AN: Hey everybody, it's me. What's the reason behind this, I hear you question.
Well, um, I think I'm kind of depressing myself with Ink Stains (lol how is that even possible) and my fluffiness muse was going crazy from being cooped up on a tight leash.
POSSIBLE SPOILERS AHEAD!
This is a place for small little one-shots that either I can't realistically fit in the story, like what-ifs, or pieces that would only drag down the pacing of the story. I'll probably take requests in the future, but bear in mind that they (when I start taking them) must possess at least some modicum of sense. So, to all you people hoping to see a one-shot where Harry rides a magical rainbow unicorn into battle and becomes an angel and fights the demons of hell who ride sloths (as I'm undoubtedly sure many of you are breathlessly hoping for), I will not be writing any prompt similar to that in any way, shape, or form.
SENSE, people. PLEASE. MAKE. SOME. SENSE.
Is it logical to make this thing while my main story isn't even finished?
No. No, it is not. Yes, I recognize that already. No need to point it out to me.
Will this impede any future updates of Ink Stains?
Nope. Actually, I'm halfway done with the next chapter, so you may rejoice. (I guess. If it's something worth rejoicing over to you.)
ALSO: I'm really tired, because it's midnight where I live, so blame my unusually wacky AN AND this one-shot collection on sleeplessness.
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Harry presses his hand to the fogged glass, smiling as the chill embraces his skin, the light layer of frost condensing under his warm touch. With slow movements, he clears a swathe of frost, scrubbing it in careful circles so that he can see out of Stark Tower clearly.
Manhattan looks absolutely beautiful in the middle of winter.
(Of course, anything looks beautiful to Harry, simply because it is physically there and he can actually see it.)
"Whatcha up to, Harry?"
Harry shifts slightly on the padded window-seat, his clear green gaze fixating on his best friend.
"Just looking," Harry says to Bruce. He tilts his head and smiles a little smile; a unique anomaly that somehow manages to retain elements of bitterness and relief simultaneously.
Without a word, Bruce moves forward, lifting the boy—so light, so fragile, yet, to juxtapose, so undeniably strong—high enough that he can slide underneath him. He lowers him on his lap again and they both silently lean against the window, their breath melting the glass's frost.
Harry mindlessly lifts a pale hand, and draws four slashes, two parallel horizontal ones, and two vertical ones—a tic-tac-toe board.
"I never really played this game before," Harry admits quietly. "The Dursely's never liked me interacting with them—and at Hogwarts, there was all this magic and wonder and excitement, so who ever had time for such a simple Muggle game?"
Bruce adjusts his posture so he can more easily lift a hand. He draws an 'x' in the top left square. He knows Harry enough to read behind the lines—('I wish I had devoted more time to such simple things.')
Wordlessly, Harry draws a dang-near perfect circle in the square just under his. Harry's nimble fingers are much smaller than Bruce's, so the trails they carve in the frost are thinner, somehow more delicate compared to the smudges left by Bruce's blunt fingertips.
Bruce draws an 'x' in the lowest left box. His strategy is simple; try and get three corners to earn an easy win.
Harry smiles lightly, in that carefree way that makes Bruce feel a warm glow of protectiveness flicker in his heart. "Nuh uh, Bruce," he murmurs quietly, "not gonna work on me."
Harry draws a circle in the first box in the middle box, forcing Bruce to abandon his strategy. Bruce winces regretfully as he remembers that Harry is not some easily tricked, naïve twelve year old.
"Hmmm…"
He rests his chin in Harry's wild mop of ink-black hair, pondering.
He feels Harry's scalp move ever so slightly as the kid smiles wider. "Who needs chess when you have tic-tac-toe?"
"Amen," Bruce agrees, letting out a long sigh as he draws an 'x' in the middle box in the last column.
Harry quickly puts a circle in the vertically-third square in the second column. Without thinking, he reaches up and pats Bruce's face searchingly. He laughs lightly. To Bruce, the sound is like ringing bells.
"You're stubbly again."
"Harry," Bruce sighs, taking Harry's hand and drawing it away from his five o'clock shadow. "We've talked about this—I'm always stubbly."
"It's a vital factor to your identity," Harry adds quietly, his muscles contracting in terse remembrance, and Bruce somehow, even though he had talked for hours and hours with Diary-Harry, recalls that particular snatch of conversation clearly. He hugs the boy tightly, only lightening his grip when the boy relaxes again.
"Plum," Bruce recites, plucking at the hem of his current—conveniently purple—shirt. "And to this day, you still mock my descriptions."
Harry laughs again. Bruce would give up living in Stark Tower—(okay, Avengers Tower, as Tony—Uncle Tony, the man stubbornly insists to Harry—has re-christened it)—if he could make Harry laugh like that every day.
Harry is getting better, he knows. And Bruce is beyond thankful for that, but Harry has off days more often than good ones, and Bruce hates seeing the purple shadows under the boy's eyes at breakfast each morning from sleeplessness, or the way how, if you try to wake him up too briskly, the boy lashes out instinctively in his sleep.
They're silent for a moment.
Outside, snow has started to fall again, a thick flurry, with clumps of glittering flakes waltzing silently to the frozen ground. The cold seems to blanket the room in tangible, soothing silence. This level is entirely Bruce and Harry's, and the tranquility is a refreshing reprieve from the craziness that comes with living with Tony Stark.
"Bruce," Harry prods, absently gathering a handful of Bruce's loose shirt in his small hands. Harry likes the soft texture, and gently kneads the fabric between his fingertips while he talks.
"Mmm?"
"Whose move is it?"
Bruce's chest rumbles with a soft, sheepish laugh. Harry's head bounces lightly from it. "I forgot."
"You're just saying that 'cause you know you would've lost."
"Oh, shush."
Their easy conversation dwindles into short little exchanges, and then lapses into companionable silence. They are content to watch the soft gray mass of clouds knit a quilt over the earth, the peaks of skyscrapers getting lost in the low bank of swirling snow and fog.
Ten minutes later, Harry breaks the peace as he squirms, scrambling out of Bruce's warm lap. Bruce doesn't object as Harry's socked feet (Bruce forced him to wear two pairs today, as Tony seems to prefer colder inside temperatures) hit the lacquered wooden floor and pad away, heading towards the deluxe kitchenette. Harry is slightly weird in that he craves physical touch, gentle assurances, but if he feels too overwhelmed by the influx of sensations—as he often is—he flees immediately.
'At least the panic attacks rarely happen anymore,' Bruce muses absently, swinging his legs off the window seat and standing up, stretching his back. He fingers his stubbly chin a moment later. 'Hey, it's not as bad as it usually is. God bless continual access to razors and shaving gel.'
Harry pulls out two porcelain mugs, the ones that are tall and homey, with thick rims and wide basins. Both feature a print of a wintry scene, including a smiling snowman and an outdoors Christmas tree. Harry gently clinks the mugs together as he searches for the hot chocolate packets, copying a well-known song's distinctive beat.
Tony had bought Harry an iPod, and Harry is helplessly addicted to the thing. (Of course, the poor piece of technology first passed through Tony's restless hands, and Bruce suspects deeply that it does much more than the standard iPod's capabilities.)
Harry loves music a lot.
Bruce may not have been able to afford to purchase an iPod for Harry at that particular time, but he sure as heck managed to buy him a couple albums from artists that he predicted Harry would like.
(Bruce secretly checked the iPod two days ago. Every single song that Bruce paid for from that cheapo rip-off iTunes was in Harry's "Favorites" play-list.)
(And yeah, that makes him smug. Just a little bit.)
Harry adds heated milk to Bruce's mug, and Bruce stirs it with a small teaspoon from the sink while Harry carefully pours milk in his own.
They toast. The resulting solid ring lingers in the heavy atmosphere.
Bruce suddenly feels prompted to say something heartfelt at this moment, something that might possibly manage to express his fondness for the boy in front of him, and he freezes with his mouth open while he searches frantically for a suitable phrase.
But he remembers a second later that words are cumbersome and unwieldy in his mouth. Always have been, always will be. He's never been a smooth-talker like Tony.
Harry smiles understandingly as he brings his mug to his lips, inhaling the little curls of steam. That knowing smile says everything that Bruce wishes he could say, and Bruce finds himself satisfied.
He returns the smile and sips his hot chocolate.
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AN: So, I'm thinking I will, somewhere along the line, include that iPod. ;)
It's the middle of summer for me, but at work today, a customer started singing a Christmas song that got stuck in my head and put me in a wintry mood. (It's, like, not even hot outside. It's thunderstorming and miserable right now, yet I still manage to cook up a winter-based drabble. SO EAT IT, MOTHER NATURE!)
Also, I actually own those mugs.
And I want hot cocoa now... but the mugs are in the kitchen and I am so tired...
Dang.
...
I MUST GO NOW; MY PILLOW NEEDS ME.
Peace!