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BRUCE, YOU’RE CERTAINLY NOT IN KANSAS ANYMORE:
Welcome to Marvel.
On the outside it’s your typical urban –suburban high school in Portland, Oregon. A prestigious establishment inhabited by Smarties, Skids, Preppies and Granolas. Loners, Lovers, the In and the Out Crowd. Young susceptible minds full of potential, rubbing the sleep from their eyes as they head for the main building.
On the inside it’s the worst kind of merciless syndicate. A playground to the untamed and hell to their prey. It’s a platform to showcase their parents’ triumphs and failures through an array of uncouth exhibitions, from the clothes that they wear to the cars that they drive. From their sheer amount of class to their plain lack thereof it.
And Bruce isn’t just imagining things. It’s printed in bright letters on the posters that line the guidance counselor’s office. Eat or be Eaten is the one that seems to predominantly grab his attention, the depiction of an overgrown jock literally devouring a skinny boy with spectacles and braces doing nothing for Bruce’s nerves. Although Bruce Banner has never been accused of being a geek, his clean-cut, farm-boy exterior is worlds closer to that of the kid being digested.
Bruce decides to block out the impending torment that the posters promise by focusing on Ms. Peggy’s comforting smile and striking features, the kind of beauty that frames a potentially peaceful soul.
Bruce realizes just how wrong he is the second she opens her heart-shaped lips.
“Bruce Banner,” she looks up from his file, the rosy plastic smile never leaving her face, “I'm sure you won't find Marvel any different than your old school. Same little asswipe dipshits everywhere.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say…?” Bruce fidgets in his chair uncomfortably. Because it isn’t every day that you pull the string on the back of a Barbie doll and Ozzy Osbourne’s words come out.
“Any questions?” Ms. Peggy beams sweetly.
“I don't think so, ma'am,” Bruce stammers, because it sounds like more of a dare than a question itself.
“Then go forth,” she waves a perfectly manicured hand at him, “Scoot. I've got deviants to see.”
Bruce rises to leave but stops short of the door, because the only freedom from the clearly psychotic counsellor to whatever madness is waiting outside is being blocked by an overgrown student. The type of youth that mistook puberty for transmogrification. The type that’s on the posters doing all the consummation.
Bruce tries not to gulp audibly under the wild blue glare of the boy in front of him.
“Theodor Odinson,” Ms. Peggy perks up with a perverse sort of familiarity in her tone, “I see we're making our visits a weekly ritual.”
“I’m afraid I’ve grown quite fond of you,” the large boy puts on a longing façade, his clean British accent throwing Bruce off entirely.
“It says here you exposed yourself to the lunch lady,” Ms. Peggy continues, leaving Bruce to wonder whether or not she understands the concept of doctor/patient confidentiality.
“I’m a victim of circumstance,” he smiles easily. And were he not so imposing and reeking of nicotine and looking every bit capable of killing an entire army of men with the chewed up toothpick in his mouth, Bruce might have actually found it in himself to laugh.
Bruce is relieved when the councilor motions for Theodor to take a seat and he’s able to shuffle out the door.
“Certainly not in Kansas anymore,” Bruce breathes out a sigh, and it isn’t at all relief when he remembers he hasn’t the slightest clue what he’s expected to do with himself. He double-checks the lettering on the door of the office he’s just exited. The deceptive ‘guidance’ part of her title practically winks back at him.
“You the new guy?” Bruce feels his hand being forced into a thorough shake, one as enthusiastic as the smile that comes with it. Bruce is convinced such gusto should be reserved for politicians or game show hosts.
“So they tell me.” he tries not to look as clueless as he feels. “I’m-”
“Bruce Banner,” the boy confirms with a light bump of his fist to Bruce’s shoulder. Then an arm is thrown around it, “Sam Wilson. C'mon. I'm supposed to give you the tour.”
“Yeah, okay,” Bruce actually feels a lot better as they head out into the hallway. If this Sam kid is supposed to be his friend by default, at least he doesn’t come off as someone ranked higher than him on the Marvel High School food chain.
*****
Beneath the genteel exterior of well pressed cloth and a highly unnecessary waistcoat, there’s something incredibly chilled about Sam Wilson. He’s pure Ivy League, already accepted and convinced that someday he'll be sipping Merlot while the jocks - currently in power - are fixing his Saab. But despite the embroidered emblem on his chest, he listens to Timbaland and has a fake I.D, two things that Bruce immediately respects.
“So, which Dakota’re you from?” Sam asks, and Bruce is convinced that Sam wasn’t exaggerating when he’d joked about knowing everything about everyone the second they step foot into Marvel High.
“North, actually,” Bruce confesses, raising a curious brow. “How did you know?”
“I was kidding,” Sam scoffs incredulously, “People actually live there?”
“We're outnumbered by the cows, though,” Bruce chuckles, recalling the thirty something students he shared the hallways with at his old barn-sized school. “How many people go here?”
“Couple thousand,” Sam shrugs, steering Bruce with him through the seemingly endless sea of teenagers, “Most of them evil.”
As they walk between walls adorned with Prom posters and sports notices, Sam points to various cliques, narrating in such a way that makes Bruce feel as though he’s watching the Discovery Channel.
They pass the basic, beautiful people, bulletproofed in highly expensive clothes that match the school’s colors. Leatherman jackets and cheerleader skirts rendering them impervious to the mediocre species that flock around them with their mouths hanging open and longing in their eyes.
“Unless they talk to you first, do not speak to them,” Sam advises. When Bruce questions the practicality of it all, Sam makes his point by greeting a jock who easily tells him where to shove his pleasantries with an unwavering shit-eating grin on his face.
“What the hell is going on there?” Bruce asks carefully, trying not to openly stare at a small group of Stetson-wearing, big belt buckled, ranch hand looking boys who haven’t quite mastered their bus stop. Their blatant lack of rhythm making it more painful than humorous to watch. “Feels like home with a lot less direction. And sense.”
“Closest thing they’ve been to a cow is a happy meal,” Sam further conveys his political nature by greeting them with a tight presidential smile. Like a senator being forced to kiss a dozen babies. This happens again as they pass an espresso cart, stopping briefly to talk to the Coffee Kids. A very edgy bunch that render newspapers completely unnecessary, Bruce finds out when the world news is delivered to him in a single greeting with minimal punctuation.
Several white boys in dreadlocks and Jamaican knit berets lounge on the grass, a cloud of what can only be pot smoke hovers above them. There’s a familiar Bob Marley song streaming from one of their phones and Bruce is actually a little less than comfortable with the fact that it looks as though Sam might be guiding him to join them.
Bruce has never had a problem with the many happy feelings that come with passing around a joint with friends, but he certainly has no intentions of being surrounded by such naughtiness on his first day at a new school. But all Sam does is offer a few high (excuse the pun) fives before heading to a guarded figure under a nearby tree.
“This here is Scott Lang,” Sam beams, the first bit of genuine fondness curling his lips as they very easily pull each other into a half hug followed by a well calculated hand shake that ends with them tickling each other’s fingertips onehandedly. “Anything you need, this man has the best of.”
“Are you telling yet more people about your boy crush on me?” Scott chuckles goofily, giving away his incredibly stoned state of mind even before the glossy redness of his eyes can. Incredibly stoned, Bruce concludes when Scott pulls him into the sort of hug you reserve for the love of your life who’s just returned from war. And then Scott takes a deep whiff of Bruce’s hair and Bruce knows that his squirming away won’t be taken for rudeness. “I’m already getting a good vibe from you, brother. What is North Dakota like, are there actually people there?”
“How does everyone just know I’m from-” Bruce stops speaking, even though these strangers are laughing more at him than with him Bruce still does find their company enjoyable. That isn’t why Bruce loses his words at all.
Bruce is suddenly unable to fake any sort of coherence because Bruce is watching an angel walk – no, float by in slow-motion. The wind seems to exist purely to worship the dark red locks of her hair; strands nearly as red as her heart shaped lips that are too full to be legal. Her eyes sparkle with unapologetic godliness as she chuckles at whatever her companion is saying, if there really is even anybody else around at all. Bruce isn’t sure anymore because this enigmatic creature of perfection is leaving him unable to differentiate between what is real and what isn’t anymore.
And her curves. They’ve been sculptured by angels in their own light who aimed at creating one more lovely than all of their sisters combined.
Bruce is smitten.
“I think we lost him,” Sam snaps his fingers in front of Bruce’s face. Bruce pushes it aside, not caring for the way it obstructs his view of natural beauty seconds before she disappears into the school building. A building that Bruce is suddenly ecstatic that he has the privilege of attending.
“That girl-” Bruce stammers.
“You burn, you pine, you perish?” Scott says with Shakespearian determination that makes Bruce realize this isn’t the first time they’ve witness an unworthy soul fall victim to the very essence of her beauty.
“Who is she?” Bruce follows the two friends dumbly when they decide to retire to the building as most of the other learners are gradually doing so, albeit unenthusiastically.
“Natasha Rogers. Sophomore” Sam supplies. And why wouldn’t she have such an endearing name. “Also known as don’t even think about it.”
“Why not?” Bruce doesn’t care that he’s pouting.
“He could start with your hair,” Scott says disinterestedly, even as he picks at Bruce’s shirt next. Bruce instinctively checks over himself. He’d been certain he appeared at least slightly normal when he’d checked himself in the mirror before leaving his room.
“-but it’s not the issue,” Sam finishes Scott’s sentence far too easily. “She's not allowed to date until her older brother does. And that's a cul-de-sac.”
“How come?”
*****
AND HERE SITS HOW COME:
From the looks of things, one would think it isn’t just your average English class. The room is full of terrified seniors, looking more like they’re under mass interrogation instead of simply enduring a lesson on Hemingway. Like if one breathes too loudly or coughs accidently, they will all be subjected to hours of pain in torture chambers – because there is no ‘I’ in ‘enraging Mr. Fury’. No student has ever been brave enough to correct him on this and lived to tell the tale. No student except for one.
But Steve Rogers is not your average student.
As if Mr. Fury’s name isn’t warning enough, not even his large frame, eyepatch and the many rumors of how he’d attained it perturbs Steve who remains emotionless under the icy one-eyed glare of the forever scowling monster in the black trench coat.
Which is why, when Mr. Fury asks the class if anyone would like to comment on the story he’s just barked at them, he doesn’t have to turn away from the blackboard to know there is only one hand stupid enough to shoot up.
“Steve?” Mr. Fury drops his head with a sigh before dutifully turning to the reason he very well might soon be spending life in prison.
“Why didn't we just read the Hardy Boys?”
“For the love of God-” Fury pinches the bridge of his nose and pictures Hawaii and a glass of scotch.
“I’m just saying,” Steve shrugs his large shoulders that would be perfectly suited on the football field were organized sports not so factious, “this book is about a guy and his fishing habit. Not exactly a crucial topic.”
Some of the other students dare to voice their exasperation, but only because Mr. Fury does the same. And they wouldn’t want Mr. Fury to assume their lack of reaction is due to the fact that they concur with the opposition.
“Frankly,” Steve continues, unaffected, “I'm baffled as to why we still revere Hemingway. He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who had a lot of cats.”
“As opposed to a bitter self-righteous fag who has no friends?” Tony Stark contributes, blasé bullets aimed at Steve from across the classroom where he sits with obligatory pomposity. Tony has to voice his opinion every five minutes. Almost as if it’s a covenant between Tony’s father and Marvel High to make sure the school never forgets that it’s Stark Industries’ many generous contributions that get them through recession every year.
A few students giggle because Stark naturally has underground deals with them too. Steve’s primal deep appreciation for Mr. Fury is the fact that he remains the only teacher unaffected enough to tell Tony Stark to be quiet in a less than professional way.
“I guess the school board thinks that because Hemingway's a phony heterosexual and an asshole, he's worthy of our time,” Steve emphasizes the last part with a pointed glare at Tony before returning to Mr. Fury, “What about Colette? Charlotte Bronte? Simone de Beauvoir?”
“Did you just use profanity in my class?” Mr. Fury cuts past desks in record time to Steve who is quietly shocked.
But clearly for all the wrong reasons when he incredulously states, “If he gets away with calling me a faggot just because everyone knows it’s true, then with all due respect, I should be able to get away with calling him a whole lot more than just an asshole?”
“Get out of my class,” Mr. Fury orders, but not before Steve catches a hint of embarrassment wash over the usually emotionless face, “go cool off in Ms. Peggy’s office so I can get back to teaching my students who don’t already know it all.”
Steve tries to protest but he’s stopped by a firm hand held over his teacher’s shoulder as he walks back to the board already resuming the lesson. Steve doesn’t look at Tony nor pay attention to the way the rest of his peers seem to shift a little further away from him as he takes his leave.
No one likes him and it’s how he likes it.
Steve sometimes wonders if it would be better for him to he simply start all of Mr. Fury’s classes by going directly to Ms. Peggy’s office since it’s always where he lands up. Steve manages to slip in unnoticed, watching as she sits in front of her computer, typing quickly.
If Steve didn’t know any better, he would be panicked like all the other students. Thinking she’s writing up a detailed character sketch that she’ll be sending to a psychiatric ward in order for you to get the proper help you need. But Steve is observant and a shelf next to her holding several bodice-ripper romance novels that bear her name tell him all he needs to know.
And then there’s always the distracted way she reads under her breathe as she types, eyes squinting on the screen.
“Undulating with desire, Adrienne removes her crimson cape, revealing her creamy –” Ms. Peggy stops reading and takes off her glasses, completely unaffected when she realizes that she is no longer alone. Steve takes a seat when she gestures for him to do so.
“Steve Rogers,” she beams, not even pretending to open a file, “my, my. You've been terrorizing Mr. Fury’s class again.”
“Expressing my opinion is not a terrorist action,” Steve shrugs easily.
“Well, yes, compared to your other choices of expression this year, today's events are quite mild,” Ms. Peggy’s voice always holds next to no concern. Not even when she adds, “By the way, Barry Allen's gonad retrieval operation went quite well, in case you're interested.”
“I still maintain that he kicked himself in the nuts,” Steve’s testament has never once wavered.
“What's a synonym for throbbing?” Ms. Peggy says, clear indication of how she cares for that incident even less than Steve does. Ms. Peggy shakes her head and apologizes when all Steve does is raise a brow. “The point is, Steve - people perceive you as somewhat ...”
“Tempestuous?” Steve smiles at her, daring her to agree.
“I believe heinous bitch is the term used most often,” she grimaces down into a file, as if she's reading from a medical report. “You might want to work on that. Run along.”
Steve rises from his chair with a plastic smile, wondering why he still bothers sitting at all as Peggy gets back to work. “Swollen...turgid…?”
“Tumescent,” Steve offers as he leaves the office, not looking back to see Ms. Peggy admire the feeling of the word on her tongue before punching it in.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Hey guys, I'm posting this at 12:48am and have already picked up mistakes without even trying to spot them... so forgive me. I will be back to edit. Just checking if this bites. Its a fill in when the boys from In A Week angst it up too much lol
Chapter Text
WE’VE MET THE GOOD AND THE BAD, NOW HERE’S THE TOTALLY DEMENTED
It’s not like Steve had planned on staying closeted his whole life, he just hadn’t intended on coming out the way he had.
Or more so, being outed in his case.
Steve felt robbed of the nearly perfect life he’d enjoyed before the morning he’d walked into school, and his usual posse suddenly didn’t understand what language he was speaking. Because the school may have Smarties, Skids, Preppies and Granolas. Loners, Lovers, the In and the Out Crowd. But the school had never before had Queers.
But Steve only had a tiny bit of time to be the sole queer, because it wasn’t even recess before Bucky was taking a seat beside him.
Steve had seen Bucky before, but never quite acknowledged him. Because when you’re one of the popular kids, your selective sight allows you to see only equals and prey. And Bucky was neither. Because Bucky blended so well with nothing that nothing is all Bucky had ever been to Steve.
But that day, Bucky sat down beside him in an outfit that looked like something Tim Burton had puked up and tried on something that looked sort of like a smile.
“You’re my new best friend, okay,” Bucky had stated, pushing long black hair out of his eyes that just fell back in place. “I’m gay too. But don’t get any ideas, I’m taken.”
And Bucky had become Steve’s best friend, the best he’d ever had since school made friends a mandatory accessory for survival. And even after Steve found out that the man who Bucky was betrothed to had been dead for nearly four hundred years, Bucky’s unhealthy obsession with William Shakespeare was worth tolerating to enjoy the other conveniently cynical forty percent of him that Steve genuinely could relate to.
Even now as they sit in a quiet corner and he hands his best friend a vegan burrito, Steve is able to block out the one-sided debate on Othello so well that Bucky is unaware that he’s having it alone. Steve amuses himself instead by guessing what conversations people are having, adding his own dialect that makes them seem even more stupid than he thinks they are.
Steve usually gets away with it, supplying Bucky with just the right amount of ohs and yes I agree’s to last the whole debate, but Steve is unable to stop himself from making a face when one idiot in particular grabs his attention.
Bucky follows Steve’s disgusted glare just in time to see a large boy light up a cigarette. He’s sitting with a friend on the stairs just under a sign that shows that such an act is completely prohibited on school grounds.
“Who’s that?” Bucky’s curiosity outweighs his annoyance with the fact that he was being ignored.
“Theodor Odinson,” Steve says it like if repeated three times in the mirror; the boogeyman will jump out and eat his soul. “Also stupidly known as Thor.”
“That's Thor?” Bucky openly gawks, “the one who was gone for a year? I heard he was doing porn movies.”
“I'm sure he's completely incapable of doing anything that interesting,” Steve picks at his burrito.
“Does he always look so….?” Bucky seems as though he’s hurting himself trying to search for the right word.
“Block E?” Steve turns back to face Bucky and forces the burrito closer to his friend’s mouth. “Eat; starving yourself is a very slow way to die.”
And even though Bucky grimaces through a skeptical mouth full of gluten-free everything, Steve is just grateful that Bucky is eating something. Not just because Bucky’s clothes are looser than usual, but because with Bucky’s mouth full, his best friend can’t talk. Bucky has a way of talking too much and accidently stumbling across in truths that Steve hadn’t ever intended on admitting himself.
Like how Steve has been trying desperately not to picture Thor doing porn ever since he too first heard the rumor.
Despite himself, Steve steals one last look at Thor, hoping to get put off by the cancer stick between Thor’s lips. Because Steve thinks anyone who smokes is completely disgusting. Even a longhaired, musclebound beauty who probably has tattoos in places Steve would sell his left nut to touch.
It’s the new vegan diet, Steve expects. His primal need for meat has evolved into its final humanistic stage which just happens to take the form of Thor. That’s all it is. Steve needs real meat. Not the kind that Thor would offer if he was pressed between Steve’s thighs and -
“You’re thinking about fucking him!”
“What?” Steve nearly chokes on soggy tortilla, spilling veggies and soya mince onto his lap as he coughs the rest out onto a patch of grass beside him. Steve realizes he’s just buying himself time.
“I said I’m thinking about killing myself and fucking Shakespeare,” Bucky says casually, a caring hand rubbing Steve’s back. “It’s not unheard of; there was even a documentary about it. Some med students induced death long enough to speak with the dead before being resuscitated. I mean, there were some crazy after effects and they nearly couldn’t revive one girl. But I wouldn’t mind, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
Steve stares at Bucky, expressionlessly, the sincerity in his friend’s notion just enough to remind Steve that other teenagers have way bigger issues than secretly perving over Thor. Which Steve would never do.
“I realize that the men of this fine institution are severely lacking,” Steve finally rights himself, easily falling back into his world of disparagement, “but killing yourself so you can be with William Shakespeare is beyond the scope of normal teenage obsessions. You're venturing far past daytime talk show fodder and entering the world of those who need electroshock therapy.”
“But imagine the things he'd say during sex,” Bucky drops his head on Steve’s shoulder in a severely dramatic spout of yearning and Steve can’t help but laugh along.
And this is why Bucky and Steve are best friends.
“Speaking of people in need of therapy,” Bucky points across the courtyard once the two have finally sobered. And Steve wishes he hadn’t. Because the only thing worse than witnessing Tony Stark in his element, is seeing his little sister buy into all the falsity. Steve cringes as he watches Natasha toss her hair from one side to the other, giggling at whatever story Tony and his friends are winning her over with. “My rationality doesn’t seem so lacking now, does it?”
And all Steve can do is sigh.
Because he has no idea what could possibly be going on is his sister’s mind to make her gush over the one person Steve hates the most.
*****
IT’S HARD NOT TO PAY ATTENTION TO THOSE WHO WASH THEIR FACES WITH ‘LOOK AT ME’ EVERY MORNING
Bruce sulks over his cup of raspberry jello from the bench on the other side of the courtyard. Watching Tony smirk at Natasha and Natasha bounce on her heels as Tony muses over each one of her bracelets. One by one.
“Why do girls like that always like guys like… that?” Bruce asks again because Sam was too engrossed in his cheeseburger to answer the first three times.
“Because they're bred to,” Sam shrugs, licking the grease off of his fingers. “Their mothers liked guys like that, and their grandmothers before them. Their gene pool is rarely diluted.”
“Does he always have that shit-eating grin?” Bruce frowns harder. Because he isn’t into guys but he also isn’t blind. And Tony Stark is what anyone with eyes would call handsome.
“Perma-shit-grin,” Sam nods. “I wish I could say he's a moron, but he's number twelve in the class. And a model. Mostly regional stuff, but he's rumored to have a big tube sock ad coming out. You know French?”
“You mean like, France – French?” Bruce asks stupidly. Bruce had been too busy wondering how on earth he is supposed to complete with a male model to notice the significance in the sudden and very rude change of subject. “I took some in the fourth grade.”
“Guess who just signed up to be a tutor?” Sam states triumphantly with an unnecessary slap against the table. “Natasha’s in the market for a French Tutor. That, my friend, is your absolute only way in.”
“You think that would work,” Bruce’s foul mood melts away the more the idea begins to dawn on him. Regardless of how ridiculous the idea might seem since Bruce didn’t bother telling Sam he only took the class for five days. “You mean I'd get a chance to talk to her?”
“You could consecrate with her, my man,” Sam says lowly, wagging his eyebrows to emphasize the verb. And Bruce really doesn’t know what that means, but he oddly likes the sound of it.
It’s taken nearly all recess but Bruce is finally ecstatic enough to eat his burger, even when Natasha flounces back into the building and out of his sight.
*****
PARTING RITUALS CAN PROVE TO BE MORE DANGEROUS THAN THE ACTUAL WAR
Nothing can ruin Steve’s mood when the final bell rings announcing the end of yet another pointless day of school. Not the ridiculous amount of homework crammed into the last few minutes, making the books Steve is forced to haul home weigh heavy over his shoulder. Not the students paying zero regard to others’ personal space as they race through crowded corridors and a packed parking lot, mutually craving the smell of freedom that being away from school is promising.
Even as Steve yanks his rusted car door open and Tony makes a point of winking at Steve smugly from the comfort of his red convertible, Steve’s mood is unaffected. Because for the rest of the day, Steve can pretend that tools and rules and the system don’t exist.
“That's a charming new development,” Bucky says dryly from the passenger seat, already all buckled up and eyeing the reflection in Steve’s rearview mirror in complete disgust. Steve rights the mirror that his friend has set askew and what comes into view makes Steve’s blood run cold.
Tony Stark will always find a way to be the exception, Steve fumes as he watches his sister and her best friend hop into the back of Tony’s convertible. Sitting proudly on display as Tony’s chosen trophies for the day before the overpriced vehicle speeds away.
“Should I say it?”
“Don’t – say – it!” Steve seethes, because even his best friend’s presence is suddenly annoying. Steve revs the engine and turns up his rock music in the hopes of drowning out whatever tasteless beat it was that Tony’s car had just been blaring, encouraging girls to take their clothes off.
With the husky roar of his favorite musician’s voice, Steve feels as though he can finally stop seeing red before pulling out of his parking spot, only to slam his foot down on the brakes to keep from hitting a biker.
“Remove head from sphincter! Then ride!” Steve yells without thought, body half out the window. He doesn’t care to listen to the bumbling apologies as the idiot begins fearfully, getting out of the way. Steve doesn’t care for the attention his outburst has drawn or the rumors that will arise from it the next day. Steve just needs to get out of there, and so he does, barely missing another motorist as he leaves tire tracks on the asphalt behind him.
Much like the rest of the parking lot’s occupants, Bruce was the whole. And Bruce honestly would refrain from getting involved where the biker nearly run over not Sam.
“You all right?” He slows to a stop beside his new friend, checking Sam over even though Sam is waving his hands in reassurance that everything is okay.
“Yeah,” Sam’s voice is muffled by his helmet, “just a minor encounter with your future brother-in-law.”
“That's him,” Bruce’s eyes go wide as he looks after the cloud of smoke that the beat up car left behind. “That’s Natasha’s brother?”
“The heinous bitch, himself,” Sam confirms before puttering off, leaving Bruce to look after him in complete horror.
*****
WHERE THE SHREW DOESTH DWELL
Mr. Rogers walks in with a bounce in his step, doctor’s coat as piercing white as his straight row of teeth. Despite the heavy gut and thinning hair, Joseph Rogers still manages to appear a lot younger than his fifty years.
“I hope dinner's ready because I only have ten minutes before-” he stops in the center of the kitchen, looking down skeptically at the plate his son is holding up to him.
“It’s a baked tofu, arugula and olive wrap,” Steve says proudly when his father finally takes the dish. He rolls his eyes a second later when Mr. Rogers brings it to his nose for further inspection. Steve takes the plate back. “I’ll wrap it to go.”
“Make anyone cry today?” the older man places his briefcase down on the kitchen table and busies himself by rifling through the mail set beside it.
“Sadly, no,” Steve counters dryly. “But it's only four-thirty.”
Even as Mr. Rogers scowls and Steve feigns sincerity, Steve truly enjoys this sort of monotony. The afternoon routine is so synchronized that his sister’s absence has him completely on edge. Steve is sure that the lack of pubescent tantrum throwing is also about to make his father realize that something terribly wrong is going on just as Natasha finally walks in.
“Where've you been?” Steve practically crowds her at the door. He’s unable to hold back his anger because he’s been quiet long enough.
“Nowhere,” Natasha matches the scowl, giving her brother a pleading look as she easily bypasses him to plant a kiss on Mr. Roger’s cheek. “Hi, Daddy.”
“Hello, precious,” Mr. Rogers softens instantly in a sickeningly sweet sort of way that’s reserved for Natasha and nobody else.
Steve drops the lunchbox on his father’s briefcase, infuriated as Natasha begins to brief their father on her day with false innocence lacing every syllable. He proceeds to fix his sister a wrap with a lot more vigor than required causing olives and tofu to go flying off the plate and onto the kitchen counter. Steve is just about to serve her the monstrosity if only just to see the look on her face when his father is suddenly beside him.
“What's this?” Mr. Rogers holds up a letter to Steve, his daughter’s colorful tale of pop quizzes briefly forgotten, “It says Sarah Lawrence?”
Steve’s eyes instantly go wide as he snatches the envelope away from his father. The delicate paper is ripped open in a heartbeat and all Steve has to do is read the first line of the letter inside it before he’s screeching. And any other time, Steve would be embarrassed by it. But this isn’t just any other time so Steve decides to unabashedly throw in a happy dance as well.
“I got in,” Steve dodges his father’s attempts to get the letter and read for himself, and it starts to look like an uncoordinated dance between the two of them.
“But Sarah Lawrence is on the other side of the country.” Mr. Rogers states as if it’s only just becoming news to him.
“That’s the appeal,” Steve hands over the acceptance letter before holding both sides of his father’s face in large palms and placing a chaste kiss on his nose.
Mr. Rogers looks way more confused when Steve does it to his sister too than when it was done to him. And the confusion just keeps growing, even as he watches Natasha punch her big brother’s arm repeatedly and Steve just laughs at the assault.
“I thought we decided you were going to school here,” Joseph states, looking at the offensive words under the obscene letterhead, yet not quite understanding what on earth is going on. “At U of O.”
“No,” Steve sobers, straightens his shirt as he turns back to his father. It sometimes even shocks Steve how it’s so ridiculously easy for him to fall back into annoyance. For him to readopt the wrath that people dread so much even though they are always the ones who provoked it in the first place. “No, you always say it’s the perfect place and that you’ve already made plans with the dean and I tell you that you should enjoy your time there and not party too hard.”
“I’m with Steve on this one,” Natasha interjects, “Is there even a question that we want him to stay?”
Steve glares at Natasha, his anger for her unsolicited commentary only short-lived when he remembers what he’d had planned ever since leaving school. And it’s just about the only thing capable of getting him out of his rut. A euphoria that will possibly last all year.
Steve smiles sweetly at their father.
“Ask Natasha who drove her home.”
“Who drove you home?” like a switch, Joseph is suddenly crowding his daughter and Steve attempts to save the now slightly crumpled acceptance letter out of his father’s tight fist.
“Now don't get upset, Daddy, but there's this boy and I-”
“No!” Mr. Roger’s voice is never loud but completely firm, “You're not dating until your brother starts dating. End of discussion.”
“But it's not fair,” Natasha practically squeals before pointing an accusing finger at Steve, “He’s a mutant, Daddy! He’s gay!”
“Your brother’s not gay. He’s confused -”
“Actually, I’m very gay. And I’m standing right here.”
“–so until he comes around,” Mr. Rogers completely ignores the matter, his son altogether as he deals with all things he isn’t ready to handle, “you’re not dating either-”
Mr. Rogers’ beeper goes off and he holds a finger up at Natasha as he glances at it once. Always convenient, Steve thinks as his father grabs his bag and lunchbox from the table.
“We won’t be discussing this when I get home because the decision’s been made,” Mr. Rogers states over his shoulder as he makes his way to the front door.
Steve and Natasha look after him for one confused second before instinctively after their father.
“Which discussion?” both Steve and Natasha demand at the same time in two very different octaves but equally upset. The few rare moments that prove that they are actually related.
“Love you both,” Joseph says before the door slams shut.
“You are such a defect,” Natasha yells at Steve before storming up the stairs.
Steve chuckles and thinks he must be if he really does enjoy this sort of monotony.
Chapter Text
THE PRINCESS AND HER DILEMA
It isn’t like Bruce hadn’t found any of the girls back in his home town attractive. He even recalls kissing Caitlin Snow one winter, ironically in a snow tunnel that they’d built in her back yard. There was Diana Prince, the seventh grader who hunted and fished better than any of the other boys - and gave Bruce that funny feeling in his pants whenever she put him in a headlock. Then there was Selina Kyle, the inexplicably beautiful daughter of the richest farmer in Dakota whose father’s ever present shotgun made no boy want to touch, even though she once touched Bruce behind a barn.
But all of them pale in comparison to the beauty that is Natasha Rogers. Natasha who’s rocked all he’s ever believed about love by proving that love at first sight truly does exist. Because there’s no other explanation for the way he felt as soon as he laid eyes on her. The way nothing else existed around her. The way emotion rained on him and flooded from his toes all the way up until he felt like he was drowning in a pool of awe and attraction and desperation.
Desperation to be the one evoking that smile and laugh, the one holding her hand and kissing her lips. It has happened before but never this fast and never ever this hard and Bruce regrets laughing when reading a line from Shakespeare’s play, Twelfth Night – He who loves, loves at first sight.
Bruce finally gets it.
This is why despite the extra gel in his hair and extra caffeine in his system, Bruce still looks and feels like shit. Because Bruce spent the entire night listening to French tapes and reading the French for Dummies book yet somehow, minutes before Natasha is supposed to join him in the Tutor Room for their first lesson, Bruce can’t even remember what the hell comment allez-vous means.
“Can we make this quick?” Natasha suddenly drops down in the open seat beside Bruce and his entire lesson plan flies out the window. Every James Bond greeting he’d practiced in the mirror is now lost, because Natasha is simply wonderful. “Lois Lane and Clark Kent are about to have an incredibly horrendous public break- up on the quad. Again. Last time I missed it and I had to hear all about how great it was from everyone else.”
Just absolutely wonderful, Bruce thinks distractedly.
“Well,” Bruce clears his throat, “I thought we'd start with pronunciation. If that's okay with you?”
Natasha sighs and rolls her eyes and Bruce stores it to memory and tries hard not to smile because he knows it will shake.
“Not the hacking and gagging and spitting part,” she even knows how to pout with her eyes, “Please.”
“Okay,” Bruce looks down. He’s had this planned but he didn’t know that the opportunity would offer itself so quickly and so perfectly. “- then how 'bout we try out some French cuisine. Saturday? Night?”
There’s a moment of silence during which a number of emotions play over Natasha’s face and Bruce can only manage one. Possibly one that resembles the look on a man’s face seconds before he jumps off a bridge. Then Natasha smiles slowly.
“You're asking me out,” it’s a full grin now, “that's so cute. What's your name again?”
“Banner. Bruce Banner,” he says clumsily and fuck James Bond. “I’m sorry for assuming you would even know who I am let alone wanna – you know what, forget it.”
“No, no, it's my fault,” Natasha stops Bruce from packing the French book away. And then she’s offering him her hand and Bruce finds himself admiring how manicured her nails are. “We didn't have a proper introduction. Hello, Bruce. I’m Natasha.”
“I know,” Bruce knows he’s blushing as their hands join, “it’s a really pretty name. Like yo-”
“The thing is, Bruce,” she interrupts and Bruce is so happy for the save, “I'm at the mercy of a particularly hideous breed of loser. My brother. I can't date until he does.”
“That doesn’t seem like too much of a problem,” Bruce goes for ignorance instead of stalker.
“Problem,” she says by way of correction, “He's completely anti-social. I mean, he used to be really popular when he started high school, then he got outed and it was just like he got sick of every human being or something. Guys mostly.”
“That's sort of doesn’t help your situation,” Bruce huffs out a nervous laugh that’s supposed to sound sympathetic.
And then Natasha reaches out and touches Bruce’s arm. And it shouldn’t mean more than it does. He knows it really shouldn’t.
“I dunno,” Natasha shrugs, “it’s like, if only he found a boyfriend…someone to date…”
“I think I can help,” Bruce says quickly with far too much conviction.
Because Bruce has absolutely no idea how he’s going to get this right.
*****
FINDING A SOLUTION TO THE PRINCESS’S DILEMA
“I dunno, I must really be stupid,” Bruce continues as he removes the small intestine from the body cavity of a very open frog and separates the mesentery. Bruce can do this in his sleep. “I’m in school for less than a week and I ask out the most beautiful girl? I clearly have no concept of the high school social code?”
Sam grins as he measures the organ and the body and documents it with such professionalism that Bruce might accidently ask Sam to marry him.
“You’re right,” Bruce frowns in agreement, labeling the urogenital system by heart, “fuck the social code. If I could actually get her to even consider going out with me, the code must be flawed.”
Bruce watches blindly as Sam writes Salientia instead of frog and he pictures their honeymoon.
“But even though I do actually have a chance,” Bruce places his scalpel down on the tray and faces Sam fully, “she still can't go out with me. You told me her brother was Hitler; you never said Hitler and gay. What's the point? I should just cut my losses and heal my heart by focusing on someone more attainable.”
“What about him?” Sam motions with his head a few lab tables away.
Bruce follows the motion and his eyes land on a large boy making his un-dissected frog dance on the tray. The boy looks entirely too familiar for it to be the first time Bruce has been traumatized by him. His lab partner doesn’t seem frightened though, hitting the larger boy’s hand until the frog falls with a splat on its belly and then stabs it in the back with his scalpel.
“He’s not my type,” Bruce doesn’t succeed holding back a shiver.
“No. If you’d have actually let me get one word in-” Sam rolls his eyes, impatient, “Thor could get cozy with the brother. Thor gets cozy with the brother, nothing standing in the way of you getting cozy with Natasha. It’s the only ultimatum isn’t it? ”
Bruce finds himself smiling even before his brain has time to run its militarized risk analysis. But Sam has clearly been plotting this for a while which would explain the all-knowing smirk throughout his bitching. Bruce’s wedding dreams are shattered. Here he’d been thinking somebody actually enjoyed biology as much as he does.
“Why him?” Bruce lets go of the reigns of the horse he was never really commanding in the first place. Sam is, after all, the only reason he got to speak to Natasha at all in the first place.”
“The boy thrives on danger,” Sam also sets his tools down, instantly worlds more interested than before. Like he thrives on plots that can land him in big trouble. “No kidding. He's a criminal. I heard he lit a state trooper on fire. He just got out of Alcatraz.”
“They always let felons sit in on Honors Biology?” Bruce raises a skeptical brow.
“I'm serious, man, he's whacked,” Sam leans in as if he suspects someone is eavesdropping, “He sold his own liver on the black market so he could buy new speakers.”
“Forget his reputation. How do you even know he’s…you know,” Bruce wishes Sam would finish the question for him, but Sam just looks at him as if he’s stupid for even having any more, “…into guys?”
“He’s been to prison?”
“That doesn’t mean he’s… gay.”
“Gay is not a derogatory term, Bruce. You can just say gay.”
“How is assuming he’s gay just because he went to prison any worse than what I’m doing?”
Sam processes this for a moment. As if this last bit of information he has might be taking it too far. Then Sam gives in. “He once did his personal essay about how his catholic priest renounced his religion after the things he did to the man when he was an altar boy one Christmas.”
“Is that really even true?” Bruce says, both of them stealing one more subtle glance at the boy in question. Bruce’s conundrum is laid to rest when Thor nuzzles his lab partner’s neck and the smaller boy stabs Thor in the thigh.
Bruce and Sam straighten not wanting to see Thor’s reaction to the pain. Both their eyes are wide as they pretend to focus on the work they’ve obviously completed long before the rest of their peers.
“So now all you’ve gotta do is talk to him,” Sam finally says.
“Me?” Bruce frowns. “It was your plan.”
“Natasha,” Sam says simply.
“Asshole,” Bruce responds, defeated.
*****
PUTTING NEW FOUND SOLUTIONS TO THE PRINCESS’S DILEMA INTO ACTION: ATTEMPT NO.1
Sam gives Bruce two thumbs up from the safety of his stool across the woodshop classroom.
Bruce sighs, figuring he can just ease into the conversation. Compliment Thor on his woodshop skills, talk about stereos and then get right to it. But Thor is making something that looks like a machete out of a two-by-four and Bruce can’t imagine intentionally drawing attention to it.
As he approaches, Bruce settles for what has never failed him. Good-natured farm boy cheer.
“Hey, there,” Bruce beams.
And Thor brandishes a loud angle grinder close enough to Bruce’s face that he can swear he smells the wood.
“No problem, just catch you later, then,” Bruce walks away as if they’d shared the most comradery conversation ever.
Sam shakes his head, knowing he is clearly going to have to be the brains of this outfit.
*****
PUTTING NEW FOUND SOLUTIONS TO THE PRINCESS’S DILEMA INTO ACTION: ATTEMPTS NO.2
Sam isn’t quite sure exactly why he’s doing it. It’s part, wanting to help his new friend out and part wanting to shut him up. It’s also part wanting one of his own to win for a change. But it’s mainly just to see the look on Tony Stark’s face when he actually loses for a change.
No, it’s all to get Bruce to shut up about it.
Sam walks through the cafeteria, easily spotting the table where Tony and his cronies are defacing school property by drawing provocative images on cafeteria trays with a magic marker.
“Hey,” Sam says casually, planting himself down beside Tony, something Tony’s own friends are even wise enough not to do.
“Are you lost?” Tony looks genuinely confused, friends obviously equally befuddled since none of them make a move to remove the trespasser from their district.
“Nope,” Sam bobs his head to an imaginary beat and thanks the lord for all those years taking drama class seriously, “just came by to chat.”
“We don't chat.”
“Well, actually,” Sam gets into hustle mode, “I thought I'd run an idea by you. You know, just to see if you're interested.”
“I’m not,” Tony says, grabbing Sam’s chin and starting a doodle on his cheek as casually as he’d been doing on the tray just seconds before. Sam doesn’t flinch, suffering the indignity by filling his mind with the rewards that will come from it.
“Hear me out,” Sam allows Tony to tilt his head for a better angle, “You want Natasha don't you?”
Tony sits back and chuckles at his drawing.
“But she can't go out with you because her brother is this insane homo and no one will go out with him. Right?”
“Does this conversation have a purpose?” Tony’s amusement slips away almost instantly.
“I was thinking, work with me here,” Sam speaks with his hands now, “what you need to do is recruit a guy. Pay someone who'll go out with Steve. Someone who's up for the job,” Sam punctuates the last part by pointing towards Thor.
Thor is across the cafeteria making a disgusted face at his turkey pot pie before rising and tossing it at the garbage can, rather than in it.
“That guy?” Tony raises his brow and grimaces at the same time, “I heard he ate a live duck once.”
“Everything but the beak and the feet.”
Tony looks thoughtfully at the door Thor’s just exited before turning to look Sam in the eye.
“What's in it for you?” Tony’s eyes go narrow and Sam is sure it’s a modeling pose he’s practiced in front of the mirror countless times.
“Oh, hey, nothin' man. Purely good will on my part,” Sam smiles widely before adding what might seem more believable. “And maybe just a hello every now and then…in front of other human beings preferably.”
“I get it. Cool by association,” Tony nods, genuinely understanding. This clearly cannot be the first time he’s been approached with such an offer and Tony looks as though he’s relishing in the prize he will obtain by suffering through being nice to a nobody. But it’s short-lived. “Why are you still sitting here?”
“Right,” Sam rises to his feet and turns to the others, offering a firm salute. He makes his way through the cafeteria fully aware of all the eyes on him, but none so venomous as Bruce’s who stands waiting at the door for him.
“Mission in motion,” Sam says quietly, grabbing Bruce by the arm and leading him out of the cafeteria before the other boy can draw any more attention to the two of them than they already have.”
“You got him involved?” Bruce hisses despite the triumphant smile on Sam’s face.
“All part of the plan,” Sam explains, “you let the enemy think he's orchestrating the battle, you're in a position of power. We let him pretend he's calling the shots, and while he's busy doing all the work and coughing out the doe, you have time to woo Natasha.”
It takes a second to get around the fact that Tony is now involved for Bruce to realize how ingenious it all is. Bruce grins and throws an arm over Sam’s shoulder.”
“You're one brilliant guy,” Bruce chuckles as they walk down the hall.
“I am aren’t I?” Sam muses at his own underhandedness. And then a grim afterthought, “now let’s go get this cock off my face.”
They both laugh as they change route and head in the direction of the boys’ bathrooms.
Chapter Text
BUT WILL HE TAKE THE BAIT?
They do it every now and then. Thor has been close enough to hear the overly vibrant art teacher call it motion figure drawing.
The art students set up their easels and large sketch pads right along the sports field or track or court and start sketching their subjects as they run or shoot or throw.
It looks complicated and Thor isn’t quite sure what the purpose of the lesson is, nor does he care. But there’s one reason he makes a point of sitting in on their classes whenever he can, there’s a reason he waits right until the end of the lesson, long enough to hear when and where they’ll be doing it next. Or more so, a person.
All the artists draw meticulously enough to render their art teacher unnecessary and it’s not shocking that it’s an advanced class, but only one guy’s art stands out. Because even though the figures proportions are completely accurate as boringly as the rest of the class, this guy always adds shackles to the ankles of the running man or a grenade in place of the soccer ball that a player is half way through kicking into the goal. And it’s dark and depressing and it drives the teacher insane and Thor absolutely loves it. The charcoal smudges are harsh and the faces – although void of features – still manage to hold expressions of solemn oppression. The limbs look dragged down and injured yet the figures all still look like they’re trying so very hard to do what they’ve been told to do. To please? To fit in? To seem normal? And Thor really doesn’t ever understand art, but he understands every single stroke of charcoal against canvas that this boy makes.
Thor is so lost in the piece that he doesn’t even noticed he’s being approached until someone sits beside him on the bleachers. He doesn’t have to look to the side to know it isn’t Loki and he is immediately on guard. Thor uses his peripherals and his curiosity is suddenly peaked.
“I didn’t take you for a lover of the arts.”
“What do you want?” Thor asks tiredly. The hothead rich kid wouldn’t be talking to him if it wasn’t for some sort of his own monumental personal gain.
“What, no foreplay?” rich kid smirks. Thor doesn’t have to look at him to know it’s there. It’s always there. “It’s alright; I like a man who cuts to the chase. See that guy?”
Thor follows his line of vision to the very artist boy he’s been watching all along now in a heated conversation with the teacher.
“What do you think?” he says suggestively when Thor says nothing.
“Two legs, nice arse...” Thor feigns scrutiny. Even though the last part is completely true.
“Yeah, whatever,” rich kid stands and props one leg up beside Thor, casting a shadow and demanding Thor’s full attention, clearly done playing games. “I want you to go out with him.”
“Sure, Sparky,” Thor smiles broadly, “I’ll get right on it.”
“Look,” rich kid rolls his eyes, “if you’re not interested just say so and I’ll stop wasting my time here. There’s a school full of boys who could use the kinda cash I’m offering.”
Thor’s smile wavers and he really meets the smug git’s eyes for the first time. Thor stares into them, deadpan, his dislike for the guy all too obvious. Thor’s a little more than wary when all he finds is impatient seriousness glaring back at him.
“You’re going around offering boys money to date him,” it’s a shocked realization not a question.
“Consider yourself lucky number one,” the rich kid actually says it as though he expects Thor to jump up and down and clap his hands. “What do you say? I pick up the tab, you do the honors.”
“You aren’t suffering from anything,” it honestly feels as though it could be a possibility, “You're gonna pay me to take out some bloke?”
“I can't date his sister until that one gets a boyfriend,” the rich kid says like it’s obvious, “And he’s, how you say… cupid’s-arrow-repellent if you know what I –”
“How much?” Thor asks, more out of curiosity. Still waiting for a crew to come out with cameras and a stupid host telling him he’s on another tired MTV show.
“Twenty bucks each time you take him out.”
“I can't take a gentleman like that out on twenty bucks,” Thor smirks, humoring this crazy person.
“Fine,” the rich kid now looks pissed, “ thirty.”
Thor raises an eyebrow and nudges his chin up twice, hinting for a raise.
“Take it or leave it,” rich kid says, “This isn't a negotiation.”
“Fifty, and you've got your man,” Thor pushes his luck, because how dare this kid have the audacity to assert authority over him
It only takes a minute longer before Thor is walking away with a smile on his face and fifty bucks in his pocket.
*****
HE TAKES THE BAIT?
Thor walks down the hallway tailing after the art students who’re wrestling their easels under their arms and their art bags over their shoulders. Thor snakes his way through the prattling herd like a wolf with only one sheep as his target. He grins down at the angry artist when beside him, the boy who either doesn’t realize he has company or doesn’t care. Thor thinks the latter.
“I see you handle wood well,” Thor teases, running a finger over the length of the art stand.
The artist stops and turns slowly, taking Thor completely off guard. Because Thor’s only ever seen him from behind, the broad shoulders and strong back, narrow waist and unforgivingly firm arse that make any pants he wears look like sin. Thor’s never seen him like this, this close, ocean blue eyes so angry and intense and focused entirely on him.
“I mean,” Thor clears his throat, “Do you need a hand?”
“You know, I might have been suckered into thinking that maybe, just maybe chivalry isn’t dead after all,” his voice is a lot deeper than Thor had imagine. A dark rumble, stormy like his art. “But the fact that you walked right past her to ‘help’ me-”
Thor looks back to find a little redhead thing battling with her cargo, looking every bit as though her easel is the one carrying her. When his eyes return to the artist’s, Thor can see exactly how much of an asshole this guy thinks he is. He’s losing points already.
Thor rushes to rescue the girl from her art and it takes a moment for her to realize Thor is attempting to help her, not mug her.
“Pick you up Friday, then,” Thor calls after the blond artist who has picked up the pace, placing distance between them.
“Oh, right. Friday,” it’s thrown over his shoulder noncommittedly.
“The night I take you to places you've never been before,” Thor tries to sound sexy.
“Like where?” he turns around and raises his eyebrow. “The 7-Eleven on Burnside? Do you even know my name, hotshot?”
“I know a lot more than that,” Thor sticks to charm, not caring that their shouted conversation has the attention of everyone in the hallway.
“Doubtful,” the artist gives him a measuring look, walking away quickly, leaving Thor behind entirely. “Very doubtful.”
.
“You can keep walking away, sweetheart,” Thor grins, “you look nearly prettier from behind.”
Bruce and Sam are a few feet behind, tailing at a safe distance.
“He took the bait,” Sam grins triumphantly, and Bruce could honestly kiss his new best friend.
*****
GETTING UNDER IT?
It’s a joke if anything. Or perhaps the drug related rumors about Thor aren’t entirely hearsay. Or maybe, Thor lost a bet. It does always seem as though him and Loki are up to something. There aren’t many other ways to explain what could possibly have possessed Thor to make a pass at Steve. Openly. Gayley. He shouldn’t even be assessing the issue; Steve shakes his head at himself as he washes his face at the sink.
When Steve straightens, Natasha appears behind him in the mirror. The perfect horror movie scene. She smiles at her brother sweetly and attempts to spike Steve's hair into a Mohawk. Steve pushes Natasha away.
“Have you ever considered a new look?” she refuses to let him flatten it down “I mean, seriously, you could have some potential buried under all this hostility.”
“I have the potential to finish you by exposing photos of your headgear days if you don’t get out of my way,” Steve pushes past her into the hallway.
“Can you at least start wearing boxer briefs?” Natasha shouts after him.
Steve slams his bedroom door in response.
*****
“Hey,” Thor appears smiling at his side and Steve wonders when gathering books from one’s locker became unsafe. Steve says nothing.
“You hate me don't you?” the smile is apparent in Thor’s voice even though Steve refuses to look at him.
“I don't really think you warrant that strong an emotion,” Steve shrugs.
“Then say you'll spend Dollar Night at the track with me.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Come on,” Thor pushes Steve’s locker closed and leans against it, looking genuinely distressed. Desperate and handsome, Steve would never voice the latter. “-the ponies, the flat beer, you with money in your eyes, me with my hand on your arse.”
“You-” Steve makes the mistake of trying to push Thor out of his way, and an unforgivingly hard mound of muscle twitches under his fingertips, “-covered in my vomit.”
“Seven-thirty?” Thor actually pouts and Steve has to remove himself from the situation. Steve walks away and Thor doesn’t follow.
*****
Steve emerges from a music store carrying a bag of CDs in his teeth, and fumbling through his back pockets with both hands. He finds his keys and pulls them out with a triumphant tug.
Steve looks up and finds Thor sitting on the hood of his car.
“Nice ride,” Thor grins, “Vintage fenders.”
“Are you following me?” Steve takes the bag out of her mouth, just barely refraining from placing his hands on his hips. That would be way too Natasha.
“I was in the laundromat,” Thor nods to the offensive building across the street. “I saw your car. Thought I'd say hi.”
“Hi,” Steve says flatly, retreating into his car.
“You're not a big talker, are you?”
“Depends on the topic,” Steve doesn’t know why he opened the window. Possibly because Thor is still on his car. “My fenders don't really whip me into a verbal frenzy.”
Steve starts to pull out of his parking space, onto to be blocked by Tony’s red Viper, which pulls up perpendicular to his rear and parks.
“What is this, National Asshole Day,” Steve sticks his head out the window. “Hey, do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Tony smiles, not sparing Steve a glance as he emerges from his car and heads for the liquor store.
It doesn’t take Steve long to make up his mind; blood boiling as he backs up into Tony’s car door.
Steve isn’t paying attention to Thor’s delighted laughter or Tony’s animated devastation as he practically trips over himself in his haste to check the damage. Steve simply offers the sweetest, most innocent smile he can manage as he looks back at the dented red mess he’s made.
“Whoops,” Steve says.
Notes:
Soooo that's all for now...that was a ridiculously long intro, but I just wanted to get to where Stevey meets Thorita ....hope you enjoyed for now, comments are love!!!! Thanks for reading....LONG ROAD AHEAD!!!!
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