Title: Bruises (Little Wonders Arc)

Pairings/Warnings: Tony/Bruce, explicit language, homophobic language, internalized homophobia, friendship

"Fag."

The jeer was lined with raucous laughter, unexpected but not unfamiliar, and Bruce grit his teeth, closed his eyes, breathed out. But the anger boiled inside, way deep in his gut, building steam and he didn't know how much longer he could be expected to hold it back.

Always, always, always – he told himself that he must hold it back – you're not like him.

Or so he would tell himself but the truth was, the truth he never let himself think – his blood coursed through Bruce's veins and his weaknesses were Bruce's weaknesses and Bruce was made of him, made exactly like him. Eventually he would snap.

Bruce flinched at the hand on his shoulder, fists clenching, bracing for the punch, but the familiar voice came quickly and his fingers slackened.

"Don't worry about it," Tony said in that easy way he had, his own fingers tightening on Bruce's shoulder for a moment in a show of support. "I'll sit with you."

The smile was fleeting, the one Bruce only shared with Tony. He didn't want to expose it, make it public – amongst a busload of bored boys forced to spend a half a day a museum on a field trip already taunting him an out of character smile was basically a death wish.

But the laughter didn't diminish, unfortunately, instead there was a whistle and Bruce turned to face the hecklers as Tony pushed past him and into a seat, waiting with expectant eyes for him to follow.

Normally Bruce just let shit go, forced himself to accept it, and he almost did, he almost managed, really – but then the ringleader, Jeremy Tice, an unfortunate looking beast of a kid who often subbed for varsity nose guard, laughed and looked right at Tony as he jeered.

"Got yourself a boyfriend, Stark?" His grin was vicious, crooked teeth gleaming with incredible whiteness for how fucked up the rest of his face was.

"Leave it, Tice," Tony replied, rolling his eyes and blowing it off as Bruce's anger mounted. It was so easy for him, he who had everything, who had standing with the jocks, who didn't have to take their shit because he was one of them. It wasn't so easy for Bruce.

"No wonder you had such a limp wrist at practice yesterday," Tice continued, heedless of Bruce's smoldering rage, and that was a mistake. Because he was always being underestimated, always being looked over in favor of someone else. But he wasn't going to let himself be the butt of anyone's joke now – not in front of Tony.

And he sure as hell wasn't going to let Tony be the butt of anyone's joke either.

"What are you two gonna sit in the back and make out?"

The comment wasn't very clever, just a hasty addition to Tice's baiting with a weasley laugh. But then Liam wasn't very clever, he just wanted to fit in, never wanted to be in the position Bruce was in now but that made it worse, made Bruce's sympathy non-existent. And when he stupidly lay his hand on Bruce's shoulder only a moment later and pushed him, just pushed him, like even the physical space he occupied wasn't worthy of respect, every ounce of latent anger rushed up from Bruce's gut and in a millisecond he reacted.

His fist connected sloppily with Liam's jaw – but that was only the first hit. The second one was better, Bruce made sure of it, quick and straight to his jaw before he could put his hands up to defend himself. It wasn't as hard as he would've liked but that was okay because Liam was cowering and it didn't matter if he wasn't inherently stronger when the other guy was in the fetal position on a bus seat.

Hands were grabbing at his shoulders, trying to pull him away, and he threw a hasty glance backwards before he turned on Tice. Whipping around he only managed to hit his shoulder but he could see the surprise in Tice's eyes and he threw another punch – one that Tice managed to block. Tice was big, bigger than Liam, and strong, and he wasn't scared, and Bruce became frantic and his hands turned to claws instead of fists and he stretched and reached and grabbed at Tice's face.

For a minute Bruce felt like he was drowning – and he had, once, when he was little, in the pool at his aunt's house. He could remember the screaming, muffled beneath the water, and the way all the colors of his mother's dress blurred together, refracted and meaningless, and it was the same. He couldn't understand anything anyone was saying over the humming in his head and he couldn't even really see anymore, nothing more than the vague impression of body parts and faces, and he was drowning. Drowning in his anger. Lost to the madness of it and he wanted them to know that he meant something. He wanted them to know they shouldn't fuck with him.

And then it all stopped with the sudden finality of faculty intervention, the bus driver and their history teacher pulling them apart with self-assured grips and strong words.

Bruce was huffing, anger still sparking through his veins, fists clenched tight as he glared at Liam and Tice. Liam was shaken but mostly unharmed, Bruce thought he'd be lucky if his face bruised a bit. But Tice's face had big red scratches down it and his nose was bleeding and then Bruce realized he could taste blood, too. His blood because licked his lips and it hurt. In fact his whole mouth hurt. His lip was split and he wondered what other hits he took that he didn't even feel in the epicenter of his rage.

Cautiously his eyes moved over to Tony then, afraid of his condemnation, but Tony was staring again, staring at him the way he liked to be stared at, and there was a glint in his eyes like excitement, like fire, and all at once Bruce completely deflated. All of his anger rushed from his body in one giant exhale, leaving nothing but this little ember of pleasure buried deep down in his gut that Tony was looking at him like that. Tony wasn't gay but... but that couldn't stop the way Bruce felt about him.

He wasn't spared the embarrassing lecture about how disappointed their teacher was in him, the uncomfortable questions about what was said that Bruce refused to answer, the threat of suspension being bandied about as he was marched to the front of the bus through a crowd of eyes silently watching. But he only half-listened, half-cared. He didn't regret it – couldn't. He'd been dealing with that shit for years. There was only so much one person could take before the snapped.

And then, there was Tony's stare...

Bruce slumped into the seat, trying not to be obvious as he took a mental inventory of his damages the best he could without a mirror. So he startled when weight was added to the seat beside him, that ubiquitous pop of air from poor padding under brown plastic. And Tony's warm brown eyes were there, right there, amusement gleaming in them, matching one of his easy-going smiles, too.

"You'll get in trouble," Bruce hissed, frantic eyes searching out their teacher, not wanting Tony to take any heat for his sympathy but Tony just shrugged as though it meant nothing to him and glanced down at his knuckles instead.

They were bruised and a little bloody and sore. Once Bruce had released his clenched fists he'd found them impossible to close again without pain and so his fingers hung slack and just a little curled between his knees. He wanted to hide them but Tony was looking and so he didn't. But he couldn't look himself and instead stared at the driver's seat, dead ahead.

"Sorry I couldn't help," Tony said and Bruce blinked and turned and look at him, saw how sincere he was. "I just got suspended at the beginning of the year and my dad would fucking kill me if I got suspended again."

There was a grin flirting with Tony's lips and Bruce laughed a little – soft, more of an exhale than anything else – looked down at his hands and closed them as best he could, swallowing hard and trying not to let his face flush with pleasure.

"Tice has been asking for it since sixth grade." Tony's smile tightened a bit but Bruce almost missed it as he looked back at him. "Cool that you were the one to give it to him. I know he wasn't expecting that."

"No one would," Bruce replied, because it was the truth, not because it was what he wanted to say.

He was the quiet one, the loner, the one who gave up his seat in the cafeteria, who never tried to fight, never wanted any attention drawn to himself. But that was just an illusion and really, who he was inside was heat and steam and anger seething beneath, waiting to be unleashed. And sometimes when he looked at Tony he thought – this guy, he can handle it. But more often when he looked at Tony he thought – this guy, he deserves better.

So he didn't say that they should fear him, didn't say that he could do worse, didn't let loose the monster lurking underneath, born of pain and death and neglect. Because Tony was precious, Tony was pure, and Bruce thought when Tony was looking at his busted knuckles that maybe he wasn't looking with thinly veiled lust but maybe instead it was morbid curiosity. What made him tick, what made him take the swing? But then –

"Maybe they should," Tony whispered and smiled a cocky smile, fleeting as he slipped from the seat upon their teachers return.

And Bruce didn't let himself look back, didn't let his eyes follow Tony, but he stared down at his hands and he grinned to himself because maybe he was wrong. Maybe all that time when Tony was staring he wasn't staring at the exterior of Bruce, the thing he presented to the world to intentionally misrepresent himself. Maybe instead Tony was staring at the monster. And maybe... maybe he wasn't afraid.