What a lousy Thanksgiving, Bruce mused to himself as he wandered tiredly toward the elevator. It even beats the one where I was sick in Peru.
Fury must not have a calendar anywhere near him; he decided it was a wonderful idea to schedule a S.H.I.E.L.D. meeting on Thanksgiving around lunchtime. And, it was mandatory. As in, you'll get screamed at if you miss it mandatory (which, of course, Tony ignored). A lot of people were missing their meals with their family just to go in for the meeting, Bruce included.
It was supposed to be his and Tony's first Thanksgiving as a couple; he had a turkey thawed, several parts of the meal already prepared, and was supposed to make a homemade mashed potatoes. Instead, he'd been forced to go to some pointless meeting and delay getting everything ready. And, as a bonus, he was all irritable.
I'm not going to be any fun for Tony, he thought angrily, clicking on the up button on the elevator. He'd have to get to work as soon as possible if he had any hope of having Thanksgiving dinner before eight o'clock.
The elevator rode up twenty or so floors before it came to a dinging stop. As the doors slid open, it revealed a certain genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, complete with a kiss the cook apron.
A sinking feeling arose in Bruce's stomach. "Oh god, please tell me you've not been cooking," he said, remembering the last time Tony had used a microwave. It had ended with Dummy using a fire extinguisher on one whole corner of the kitchen.
Ignoring Bruce's comment, Tony announced, "Come on in!" ushering his boyfriend into the living room. "I made you lunch."
Okay, so Tony had been cooking. "Please tell me you didn't touch anything I already started preparing," Bruce begged.
"Oh please," Tony said, holding up a hand—which had a cooking mitt on it—to get Bruce to quit talking. "I didn't touch any of your precious food. You know I'm not a good cook."
"Then what did you make?" Bruce asked, dreading what Tony had thrown together. Probably something that had egg shells left in it.
Instead of answering him directly, Tony launched into a story. "So I knew you'd be all pissy after being stuck in a S.H.I.E.L.D. meeting—and I see that look, don't even try to deny that you get pissy—so I was wanting to do something to make up for it. I can't exactly cook, but I knew you'd be hungry. While I was brainstorming, I had TV on, and it was showing that Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special, and, well…" He paused while he dragged Bruce toward the dining room, thrusting him in. "…I kind of got inspired."
Instead of turkey, or mashed potatoes, or pumpkin pie, there was a platter in the middle of the table, stacked high with toast, pretzel sticks, popcorn, and jelly beans.
All Bruce could do was crack up.
"You see," Tony said, pointing to the meal as he took a seat and motioned for Bruce to join him, "I made the toast and popcorn myself. One of the few things I'm good at. Note that it isn't microwavable popcorn; we remember what happened last time I tried using that. But, I can manage a popcorn maker and toaster, amazingly."
Bruce couldn't believe his eyes. Tony had done all of this, and just to put him in the better mood.
As Bruce continued to stare at the mini feast before them, Tony continued rambling. "Now, I kind of cheated; I didn't feel like making jelly beans and pretzels, because I figured that would lead to another fire. Instead, I called Hy-Vee's manager and offered to give him ten thousand dollars if he'd let me in to buy some jelly beans and pretzels, which he was very kind to do so. Although, I still couldn't figure out what the hell those drinks were they had, so I decided to make us root beer floats. I hope that's okay with you."
"Okay?" Bruce sputtered out, completely in awe at how much work Tony had accomplished in the last few hours. "This is more than okay! I can't believe that you did all of this for me!"
Taking a bit out of the top piece of toast, Tony replied—with his mouth full—"Bwecuz yur woth it."
The doctor couldn't help himself anymore; he leaned forward—giving Tony enough time to swallow his toast—and pressed a kiss against his lips. The scientist kissed back, smirking as he did so. Perhaps this was the best Thanksgiving ever, Bruce thought to himself as the two scientists broke apart, grinning like silly school girls.
As Bruce picked up a handful of popcorn, he asked, "Tony, do you still want me to finish our Thanksgiving dinner?"
"Hell yeah!" the man shouted, slamming his root beer float against the table.
"Okay good," Bruce said, grinning. "Remember, no helping in the kitchen."
"But I just proved that I can cook!"
"Tony, you made toast."
"Okay fine, I can cook some!"
The two of them were laughing hysterically as they continued to bicker good-naturedly, enjoying their very first Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Yup, Bruce decided. Best Thanksgiving ever.