fond of keeping you around as I am, or else you’ve got some bad blood in you.” Seeing Bruce’s cagy expression, his eyes narrow and he adds slowly, “Or some very, very good blood.”
Bruce grits his teeth against the flippant approach to the freak show that is his life, but because he doesn’t want his brains to the scrambled eggs to Tony’s whisk, he says very slowly,
“Enochian. Half.”
“Ooooh, angel, huh? On Mommy or Daddy’s side?” Tony says, leaning forward expectantly. Bruce snorts at the layers of meaning that could take.
“My mother’s blood, but all my father’s doing, I assure you.” He remembers his mother’s too thin hands holding him tight and her soft lullabies when his father wasn’t watching, her feathers turning murky and ragged and then falling, falling, like soiled snow until…
The bastard. He doesn’t say it, but Tony seems to hear it.
“Ah. Well, I guess that explains why I’ve always been so fond of you. Opposites attract and everything.” Bruce shoots him an unimpressed look, but he’s secretly grateful to be shaken from the memories. “So, yay, you’re still ticking, but why was there a problem in the first place? We don’t hand out death curses like candy, you know.”
You do around me.
“I have… a lot of enemies—no, that’s not right. I have one enemy, and he’s got a lot of friends. So.” Bruce shrugs as nonchalantly as one can after saying, basically, ‘Oh, yeah, there’s this one person who has decided that instead of macramé, he’s going to devote his free time and energy into hunting me down for no good reason. Except for the fact that I’m an abomination, the spawn of a monster and an angel who didn’t have a choice’. He decides to skip the Betty part of that particular revelation altogether.
“So. You’ve got me.”
Bruce can’t help but look up at this, his head jerking towards where Tony is watching him with what might be a affectionate look.
“Y-You. But now you know that I’m—“ A freak, a mongrel, your people’s worst enemy. “I can’t make a pact with you.” He says instead, and it’s true. Angels and demons were never meant to be together.
Tony grins at him, leans forward and takes Bruce’s cold hand in his large, warm, rough one. He winks and lets himself fall to one knee, and Bruce remembers his jest from before and turns crimson.
“All sorts of promises, Brucey. All sorts of ways to keep them.”
“But—“ Bruce falters. Tony’s hand is so warm, and so is his breath as he pulls Bruce’s wrist close to his face and places a warm (hothot) kiss on the delicate skin there. Like a brand, Bruce thinks hysterically, and makes a sort of whimpering sound that makes Tony grin against his skin. And he should really pull away, find a way to seal Tony again because he has a high level demon currently walking around free and unrestricted and without a pact, and something like that could destroy the world if he’s not careful.
But Tony’s not walking around, is he? He’s sitting here with Bruce, kissing him and offering promises that Bruce wants to believe he can keep.
The half-breed and the demon. They’d be outcasts, lepers, and pariahs. There would be no way to control Tony without the terms of a pact, and demons are as changeable as the fiend fire they command. Tony might try to kill him, in a decade or a minute, and although Bruce might be able to stop him, he wouldn’t.
He’s so tired of being alone.
“This is such a bad idea. Possibly the worst idea, ever.” He tells Tony earnestly, but the man just smiles in agreement and kisses a little closer to his elbow. “I have a psychotic general and essentially an entire army or two out for my blood.”
“Mm-hmm. Sounds fun.” Tony tells the inside of his arm, getting close to his shoulder now. Bruce sways in to make it easier for him, slipping from the bed so that they are face to face, kneeling as though in prayer. “You taste like apples. Is that an angel thing?”
“Um. I don’t know?” Bruce says weakly, finding it hard to concentrate when there’s a mouth attached to his shoulder. “So, really, we should just—oh, God, do that again.”
Tony hums.
“Mmm. Apples and cinnamon when you’re blaspheming. I like it.” He licks a strip from shoulder to neck and Bruce kind of wants to forget the pact thing and start breaking out every cuss he’s ever heard of. Instead he shivers and leans his head to the side, runs a hand up through Tony’s hair and pulls him closer.
Which really isn’t all that much more noble, really.
“Tony, please…” Please what? Stop molesting me so we can talk about this? Keep molesting me so that we don’t have to?
Tony sighs, hot and wet, mouth pausing on the corner of Bruce’s jaw.
“Apples and cinnamon and vanilla ice cream melting on my tongue. God, Bruce, keep saying my name.” It's not your real Name, Bruce wants to argue. It's not even a name that I gave you, because a name is part of a pact and I can't give you either. Tony seems to sense that Bruce is going to start being sensible (or maybe just pessimistic) again, because he reaches up and cups the brunet’s face in his hands and leans in close enough to steal his breath away. “I’d be so good to you Bruce, if you were mine. So good. Let me be good to you.” Bruce gasps and leans in, stopping the snake-apple-Eden words with his mouth.
Tony’s tongue is more wicked than any serpent’s. A few minutes later sees Bruce’s back against the side of the bed and him keening in something like bliss, Tony kneeling between his legs and pressing him back against the wood with hands and lips. By the time Tony pulls away, Bruce is glassy-eyed and gasping and Tony steals another little kiss just because, on the corner of Bruce’s mouth, before leaning back and smiling.
His smile is sharp with hidden thoughts and words, hot with hellfire and the power that radiates from every inch of him. A devil’s smile, through and through. He is hardly trustworthy, with a smile like that, but Bruce trusts him anyway.
A devil’s smile, just for Bruce.
“So, Summoner. Want to make a pact?”