If you were to ask Tony what Bruce's favorite aspect of his was, you would get a cheeky grin and a pointed stare to his own crotch. Because Tony is the king of subtlety, in the same way he's the king of humbleness and understatement. Which is to say, not at all.
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If you asked Bruce, however, you'd get an entirely different response. He'd look at you seriously, just like he had when Steve was ranting that one day, exasperated with the situation the team was in, and wondering how anyone could live with a man like Stark.
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"His hands," Bruce had said, blushing suddenly as he realized how it had sounded.
"Not like that," he'd hurried to correct himself. Though, yes, those hands had given him more than his fair share of pleasure. And then some..
But that wasn't the point. Steve, stilted in temporary silence, had suddenly seemed to remember manners, and gave Bruce an apologetic smile before going back to work.
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Bruce lies awake late some nights, where the moon is hidden behind clouds, Tony is sprawled out beside him, and the air feels blessedly still. He knows he should sleep, but he so rarely gets to enjoy this stillness. Their lives are a seemingly endless series of tornadoes. He's learned to breathe his best in the eye of the storm.
Sometimes, Tony turns in his sleep, muttering to himself, and one hand slaps down onto Bruce's bare chest with more force than he expects. He wraps a hand around Tony's wrist and rubs it soothingly, until he feels him settling back down.
He shifts so that he cups Tony's hand, covering his fingers with his own, letting their pulses war for a moment, until they're thrumming in sync.
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Tony's hands are beautiful, he thinks, in an almost delicate way, even with the cuts and callouses that always line them. The metaphor for Tony as a whole isn't lost on Bruce, but it only makes him more grateful. He gets to know him, and to touch him, and to see all of Tony's cuts and callouses, and how they complement his own.
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Some of it is purely physical, of course. The way Tony's fingers blur by as he's working, somehow both precise and unbelievably fast. How he can create virtual worlds in his lab with only a few dexterous flexes of his fingers. How he gives life to his technology with those hands, how he creates. Bruce loves that so much more than when he destroys.
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And then there are the nights when Tony uses those fingers to stretch him open, slick with lube and maddeningly slow, more careful than he'd ever admit to being. Then he pushes into Bruce, and runs his hands across his head, bemoaning the loss of the curls he loved to tangle his fingers into.
Truth be told, Bruce is growing his hair back out as fast as he can.
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He loves Tony's hands most when they're linked with his; the way they can walk in public together, and Tony doesn't care. He doesn't even notice the stares from the people around him, too caught up in whatever is going on in his whirlwind of a mind. Bruce doesn't notice anyone either, but it's because the heat of Tony's hand keeps him distracted. Grounded.
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Bruce isn't much for words, doesn't see the need to fill the silence with mindless chatter. So when he tells Tony that he loves his hands, he wants him to understand that it's not just an empty compliment. Tony laughs, of course, and makes a rude gesture with his hands, making Bruce rolls his eyes.
He grabs those hands and tangles them with his own, letting them fall against Tony's waist. He tells him that he loves him, and Tony's eyes go wide, then soft, as if he has trouble believing it.
"Callouses and all," Bruce says, squeezing their joined hands as he leans in to rest his forehead on Tony's shoulder.
Tony grins, and Bruce doesn't need to look to know that it's wide and stunning, lighting up his entire face.
He says the words again, because he loves the rush it gives him when he does. Tony just laughs, and doesn't reply. But he knows Tony's silences can mean so much more than his words, and Bruce breathes the moment in, happy.
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