Chapter Text
“Ugh,” Bruce grunted, his notebook landing with a loud splack as it hit the far wall and slid to the floor, falling open to the same blank page Bruce had been staring at for the past three hours.
He swiveled in his chair to glare at the innocent book, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he took deep breaths to calm himself.
Three hours. Three hours with absolutely nothing to show for it. He slumped back into his chair and sighed heavily.
It was time for a brain break.
He pushed himself up and stretched, listening to what seemed like every single one of his joints pop and crack as though he had aged an extra twenty years since sitting down.
He went into the kitchen and scratched his head, squinting as he tried to remember the last time he ate and what it was. He knew there was a good chance he was only going to remember one of those things and he felt like he vaguely recalled toast. He couldn’t even remember anything being on the toast but that wasn’t out of the ordinary for him.
The back of his eyes were aching, indicating the looming threat of a headache. He considered taking some aspirin but his stomach was almost as empty as his brain. Maybe if he filled his stomach, his brain would start working again.
He took his glasses off and tucked them away into his unruly curls, knowing full well that he would curse himself later when he put them back on all dirty and smudged from his greasy hair.
Hm.
He grabbed at his shirt, taking a whiff. Okay, maybe he could do with a shower and a hair wash. After food, though.
He searched his embarrassingly barren pantry and fridge for anything he could put together to create something resembling a meal.
The sad part was that Bruce was a decent cook when his kitchen was actually stocked. He’d spent four years in Brazil and then a couple months in Mexico teaching English. He hadn’t mastered the cuisines but he could make a mean mole or moqueca capixaba if he took the time.
Unfortunately, Bruce wasn’t currently living in the headspace that reminded him to shop for groceries. Or bathe.
“Or clean,” he added out loud because he lived alone and was fully entitled to talk to himself. He looked around and noticed the dishes in the sink and then, leaning back, he peered into the living room and saw the papers strewn aimlessly around the room, covering the floor and coffee table.
He lifted his arm to check the time only to realize he wasn’t wearing his watch and by the time he found his phone to see that it had actually been a lot longer than three hours and he had a couple missed calls, there was a knock on the door followed immediately by the door opening.
Bruce sighed, he really only had the one friend who made house calls.
“It’s been nearly twelve hours and you haven’t returned a single call or text and I know that for whatever inexplicable reason you like to think I’m the annoying one in this friendship but—what the hell, Bruce? Did a tornado rip through here? Did you say hi to Dorothy?” Tony said, coming into the apartment in a faded band tee and a pair of old, worn jeans, carrying a bag in either hand and a mouth-watering smell wafted into the apartment.
Tony kicked the door shut with his foot and sat the bags down on the coffee table. He put his hands on his hips and looked around, bringing one hand up to his chin.
“So, uh, new book I take it?”
Bruce nodded, letting out a sigh. “Is it that obvious?”
Bruce was a relatively tidy man. Except for when he was trying to write. Well, Bruce was a tidy man until anything grabbed his focus.
But when it was time to write all unnecessary things like socializing and tidying fell by the wayside to make room for The Creative Process. Honestly, he hated that phrase but it was the best way to describe it.
“Oh, well,” Tony began, glancing at the television that Bruce had let play the online shopping channel for god knows how long and then stepping over a pile of precariously stacked books on various topics as he made his way to the kitchen, “I mean I can still see the floor. In some places. And you know, you don’t stink.”
“I do.”
Tony wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting. Why would you admit that? Anyway, I figured—and by ‘I’ I mean Rhodey pointed out to me over FaceTime—that you probably haven’t eaten anything while holing yourself up, so I come bearing Chinese food.”
“You’re a godsend, Tony,” Bruce admitted, collapsing on the couch and digging hungrily into the bags. “I was just deciding between boiled water with pepper or a glass of milk.”
“Bruce,” Tony said, coming back with napkins to plop down beside Bruce but putting a little space between them since Bruce had confessed to having a less than savory odor coming from him, “remember who this is coming from when I say you’re a mess and you need a seventy-two hour nap and a bath. Bath first. Also, lock your door. This isn’t Canada.”
“Yeah,” Bruce said, scrubbing a hand over his overgrown beard. “I know. I just… I’m stuck.”
“Run-of-the-mill writer’s block?” he asked, opening a container of cashew chicken with broccoli and digging in while Bruce found his favorite, Kung Pao chicken.
“I guess. I get one good idea and then two bad ones.”
“That’s still one good one.”
“Yeah but then I overthink it until I hate it too.”
“I can see how that would be a problem.”
“Can you?” Bruce snapped, rubbing his eye with the back of his wrist. The headache was fully formed now, epi-centered behind both of his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “Maybe that nap isn’t such a bad idea.”
“Bath and a nap. Don’t forget the bath,” Tony emphasized, waving his chopsticks at him and completely unfazed by Bruce’s quick temper. To say he was used to it would be an understatement.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “How is Rhodey anyway?” he asked because he was genuinely interested but also to change the subject.
“You would know if you checked your phone but I’ll be nice and update you anyway. He’s good. And, ya know, it’s Rhodey. Things just work for him. I wanna be him when I grow up.”
Bruce snorted. “Well you’ve still got a couple years to get it right.”
“Rude but, yeah, you know he’s in Hawaii right now at the Air Force base being an instructor for… something. I don’t know. I zone out during the actual shoptalk. I just like hearing his voice.”
Bruce smiled softly and shook his head. “You sure you two never secretly started dating? I did catch you in some pretty compromising situations.”
“And you know as well as I do that Rhodey is, unfortunately, very straight and those situations were in college. Nothing counts then. Besides, his latest update is that a certain pilot named Captain Danvers has caught his eye and I’m still pining pitifully after our himbo friend at the bar.”
“He’s not a himbo, Tony. Maybe stop calling him that and you might actually have a chance with the guy,” Bruce said, taking a large bite and barely chewing because he had severely underestimated just how hungry he was.
The bar in question was one of Bruce’s favorite hangout spots. He’d been going there for the last few years and had become good friends with the owner, Natasha. The people who frequented the place had character but never got to the point of being rowdy or out of control. The staff were all nice, down-to-earth people, and the drinks were delicious.
It was loud but dimly lit and spacious, allowing him a measure of privacy even in public which he loved. Bruce was quiet and he was aware that he radiated wallflower energy but he didn’t mind. He would hate to be the guy everyone wanted to talk to, he preferred sidelines or small groups. He liked people, he just wasn’t very good with them.
“I’ve been to that bar several times with you and there’s no point in me feigning modesty here when we both know I’m hot as hell, so either he’s blind or not interested,” Tony concluded with a pout.
Bruce snorted. “Or intimidated. You can be incredibly intimidating and I’m not even sure you’re aware,” Bruce told him easily, plucking a spring roll from the open box they were sharing.
“I’m half his height. What about me is supposed to intimidate that six-two Magic Mike lookalike?” Bruce gestured vaguely to all of Tony and Tony frowned. “All of me?”
“Yes. What you lack in height you more than make up for with Tony-ness. You’re too smart not to know this by now. I’m sure Rhodey’s pointed it out to you. Or Pepper.”
“Maybe.”
“Steve’s shy, believe it or not. Try approaching him not like he’s a piece of ass you’d like to lick and instead like he’s a guy you think is cute.”
“I know you think you said two different things but…” Tony let the thought trail off, fighting off his grin at the unimpressed look on Bruce’s face.
Bruce sighed. “Let’s revisit this conversation when I don’t have a pounding headache.”
“Really? You had to say the word pounding after I just told you how sad and single I am? Low blow, Banner.”
Bruce rolled his eyes but he didn’t say anything else, just leaned back into the couch cushions and chewed a little slower now, actually tasting the food. Tony grabbed the remote and changed the channel, muttering something about Bruce being an old man and finally stopped on the sci-fi channel.
They ate in silence for a few more minutes, only occasionally grunting or snorting derisively at a scientific inaccuracy in the film. Of course it was riddled with them but they saved their energy for the truly dumb ones.
“Thanks for this. Really,” Bruce said during a commercial break, letting his head roll lazily to face Tony, starting to feel full and lethargic.
“Sure thing. Always better eating with company anyway.” He nudged Bruce with his elbow and winked.
“You live across the hall. You could just always come over here and eat with me, you know?”
“I know,” Tony said, “but usually when I’m not helping you remember to eat, I’m forgetting to do it myself. Thank god for Rhodey or we’d both be nothing but a bag of bones.” Bruce laughed quietly. “So, tell me, what’s this new book supposed to be about?”
Bruce groaned, his mood deteriorating some at the mention of it. He waved his spring roll in the air as if hoping it would spell out the words he hadn’t been able to find. “Action.”
“Alright, give me more. Everyone knows action is your genre of choice,” Tony said, turning on the couch and folding a leg underneath himself to more easily face Bruce. “Come on, work with me. Maybe I can get you out of your slump.”
His genre of choice was action. In particular, hero action. He wasn’t so much into the full on superhero stuff. No capes, no tights, and definitely no super secret, high tech hero hideouts or mega villains with robot armies to do their bidding who wear equally ridiculous outfits.
He liked anti-heroes. He liked people who were assholes or jerks or had some other unsavory characteristic who managed to turn over a new leaf and redeem themselves on a better path while still retaining their unfavorable qualities.
Bruce couldn’t relate to the faultless, blameless, no-bad-bone-in-their-body hero trope. Honestly, who could? But Bruce felt a connection with his rough-around-the-edges protagonists with all their faults and screw-ups who, at the end of the day, just wanted to be accepted by those dear to them.
This was his third book. It wasn’t a series—because he liked things that began and ended—but this would be the third novel he hoped to get published. He had pitched other ideas to his agent who in turn had presented them to a few publishers but no one had picked them up. Bruce knew he had found his niche in anti-hero storytelling and didn’t entirely mind staying there.
Except for right now because his mind was emptier than his fridge and every single idea he had come up with had felt overdone or corny. Hence why the notebook had been thrown at the wall.
If Bruce thought about it too long, he would discourage himself entirely from writing. There was nothing new under the sun; everything and every idea had been written in one way or another. It didn’t invalidate what Bruce had written but he did have to remind himself that he wasn’t going to be able to miraculously come up with a story no one had ever read before. There would be tropes, he just had to choose which ones he could live with.
Bruce shrugged and sunk further into the couch. “I got nothing.”
“Nothing? I find that hard to believe.”
“That’s your problem,” Bruce muttered, irritated.
“Maybe it is time we went back to your inspiration station.” Tony wiped his mouth with a napkin and went to the kitchen to find a drink, sighing loudly and Bruce could only assume that was due to him having incredibly limited options.
Bruce returned to his internal debate while Tony got himself a drink. He couldn’t help but fixate on the fact that he had no ideas. He wasn’t even stuck because to be stuck he would have had to write something, right? You couldn’t get stuck without ever having moved and Bruce was about as stationary as—
Bruce’s mind refused to produce a comparison and that was how Bruce knew that he was well and truly fucked as far as creativity went. Now he couldn’t even produce a simple analogy!
What if—
“What now? Inspiration station no good? I thought it was kinda funny—”
“What if I’m out of ideas for good?” Bruce interrupted, the worry that had been hanging over his head like a dark cloud finally being verbalized and he winced as the words left his mouth.
“Well,” Tony said, plopping down beside him again, “you said that with the last book and look how well it did.”
“Yeah but the last book didn’t take me this long.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Bruce. Trust the process. Or is it ‘don’t rush the process’? Crush the process? Rhodey said one of those to me and now I can’t remember which but you’re smart and you know what I mean.”
“You’re the most unhelpful helpful person I know.”
“You’re welcome. Also, hand your tablet over.”
“Why?”
Tony gestured to the food in his hands. “Boiled water with pepper ringing any bells? You need groceries. I honestly can’t believe I am the voice of reason and self-care. Rhodey and Pepper will be amazed. I can’t wait to tell them.”
Tony had a point. If he was having to play nanny for Bruce, Bruce seriously needed to get his shit together. It was the same story every time though. He would spiral into self-isolation, eating and sleeping the bare minimum. Bruce wasn’t really good at half-assing stuff, he was too critical of himself for that. He could eat nothing but seventeen saltines the whole day but he refused to let himself slack off in his writing.
“Earth to Banner, come in Banner,” Tony called, waving a shrimp wonton in his face. “God, if you become the reckless one who never attended self-preservation 101 and the easily distracted one, what am I gonna have left? My witty one-liners? My fabulous ass?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be quite as annoying as you,” Bruce remarked without malice, glancing at him sidelong.
“You better not. I didn’t get this way overnight, you know. Real work was involved. Anyway, tablet, groceries, gimme.” He made grabby hands for the tablet lying on the end of the coffee table closest to Bruce. Bruce sighed but sat up and handed it to him and Tony ate with one hand while he typed in and ordered various groceries—some fresh in case Bruce felt the desire to cook but most frozen so he could be sure he would eat something .
After a few minutes in silence, the only other sound Tony tapping away at the screen, the groceries were ordered using the card on file and Tony tossed the tablet onto the cushion between them. He let out a deep sigh.
“This is exhausting. Do better, Bruce. I do not enjoy playing Mama Stark. How does Rhodey do this?”
“He’s Rhodey. Things just work for him,” Bruce said, echoing Tony’s own words.
Tony patted Bruce’s leg. “There’s the snarky Banner I love. You just needed some food, huh, big guy?”
Tony reached over and poked Bruce’s side and Bruce jumped because he was ticklish but didn’t protest the touch itself. Tony had always been incredibly touchy-feely and after over a decade of friendship, Bruce had given up in his efforts to evade Tony’s pokes, prods, and hugs.
Bruce had never done very well with touch, it just wasn’t something he had grown up seeing as a particularly positive thing. It wasn’t like he threw tantrums whenever he was faced with physical contact; it simply was not his favorite thing.
Though he had his exceptions and Tony was most definitely one of them.
Bruce put down his empty food container and rubbed his stomach with a satisfied smile. “I do feel better.”
“Good. That deserves ice cream,” Tony said, standing to go to the kitchen when it seemed to dawn on him that Bruce’s kitchen had about as much edible food in it as a school cafeteria. “Should I even bother asking if you have ice cream?”
“Actually, I think that might be one of the few things I do have.”
+
“Maybe a dog? But is that too I Am Legend?” Bruce said out loud to himself, turning on the shower and waiting for it to warm up before he stepped underneath the spray of water.
He closed his eyes, tilting his head back and letting it beat down on his face for a few seconds. It felt great but a bath would’ve been even better. He made a mental note to run a hot bath later in the week in hopes of removing the knots in his shoulders that a shower was powerless against.
He washed his hair twice for no other reason than the fact that he knew Tony would touch it and make comments all night if he realized it was still greasy.
He stepped out, dried off, and decided that maybe he didn’t need a shave but a trim was definitely in order. He had really let himself go all Castaway these last few weeks, having left his apartment only twice to pick up food and get some fresh air.
“Gotta do better, Banner,” he told himself sternly, tilting his head up to tidy up his neck first and then the rest, going to get dressed once that was done.
Bruce was in no way, shape, or form anything even resembling fashionable. It was the bane of Tony’s existence but he was learning! Although a part of him still purposely mismatched his outfits because he knew how much it irked Tony. Okay, so maybe Tony was right about not being the only annoying one.
His style wasn’t the atrocious ‘is he a serial killer or does he just dress in the dark’ look that he had been sporting when he and Tony first met but it wasn’t anything special. Dark jeans, a soft flannel that he buttoned too high according to Tony, and a well-worn pair of sneakers.
He went back to the bathroom to tackle his mop of curls in the hopes that he could force it into something akin to a style and less tumbleweed.
“Maybe a sidekick?” he suggested to himself, running moisturizer-slicked fingers through his hair.
The majority of the morning he had spent cleaning after the harsh reality had hit him that Tony Stark was saying his apartment was messy. As he cleaned, he brainstormed possible ideas aloud. He still didn’t have a name for his protagonist or any kind of notable feature or talent but he knew a lot of what he didn’t want. So that was something. Right?
“No, too Batman and Robin,” he decided, rolling up his sleeves and then cleaning his glasses off. He had given up on his hair. It had a life of its own and that had never been more apparent than the times he had attempted to tame it.
The protagonist of his first book was, unsurprisingly, loosely based on Bruce himself. It was called The Hulk and centered around a scientist with anger issues who got hit with a lethal dose of gamma radiation but instead of killing him, it turned him into an indestructible rage monster.
He honestly hadn’t expected it to take off the way it did but apparently people enjoyed reading about what was basically a fictionally embellished version of Bruce’s autobiography. He knew there was a lesson or a takeaway somewhere in that but he had yet to find it.
He’d sold over a million copies stateside and then another few hundred thousand collectively between other countries and it had even been translated into a couple languages.
So he wrote a second.
The second one had been inspired by Tony, his best friend since college. That one had done even better than The Hulk . Bruce called it Iron Man . And, no, he definitely didn’t harbor even a little bit of resentment over how much better it had done. No, of course not.
Now he was working on his third novel with a new protagonist and a new plot and new everything but so far he had diddly squat.
He had considered tackling a woman’s point of view for a female protagonist but he was advised (threatened) to abandon that idea by Natasha, so he was sticking with his comfort zone of the male psyche. Even though he didn’t always feel that he even knew how that one worked.
His phone rang and Bruce startled, answering it.
“Yeah,” he said, resting the phone on his chest of drawers and turning on the speaker function as he ran a belt through his pant loops.
“You don’t return my emails, you don’t check your messages, why do you even have a phone, Bruce, honestly,” Maria Hill, Bruce’s agent, said.
Maria Hill had come into Bruce’s life through recommendation. He had spent a few weeks searching publishing websites and writer blogs for a potential agent who worked in his genre and he’d come up with nothing and nobody. At least not anyone he actually liked.
Maria was an acquaintance of one of their friends, Pepper, and she had passed on Maria's contact information when Tony mentioned to her that Bruce was looking for an agent. Bruce was both extremely grateful for her and slightly irritated because she was almost as persistent as Tony although definitely more intimidating. And he had actually been ignoring her calls and emails.
She sighed and started again when he didn’t speak. “How’s it going?”
“It’s… I’m working on it.”
She must have heard the thinly veiled frustration in his tone at his own failings or else she was too tired to fuss because her next words were even softer. “A little stuck?”
Bruce rubbed his forehead, willing away a new headache before it could start. He wanted to enjoy his evening. “Yeah.”
There was a long silence on the other end and Bruce didn’t even want to think about what might be going through Maria’s head. He knew it couldn’t be anything good.
“How are you otherwise? I know it can’t be easy getting the—”
“You know, Maria, actually I’m just about to head out. Talk later,” he interrupted, hanging up the call because, no, he wasn’t ready to talk about that yet. Maybe not ever.
Bruce stood in front of the mirror that hung over his chest of drawers and closed his eyes, removing his glasses and setting them down. He took a few shallow breaths and then worked to deepen them.
In and out deeply four times, counting to four slowly as he inhaled and eight as he exhaled. He focused on the feeling of the air filling his lungs, thought about all the processes going on as the air left his chest again, to put his mind at ease.
Finally he opened his eyes, cleaned off his glasses again—it was more of a habit than an actual necessity—and stared at himself in the mirror.
It wasn’t even truly anger. He wasn’t angry about what had happened, he was upset. It cut straight to the bone and left him feeling hollow and if there was one thing Bruce Banner’s brain couldn’t wrap itself around it was how to properly process and express his emotions. Almost everything negative became anger.
He sighed.
“And this is why you’re single,” he said out loud, chuckling derisively as he added, “and so is this.” ‘This’ being the fact that he talked to himself.
He sighed again and turned away from the mirror, grabbing his cotton tote bag that Tony hated and heading for the door.
The bar was full and bustling by the time Bruce arrived. Tony was late, which was not surprising in the least, so Bruce headed inside, carefully squeezing between rowdy patrons and making his way to his usual table. He had made sure to text Natasha in advance to let her know he was coming so she could keep his table free for him and she had.
He climbed up onto the high booth and rummaged through his tote bag until he found his pen and notebook, laying both on the small, round table in front of him. He checked his watch and then his phone, glancing over just in time to catch Natasha’s eye as she made her way around the bar and in his direction, a drink in her hand.
“One mint julep,” Natasha said, setting it down on the table and sliding in beside him. She leaned in and gave Bruce a quick kiss on the cheek. Natasha was also an exception to his no-touching policy. “Hey, Bruce.”
“Hey, Nat,” he answered, a small warm smile on his lips.
Bruce loved coming to Natasha’s bar. It was everything he needed—noisy, dark, the drinks were delicious, and he even got a discount because he occasionally helped her with her accounts and taxes. In addition to his discount, Natasha and the other two who worked there—Sam and Steve—kept people from bothering Bruce while he sat at his usual table, sipped his drink, and sought out inspiration. They were also good company when he felt more talkative.
Contrary to the norm, Bruce needed noise to think. He needed chaos and commotion to help focus his thoughts. In silence, he had too much freedom to think about everything all at once, which was why even at home he would open windows or blast music or the television.
The noise and chaos in the bar topped anything Bruce could achieve at home. It was like a centrifuge for his thoughts, filtering and separating the ones he needed from those he didn’t.
He’d spent nearly every evening there while writing his last book and had gotten pretty familiar with the usual clientele. So much so that quite a few would nod to the introverted author sitting at the back of the room as he passed them.
Bruce looked down at his notes. So far the only thing he’d written was the date and a big question mark where he was trying to think of a character name and that he had written this morning in hopes of being able to come up with something by now. He hadn’t but at least he had been hopeful.
“New book?” Natasha asked.
“If you can call it that,” Bruce said, defeated. He slid the notebook over to show her all of his non-progress. “Two weeks of this and all I have to show for it is the date.”
Natasha breathed a soft laugh. “You’re too hard on yourself, Bruce. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”
“That’s what Tony keeps telling me.”
“Tony,” Natasha said, the corner of her mouth turned up in an exasperated but fond smile. “How is he?”
Bruce smiled. “He’s on his way but he’s late.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Neither am I.”
“How’s the drink?”
“Oh,” Bruce said, having forgotten to even try it. He felt a small swell of warmth at the fact that she had prepared it without him even having to ask. And it was perfect, he noted as he took a sip. “Delicious.”
She smiled back, relaxing a little and Bruce could feel her warmth gently press against him, Natasha’s subtle way of showing that she missed him without having to say the words.
Bruce respected and appreciated that. Despite being an actual best-selling author, he understood the difficulty of using words. They could be so fickle, so easily misinterpreted or, at times, simply not enough. They just did not always work in real life as opposed to on paper. Not how he wanted them to at least.
“You don’t want to write another book about Tony?” she asked after a moment of silence.
Bruce laughed. “No way. I already gave his ego an unnecessary boost. He’s already bugged me about a sequel and he wants me to include more Rhodey.”
Natasha breathed a laugh, shaking her head softly. “A sequel and he has notes? Wow. What’s does Rhodey have to say about it?”
Bruce laughed again. “He doesn’t mind as long as he’s not relegated to the funny sidekick.”
“Understandable. So are you still thinking about making a woman protagonist?”
“Oh, definitely not. You made it very clear last time that a man should never write a woman’s perspective. Least of all me.”
“I didn’t say least of all you,” she told him, whacking his leg lightly.
“Oh, I know. I’m saying that.”
They talked and teased a few more minutes and Bruce let out a relieved sigh, feeling a little better despite still not having made any progress. He bumped his shoulder against Natasha’s.
“Thanks. I needed this.”
She nodded in return and checked her phone. “My break’s almost over but you know where to find me if you’d like some more conversation.”
“Break? Don’t you kind of decide that?”
“If I don’t obey the rules I’ll never be able to keep those criminals from breaking them,” she said, indicating with her chin at Steve and Sam who were bickering behind the counter. Steve had done something that made Sam roll his eyes, shake his head and walk away. Steve looked embarrassed.
“You amaze me, you know? Two full-time jobs at once—this bar and babysitting.”
“Tell me about it,” she said, sliding down off the stool and stretching. She tapped the table twice with her hand, giving Bruce a small smile and then returning to the counter.
Bruce watched her go for a minute, grateful to have her as a friend. He’d never been particularly good at making friends but the few he did have he cherished dearly.
“I’m late, I’m late for a very important date,” Bruce heard his dearest friend say, glancing up to see Tony sliding between people.
Unlike Bruce, Tony looked like he was going to a bar to pick someone up. He was wearing the tightest black jeans on earth and Bruce shifted uncomfortably just thinking about the pinching and squishing going on there. He paired it with a crisp white shirt unbuttoned enough to show off his perpetually tanned skin. His hair looked effortlessly styled, as usual, and as much as Bruce wanted to tease him, he couldn’t because Tony really looked good.
“So I get all dolled up for you and you arrive as what? A high school English teacher? Banner, come—oh, no. Did you bring that farmer’s market bag with you? To the bar ?”
Bruce smiled, happy to see Tony and to rile him up. “How else was I supposed to carry my stuff?”
Tony sat down beside him with a huff, looking him up and down. “In your hands like every other cool person. Who are you supposed to attract looking like this, Bruce? A Quaker?”
“I’m not here to attract anyone. I’m here to find inspiration for my story.”
“Well I personally think that you getting laid could loosen you up enough for you to feel inspired,” Tony said, his tone matter of fact.
“Of course you do.”
“Hey, I’m a scientist. Kind of. If I’m wrong, fine. But there’s no saying I’m wrong without at least a little trial and error,” Tony stated, smiling at Natasha when he caught her eye. She nodded at him and said something to Sam who waved and headed over. Tony pouted and Bruce barely covered his laugh.
“Hey, Bruce, hey, Tony, what can I get you?” Sam asked, leaning slightly against the table.
Sam’s so nice , Bruce thought. His smile was contagious and he was kind and uncomplicated. There was no need to read between the lines with him. He usually said what he thought, just like Natasha.
Bruce would be lying if he said he hadn’t had a small crush on Sam for a while after he first met him but it wasn’t long until he noticed the ring Sam wore around his neck and found out he was married to Steve’s best friend. In any case, they were still friends.
“Uh, yeah, so I’ll have a double blond bartender on the rocks with an extra shot of where is he? Is he not working tonight?”
Sam snorted, still caught off guard by the walking personification of the word ‘blunt’ that was Tony. Tony had only started accompanying Bruce to Natasha’s bar in the last year. Before that, they’d gone together to a more raunchy spot where Tony liked to find dates. Bruce had always been uncomfortable and finally it got to the point where he dragged Tony here.
It wasn’t as much of a pick-up spot nor was it anywhere near raunchy—Natasha ran a fun but orderly business—but Tony had warmed to it, especially after meeting Bruce’s bar friends.
“He’s in the back grabbing a couple bottles. I can send him over when he’s back. Did you wanna wait for your drink until then or…?”
“Yeah,” Tony said, fixing his hair, “I’ll need a neutral opener. Hey, quick question, Steve is definitely into guys, right?”
Sam contemplated his answer for a moment and then said, “I think I’ll let you figure that one out. Bruce, anything else I can get you in the meantime?”
“Some pretzels would be great. Thanks, Sam.”
“Sure thing.”
Tony leaned back, dragging a hand down his face and turning to Bruce who was trying to slip into a world of his own to drum up some ideas.
Tony decided, amazingly, to be quiet, seeming to recognize the look on Bruce’s face. Sam brought over the pretzels and Bruce faintly registered him telling Tony that Steve would be out soon but he didn’t focus on the rest of the conversation, looking around the bar, hoping to see someone that could inspire a new protagonist. Maybe even a new antagonist .
Something.
Anything .
Mostly he just saw the usuals. The university where he lectured on occasion as a part time job wasn’t too far away from the bar so he saw a lot of college students and even some from his past classes, like Hank McCoy and Jemma Simmons. Then there were the more mature usuals like Logan Howlett.
Logan was as much of a loner as Bruce although tonight Bruce had Tony to help disprove his loner status. Logan’s loner-ness was more the ‘stay away or you’ll regret it’ kind anyway whereas Bruce radiated ‘sad, awkward hermit’, or so Tony had said.
Finally, Tony had had enough of the silence and the nervousness that was growing as he waited for Steve to make an appearance. Bruce didn’t mind, Tony had held out longer than he thought he would anyway.
“So, action. You tweaked the plot any since the last time we talked about it?” he asked, popping a pretzel into his mouth.
“Not really but definitely something more low-key than the last two.”
“Oh? No more destroying Harlem or riding a nuke into space to save New York? But those were so relatable to the everyday person. How could you?”
“Shut up,” Bruce grumbled, but there was a smile on his face because that’s what Tony did. He teased and he picked and he made Bruce laugh, especially when Tony knew he was stressed. “I just… I don’t know. Low-key is about as far as I’ve gotten.”
“It’s still better than nothing, Bru—he’s coming. Quick, teeth check,” Tony said, baring his teeth at Bruce who gave him an amused thumbs-up. “He looks good. Does he look better than usual?”
“Take a breath. You’ve got this.”
It was odd watching Tony get flustered. Well, odd and entertaining. The man was the suavest, most charismatic individual Bruce had ever happened across. Tony could talk his way out of a bank robbery even if the cop caught him with a bag of cash and a gun.
Bruce had always admired that about him if not been just the slightest bit envious because despite being the writer, when it came to flirting and smooth-talking, it was like Bruce had never learned to properly string words together to form coherent and pleasant speech.
Steve walked towards them, a gentle blush already on his otherwise pale cheeks. Bruce grabbed a handful of pretzels and prepared himself for the show, used to being a quiet observer to Tony’s romantic attempts.
“Hi, Bruce,” Steve greeted him, his deep voice exceedingly pleasant to listen to. Bruce had also spent a fair amount of time at the bar ogling Steve. How could he not? The man was built like a Michaelangelo carving, with a voice like melted butter, and lashes so long Bruce wondered if they bothered him. “Hey, Tony.”
Bruce raised his eyebrows slightly, noting the change in his voice when it was Tony’s name rolling off his tongue. Bruce hoped Tony had picked up on it as well and if so, this ought to be good.
For all Steve’s positive points, though, Bruce still wasn’t interested. Mostly because Tony had been interested since day one and had been working up the nerve to actually do something about it but also because Steve kind of felt like the faultless, blameless hero-types Bruce avoided writing and even if it wasn’t true, the idea of having to live up to that in a relationship almost made Bruce feel dizzy. A friendship was where he drew the line with Steve.
Not that he thought Steve would be interested in him anyway.
“What can I get you?”
“I’m good for now,” Bruce said and Steve seemed grateful for that, quickly turning his attention to Tony, a smile on his lips.
“And you, Tony?” Steve’s entire body was angled towards Tony and he leaned against their table, holding the notepad in front of himself which gave him the perfect opportunity to surreptitiously flex his biceps.
Tony’s eyes zeroed in on the movement and then flashed back up to Steve’s face. Bruce considered poking him under the table to get his brain to kickstart again after that but Tony righted himself and got back to the mission at hand.
“Yeah, I’ll have a Laphroiag, neat, and your phone number,” Tony said, easily, as though he hadn’t just been panicking three seconds before Steve walked over. Bruce was impressed, as always.
“Okay,” Steve said, frowning as he noted it down and then glanced up again. Tony’s eyes flickered quickly to Bruce and seemed to say ‘oh shit’!’ “We’ve got Laphroaig 10, 16 and—wait, my number?”
Tony let out a nervous laugh that probably didn’t seem nervous to Steve but Bruce heard the small trill at the beginning of it. “Uh, yeah. Of course if you don’t swing that way, that’s fine. Give me your number anyway, let’s be friends.”
Almost a smooth recovery and as Bruce watched Tony look for something to do with his hands, he slid the bowl of pretzels closer and Tony took some, quickly tossing one into his mouth and munching as he did his best to maintain his pretense of nonchalance.
“No, I mean, yes. I do, I am and—I thought you were asking about the year of the scotch in a weird way and—”
“Well, I mean I’d still like the scotch. And I’ll take that ten year but I’d also like to take you. Out. On a date.”
It was a little rough but it seemed to work if the way Steve’s cheeks warmed an even deeper pink were any indication. His light blue eyes darted away and then they were right back on Tony’s face.
“I-I—yes, I would like that.” Bruce could see him internally cursing himself for stuttering. “Your phone?”
Tony quickly dug it out of his pocket, unlocked it, and handed it over. Steve set down his notepad and quickly input his details. Bruce could only imagine what else he had typed based on the way Tony’s eyebrows shot up when he got the phone back.
Tony locked his phone and then waved it triumphantly, grinning at Steve.
“Well, my night is made. I’ll text you?”
“I’d prefer a call,” Steve said and Tony simply nodded.
“A call it is.”
Steve stayed there a moment longer before turning around to head back to the bar and were Bruce’s eyes deceiving him or did Steve have a little extra pep in his step all of a sudden?
“That was kinda hard to watch,” Bruce told him, looking over at Tony who was staring at his phone under the table out of view.
Tony opened his mouth to say something that Bruce knew would be a snark but then closed it again, pensive. “It sure was but you know what, Bananarama? I got his number.”
“Finally. I’m proud of you.”
“Me t—oh, damn it. Fuck me,” Tony swore, a hand coming up to his forehead.
“I think that’ll be Steve’s job.”
Tony chuckled and then checked his phone. “What’s today? Wednesday or Thursday?”
“Tuesday,” Bruce answered. “Forgot something?”
“Huh, earlier than I thought. Anyway, yeah, I have to be in LA on Friday,” Tony groaned, looking over at Steve sadly who was talking excitedly to Sam and Natasha.
Tony headed up the R&D branch for some big tech company that Bruce constantly forgot the name of and he spent his time between New York and California. For the last few months he had been in New York and Bruce was honestly going to miss him.
“They need you onsite?”
“Sure do. Talk about shitty timing, huh? You think he’ll think I’m blowing him off?” Bruce shook his head, a fond smile on his lips. “Poor word choice?”
“You think?” Bruce sighed, looking over at Steve again. “I think he’ll understand. Besides, he’s waited all this time for you to finally ask him out. He can wait another—wait, for how long?”
Tony whipped out his phone again and opened his emails, scrolling until he found the one he needed. “Three weeks. Ugh, stupid work. Why couldn’t I just be born into money? Like your book version of me. Hey, speaking of money, when do I get to collect royalties for you using my likeness for material gain?”
Bruce snorted that time, taking a sip of his drink. “Here you go,” he said, digging in his pants pocket and taking out a crumpled one dollar bill. Tony refused to even hold his hand out for it, wrinkling his nose. “Buy yourself something nice.”
“That’s barely money. I’m offended.”
“Good, that was the goal.” Bruce grinned when Tony huffed in annoyance and sat back against the booth, looking out across the bar. “What am I gonna do without you for three whole weeks?”
“Definitely something boring. No doubt about that,” Tony teased, his dark eyes sliding to Bruce. “But, ya know, I’ll be with you in spirit. Text me and let me know if inspiration strikes or if you decide to give up writing and move to the mountains.”
“Sure, I’ll keep you updated. Currently leaning towards the latter. Do you want your own bedroom in my cabin?”
“Yeah, with views please.”
The conversation died down for the moment, Tony on his phone sending an email to someone and Bruce just quietly observing the world around him.
At some point, he wasn’t sure exactly when, he had given up on using tonight to find inspiration. Between Tony’s love life, being back at the bar after so long away, and just Tony in general, he was too distracted to focus on writing.
He picked up his notebook and pen and put them away in his bag, deciding to use the rest of the night to just enjoy with his friend before he went away.
+
“Maybe he’s… maybe…” Bruce tried, hoping a word would come to him but it never did. He glanced down at the notebook that was just as empty as it had been three days ago at the bar.
He stared at the lines and then dropped his head down onto the book, groaning softly. With the last two books, it hadn’t been easy per se but it just seemed to come so naturally.
With his own life of course he knew what he wanted to add and what would need revising or fictionalizing so that it wasn’t too personal to put out into the world. Bruce knew where to start and how to start and even how to end it. He knew all the ups and downs and surprises, the sad points, and the parts so distressing he decided to leave them out.
Even with the second book Bruce already knew the kind of direction he would take it in. One not too dissimilar from Tony’s own success story just with the added billions and the, well, flying robotic suit.
But this one? This book was almost refusing to be written. Bruce had considered giving up a few times and starting in a completely new direction but the few times he’d tried ‘new’ and ‘different’ before hadn’t been received well. Plus, when he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the words on the tip of his tongue, waiting to be lured out onto the page. They were just stuck.
He lifted his head and looked around the room. Tony had left for L.A. earlier that morning and Bruce’s living room had already succumbed to his rabbit-hole habits, the floor around him was nearly covered with papers and a few books he’d been paging through on different weapons and fighting techniques.
He sighed, the sudden rush of air puffing up his cheeks, and pushed himself away from his desk to stretch and get his blood circulating. Maybe that would help.
“Okay,” he said aloud, removing his glasses and tucking them into his hair which was slowly increasing in greasiness again.
He was pacing the apartment, looking for anything to give him a start, when his eyes fell on the golden envelope on his desk that contained the equitably beautiful card on the inside. He froze, staring at it until it became a glare and he snatched it up, debating ripping it into pieces or just tossing it in the bin as is.
He grabbed it at the top, his fingers ready to tear but… he couldn’t do it. That was petty, wasn’t it? Too petty.
And he had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t angry, he was hurt and therefore he needed to handle the situation differently. He opened his desk drawer and tossed the envelope in. He still had a week to respond and he planned to use every second of that time to think of the best way to do so.
His phone buzzed and Bruce went to it immediately, grateful for the welcome distraction. It was Tony letting him know he’d arrived safely in LA. Bruce sent back a quick thumbs up and a smiley face and Tony replied with ‘thirsty,’ making Bruce chuckle.
Tony: and stop moping in your apartment, go to the bar and mope
Bruce stared at the message and then checked the time. It was nearing five. That wasn’t too early to be at a bar.
Bruce: fine
Tony: where’s all that enthusiasm when I’m around?
Bruce snorted, picking up his jacket and slipping it on. He grabbed his tote bag and pulled on the shoes that Tony really hated. Bruce liked them. They were comfortable and functional, the two adjectives Tony said clothing should never be except for maybe underwear.
Bruce checked his hair quickly and then decided there was no improving the situation, locking his door behind him as he left.
Bruce squeezed past people once again to reach his table where Steve was standing with his usual drink and some pretzels. He sat them both down as soon as Bruce was situated in his spot.
“Hey, Steve.”
“Good to see you, Bruce. Got your usuals.”
“Thanks. Hey, did Tony reach out or…?”
“Yeah,” Steve said quickly, “he did. Said he’s in L.A. and we set a date for when he’s back. But, um, just to be sure, he’s—”
“He’s really in L.A., not messing around. He’s wanted to ask you out too long to leave you hanging.”
“Oh, okay. Good, good. Thanks,” Steve said, briefly resting his hand on Bruce’s arm before he walked off. Steve was an exception. As was Sam.
Bruce watched him go, happy that things seemed to be alright between him and Tony despite the abrupt trip. He met eyes with Natasha once Steve reached the bar and she gave him a nod. Beside her, Sam waved and Bruce lifted his fingers in an awkward greeting. He loved that they acknowledged him but didn’t always feel the need to come over and make conversation. It was an easy, uncomplicated friendship that he had with the three of them.
Bruce turned away and propped his head up on his hand, elbow on the table, staring resentfully down at the blank pages in front of him. He moved the book slightly so he could write in the margins, allowing the noise of the bar to filter his thoughts in a different direction.
He doodled aimlessly until he got bored and then decided to people-watch for a while. He wasn’t much of an artist anyway.
Again it was mostly usuals scattered around the bar with the exception of a few new faces but none that really caught Bruce’s attention. The noise levels were higher than usual but nothing too overwhelming and the music played at a decent-level in the background, almost drowned out by the loud conversations and the sounds of the bartenders preparing drinks.
Bruce’s eyes were coming around for the second round of scanning the room when he did a double take, his gaze being pulled back to a man he hadn’t seen a moment ago or ever in his life. And he would remember if he had because this face was gorgeous.
Bruce had never really restricted himself to a type because he knew that he wasn’t all that much to look at so why be choosy but he still knew what he liked and what he didn’t.
And he liked this guy.
He was tall, at least six foot, with short, dark blond hair and the kind of stubble that made Bruce wonder what he smelled like. It definitely occurred to him that that was a weird thought and probably why he was so bad at dating—and just being a human in general—but he didn’t care because at least he hadn’t said it out loud.
For once.
The man had a jawline to die for and the kind of physique that belonged to a lumberjack. All long arms and legs and he was wearing clothes that didn’t exactly highlight what Bruce was sure was a chiseled physique but didn’t totally mask it either. He watched the way the man’s biceps flexed under the soft material of his shirt as he leaned on the counter and Bruce felt his mouth go dry.
Before he could get caught, Bruce looked away. He forced himself to stare at his notebook and take a few drinks before stealing a few more glances.
Despite never having seen him before, the guy was leaning comfortably against the bar like he lived there, chatting with Sam and Natasha. A few people had waved to him and even Logan went over to clap him on the back and greet him before returning to his corner.
The mystery guy was raising a lot of questions for Bruce. Who was he? Why did so many people know him? Why didn’t Bruce know him? Was he single?
So many very important questions and zero answers. Bruce felt an odd tension, an almost territorial tugging. It was stupid and juvenile but in his mind where no one could hear his insane claims, Bruce thought: This is my bar, who is this guy? Why does he know my people?
The guy even put a fully-fledged grin on Natasha’s face, a feat Bruce had only seen her girlfriend Okoye accomplish.
Who was he?
Even with the whirlwind of questions and feelings he was experiencing, one overpowered them all. It was a hard one to describe. That sudden itch only satisfied by writing out one’s ideas. The exigent demand of his thoughts to be noted, remembered, to get them out of his head and onto something tangible, somewhere visible.
Bruce looked down at his paper and wrote: blond, tall, likable, a real people person.
He stared at the words, feeling a bubbling excitement in his stomach and then touching the pen to the paper again to make another note.
Rugged but charming. Casual, comfortable, approachable. Mysterious.
Bruce didn’t know who that man was but he was so very glad to have finally found his muse.