Bruce liked Tony… most of the time. They spoke the same language – not English, but a more real, less arbitrary language – Science. He liked Tony, he respected him, he enjoyed his company, but sometimes, the man was a royal pain in the ass.
Tony understood what it meant to be so close to a breakthrough that sleep was a necessary evil to be put off for as long as possible. Tony understood that Bruce needed to counterbalance the damage the Other Guy dealt with contributions to the greater good.
What Tony didn't understand was personal space.
· · ·
Bruce's eyes burned, his jaw was sore from clenching it in his sleep, and even after a – he checked his watch – twenty minute nap faceplanted on his lab bench, fatigue clawed at the edges of his mind, making his thoughts muddled and slow.
Tony, on the other hand, looked disgustingly fresh and was wearing that grin. That grin meant that Tony had been up to something solely for his own amusement. That grin meant he'd been fucking with someone.
Bruce blinked the sleep out of his eyes and considered that at 3:45 in the morning, Candyland was devoid of anyone for Tony to fuck with but him.
"What did you do?" he asked after taking a swallow of cold coffee from the mug at the edge of the bench.
Tony just grinned a little wider and twirled a sharpie in his fingers. "Took some notes. It's late, I was freestyling. You never know where the next big thing will come from. "
Bruce took his glasses off and scrubbed his face in his hands, willing himself not to want to punch the smug out of Tony, reminding himself that he liked the guy, pushing down the irritation that scraped at his nerves like steel wool. He needed to sleep more; the Other Guy was more likely to get out when he was tired and irritable.
"What did you do?" he asked again after he put a few patches over the cracks in his mild-mannered façade. "Because I don't see you having a future as a rapper."
"Well, first I was thinking about a resistivity problem I've been having in my suit, then self-energy, veering off into a tangent about nitrogen fixation in sub-Saharan Africa, a little stroll down nostalgia lane remembering learning about imaginary numbers when I was six, and why Pepper can't taste the sulfides in her favorite wine."
Tony swiped his fingers across the screen on Bruce's workbench, turning on the camera and effectively turning it into a mirror for Bruce to see ρ∑NιS written on his left cheek.
Bruce put on his glasses and stared at himself before muttering, "Rho, sigma, nitrogen, iota, sulfur." Of course. Only Tony Stark could put a scientific penis on his face.
He should have gone back to Calcutta.