Bruce finds her four hours and three bars later.
Pepper's in that beautiful, soft place where everything is warm and blissful, where all the edges are rubbed away and her shitty fucking life doesn't matter anymore. She's drinking something sweet and colorful (with no olives at all, she was very specific) and her hair's fallen loose around her shoulders. She can't quite pinpoint when, exactly this happened.
Bruce looks rumpled as he moves through the crowd, and deeply unhappy, and the only reason she notices anything at all is off about him is because, these last few months, he's started walking a little straighter; and even Pepper, drunk off her cute little butt (she knows her assets, it's what she does) catches the regressive slump to his shoulders.
She figures it's because he was sent to collect her.
"So 's you now?" She asks, her hand tight on the slick perspiring shotglass that, at one point in very recent history, held tequila and maybe food coloring and probably sugar.
"Pepper," Bruce says calmly, and sits down beside her. "I came to find you. I think that's what you asked me. I'm not actually sure if you're speaking actual words, though."
Pepper leans back in her stool, her ankles crossed, and rests her hands in her lap, on the blue silk of her sundress. Folds them prettily as the room rushes close and drags away in pulses and waves. She thinks about the contrast of her creamy skin, thinks about another set of hands, darker, marked with tiny scars and usually with faint stains on the nail bed, ground into the prints. A darkness that never quite washes away in his line of work. "Did he send you," she asks, very slowly.
"Much better," Bruce says, and smiles at her. Pepper's brow crinkles as she leans forward, studies his face. It's hard to be sure, with the room buckling around her like a – like laundry in a storm. Like a tattered canopy or, or an airship, or a helicarrier losing altitude.
"You're smiling," she tries, and ends up repeating herself at his blank expression. "You're smiling but you look so, so," and she yawns. Toes idly at her heels, which have been resting on the floor beneath her in a sort of shiny turquoise pile.
"So – ?" he prompts, but when Pepper starts to waive the bartender over, he covers her small hand with his own. "Check, please."
"No," Pepper insists, glaring at him, trying to tug her hand away. "No. 'M not done."
"Pepper," he says. "You are so done that your children's children are in very real danger of being overcooked."
"I think you made a joke," she mutters as he gently takes Tony's credit card from her fumbling hands, passes it to the woman behind the counter. "But I dint. I didn't," and she's suddenly very surely aware of how awful she feels.
"Pepper, you're going a bit green, do you need – " Bruce starts, touching her shoulder proactively.
And then Pepper does get it, and it's so goddamn funny, she's shrieking and her elbows are on her knees, long arms boneless and relaxed, kicking her bare feet like she's nine years old again and it's wonderful. "Green!" She shouts at him, pleased as pie.
"C'mon," Bruce says, smiling a bit sweeter. "Let's get you home."
Pepper steps down off the stool, stumbles badly; but Bruce, he gets under her arm, steadies her. He's short, but much sturdier than anyone could guess at a casual glance. If you had a long enough lever, he's the rock upon which you could stand to move the world.
She gets her bag over one shoulder, hooks her fingers around her strappy heels and carries them out barefoot. They clack together as Bruce walks her out the door, and Pepper focuses on the sound, the gloss of the patent leather, the smooth-sticky texture.
"Dint," Pepper mutters, remembering. "Didn't sign for. For the card."
"I did," Bruce reassures her, "while you were laughing."
"Is it 'kay," she asks blearily, feeling like she's underwater, "t'charge it t' – t' – t'Tony."
"Absolutely," Bruce mutters, the drop in his voice significant enough for Pepper to recognize: shifting from gentle to fierce.
She leans her cheek against his head. "Mmm. You smell like," she mumbles, searching her (admittedly hazy) memory. "You smell like..."
"Not bad, I hope," Bruce laughs quietly, his hand tightening on her waist, and by the time they're out of the bar and on the street, he's got his phone out.
"Who're you calling," she whines. She isn't in the same postal code as sober, they aren't even in neighboring townships, but the less time she spends drinking, the more time she spends going over Tony in her mind – his arms, his hands, his eyes. The smartass shit that comes out of his mouth, the way he smells in the morning, how clingy he gets when he's had a bit to drink. The sounds he makes and the way he tastes in her mouth, the perfect weight of his body over hers.
Of course, there's also every birthday he's ever forgotten (all of them) and the impossibly brilliant things that come out of his mouth. How distant he gets when he's working on something, like he's somewhere else far away, some cold place constructed of numbers and wires without any place for Pepper.
The rare, lovely things he says when he forgets himself, usually before something unintentionally insulting slips out. But sometimes they don't; sometimes he's only sweet.
Tony doesn't think like other people, doesn't operate like them; he's just – fundamentally different, it's something in the wires. Pepper can't even begin to imagine what it would be like, to – date someone else.
"Your chariot awaits," Bruce says with a quiet smile, and it's not Happy or some other official Stark Industries driver; it's a cab, nondescript and a bit dented, and Bruce bundles her inside.
"Stark Tower," Bruce starts, and Pepper bangs around, trying to lean up toward the driver and say, No, take me somewhere, anywhere else.
Gently, carefully, Bruce pulls her back. Then he fastens her seatbelt.
Pepper would struggle a bit, except just now she's hit with a foul wave of nausea. Also she can't figure out the buckle.
But it's okay, because Bruce gives the address to the Stark mansion, instead.
Sighing, Pepper leans back, tilts her head against the window. "This would be me," she says, careful so her voice is clear. She motions with her hand, but isn't quite sure what it's meant to include or expand upon.
Bruce, the street lights flashing over his glasses and painting him with long, straight edges of shadow that flicker and flare, that display him in pieces, smiles indulgently because he doesn't understand her. It's beyond irritating. "You are you."
"No," she corrects. "You. You are me."
"I'm actually Bruce," he informs her, saying his name clearly and slowly.
"Well, yeah, but," she tries again. "Taking care've – 've Tony's disco. Descartes. Disgard," she wrinkles her nose, thinks she's got it. "Discarded women."
Bruce goes very still beside her, and – there's heat, suddenly, radiating off of him. She reaches out tentatively and touches his wrist.
"Bruce?" She asks.
He breathes, deep and low, and turns his hand so that it's palm-up. Stares at it.
She links their fingers without a thought.
After a moment of silence, the heat fades; to the touch, he feels only warm.
"You're not," he says, after a while. "I'm sorry this happened, Pepper. It would be easier if he didn't love you. I wouldn't feel bad about hitting him so hard."
"What – you – " Pepper chokes, staring at him, and the smile he gives her is guilty and sad.
"I'll tell you when you're less, ah," he pauses, considering. "This."
They charge the cab fare to Stark Industries again, and Pepper doesn't start throwing up until she's stumbled out of the dingy yellow car and onto the grass.
Bruce holds her hair back, smooths his hand over her shoulders and spine as he sucks back the rest of a joint he'd been keeping in his breast pocket.
He stays up with her all night, holding her hair back and keeping her hydrated. When she's progressed to dry-heaving – when there's nothing wet left in her body – he cleans her up with a warm, wet cloth, methodically removes her clothing, and helps her into a long t-shirt. It's not one of Tony's; it's probably one of Thor's. She assists as best she can, but she feels like there's a pterodactyl trying to claw its way out of her belly and her arms don't at all move where she means for them to.
Eventually, Bruce deposits her in a spare bedroom – not Tony's, because he is a kind and thoughtful human being – and makes sure she falls asleep on her stomach, just in case. He leaves her two bottles of water and a Vicodin. Her cellphone, he plugs it into the wall and sets it on the opposite pillow.
He also empties a small garbage bin and places it beside her bed within easy reach.
The thing about getting dumped and spending about a hundred and fifty dollars of company money on booze, to pretend it never happened, is that – well, when you wake up, your heart is still broken.
The man of your dreams has still had affair with a mutual friend.
The shareholder meeting in LA was still a complete bust.
And everything is still basically terrible, except with the added addition of a hangover the size of Alaska, if Alaska could be a unit of measurement (it would probably retain its ten to one, male to female ratio; Pepper has thoroughly lost control of this metaphor, but it's something she's choosing to allow herself).
Pepper moans in agony. Presently, there is a very soft rap at the door.
"If you are here to kill me and put me out of my misery," she murmurs, voice hoarse and froggy, "then please, come in. I would welcome it. It would make me happy."
"Sorry, Pepper," Bruce says with a kind of tight, sympathetic smile. "It's just me."
"Do me the kindness of an honorable death," she wails. "Be my second."
"Are we talking harakiri or seppuku," he asks, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
"Either way," Pepper sighs, sitting up, "it'll be a hell of a mess."
She drinks about half a bottle of water, and Bruce makes her slow down. Then she takes the Vicodin, finishes the first bottle, and gets a good head start on the second.
Presently, her world edges toward tolerable. It feels less like a crowd of irritable middle management rooting around in her head and more like the dull throb that comes of catching scant hours of sleep on long plane flights.
"So," Bruce says, rubbing a hand through his hair and looking uncomfortable, and Pepper is terrified he's going to ask her if she wants to talk about it.
He surprises and relieves her: "Do you want breakfast?"
She takes a moment to seriously consider; weighs the coating of bile in her stomach with the ever-growing pit of ravenous hunter.
"How about you make yourself breakfast," she hazards, "and I'll – pick at it a bit. Maybe."
Bruce grins tiredly at her. "Okay."
Breakfast is greasy hashbrowns, a cheese omelette, and some kind of sweet porridgey oatmeal that Pepper can't even get halfway through, she's so full from everything else.
They eat in relative silence, Bruce leaning back easily in his chair sipping his coffee while Pepper plows through as much of her (his) food as she can manage.
It's fine, everything is beautiful and she's feeling better.
Except suddenly it's not, because the last time a man made her an omelette it was terrible, and overdone, and took three hours, and was just Tony trying to figure out how to tell her he was dying.
He didn't even bother with a fucking croissant this time. She wonders if he was ever going to tell her at all. What he would've tried to do to soften a blow.
"Pepper, hey, hey," Bruce is saying, leaning close, and she realizes she's crying.
"I'm sorry, I," she says, feels her face tighten and crumple, feels the ugly twist of grief. And even if she could've possibly hidden it, everything is there in her voice. "It's."
"Shh," he says, and holds her hand. And then, when she devolves into a mess of sobs and snot, when her face is wet and, she's sure, red – he puts his arms around her.
When Tony'd first brought Bruce home, she'd found him shy, reserved, and – above all – scarce. He rarely left the manor; he rarely joined them for meals; and he spent much of his time alone or with Tony in the lab.
But Tony's kind of impossible, and he picks and wheedles and digs at you until you're drawn in despite yourself. Until he kind of aggravates you into his inner circle, becomes – you realize suddenly and without warning, though it's a gradual process – an integral part of your daily life.
At some point, Pepper and Bruce had become friends; and the three of them had this – family thing going, and she would call and ask when the last time Tony'd slept was, or Bruce would text her about what he might want for dinner.
And Pepper isn't sure exactly how it happened, but Bruce Banner today walks with a heavier step. He bickers with Tony over equations. He gets high and walks around naked, because he feels safe, like he doesn't have to hurt anyone.
He wanders in and unobtrusively picks up all the pieces of Pepper that are falling out of her hands, too small and too broken to keep together, to sharp to keep and cutting her fingertips.
Somewhere along the line, she'd come to love Bruce as brother. This thing with Tony is so hard, but Pepper can't even imagine how it would be if – if Tony was still all she had in the world. When she lost him.
"Do you want to watch a movie or something?" Bruce asks, and The Lord of the Rings turns into a Tolkien marathon.
They make about ten bags of popcorn over the course of the day and night. When Pepper finally goes to bed, the roof of her mouth feels raw from all the salt and she can't get Sam's eyes, when he watched Frodo sail away with Elrond, out of her mind.
But she feels better, and she falls asleep without a problem. She's been sleeping alone most of her life; she's been sleeping alone these past few months. Sometimes huge things change about your fragile, carefully constructed world – and nothing changes at all.
"I don't care what Johnson says," Pepper scowls into her phone, "Because Johnson is not the lead on this project. If he were, I would have been a beautiful excuse to fire him, it would be a gift, because this entire endeavor has gone balls-up."
So it's day two of Pepper's newly single life, and she's already feeling better; taking out her frustration on incompetent managers (who need the kick in the pants anyway) is as good as a new pair of heels in her book. Almost.
Except then she wonders if heels would've been Tony's conciliatory, I've-got-some-pretty-terrible-news,-Pepper gift. He's done that before. She's gotten the sorry-I've-been-in-the-lab-neglecting-you flowers, I-didn't-mean-to-be-reckless-and-risk-my-life jewelry, and of course the staple I-didn't-realize-it-was-christmas/valentine's-day/your-birthday/our-anniversary shopping spree.
That's what happens when you try for something long term with someone like Tony. Pepper maybe got frustrated – mostly with the almost-dying bits – but she knew what she was getting into. You don't always, and sometimes you don't allow yourself to see. And sometimes you think you can make people change, but you can't.
So Tony, who is a genius billionaire, who has so many things going on in his brain that it makes Pepper's head ache just being around him sometimes – he's an extraordinarily heavy thinker, the kind that just sucks everything from the room – well, Tony is Tony. He's always been, since they met and he was rude and a younger Pepper bullied him into stunned acquiescence.
Now she's his CEO, and his ex-girlfriend, and probably loves that man more than anyone on this planet.
She's never taken his shit. She doesn't see why she should start that garbage now.
She gets off the phone to answer an incoming call from Bruce. She hadn't actually realized he'd gone, but that's par for the course when you lived with crazy scientists. They keep strange hours and they aren't very at checking in with you.
"What?" Pepper asks, putting down her crossword puzzle.
"A lot was going on while you were out of town," Bruce says, looking maybe a little sheepish on the telescreen, and he fills her in about the shape-shifting Chitauri terrorists and Loki sort of breaking Central Park.
"So that's why traffic's been so bad." She says. "How is the Loki situation, by the way?"
"I don't personally mind him. I feel like we've settled our differences." Bruce allows himself one small, mean smile. They are rare, and usually justified. Pepper is happy she knows Bruce as well as she does; she'd miss something like this, otherwise.
"And you know, when Clint damaged his eye – "
Pepper vaguely recalls Tony mentioning it, but she quickly backs away from the memory, loses herself in Bruce's story before she loses focus completely. Baby steps.
"Loki healed him." Bruce continues. "He didn't have to. He didn't even have to tell us he could do it. But he did. So Clint's understandably grateful, and because Natasha was mostly furious on his behalf, well." He shrugs. "The only other thing is – neither of them have even mentioned Coulson. Or, if they did, it wasn't in my hearing." He purses his lips, and Pepper feels a fresh wave of grief wash over her. She'd – she'd really liked Phil.
It's that messy feeling you have when you didn't like someone right off the bat, simply because they were just another annoying salesperson or government representative or whatever. Except that Coulson was dogged, but polite to a fault; spoke levelly and wielded his super-human security clearance powers with quiet competence. As soon as you got to know him even a little bit, you couldn't help but like him.
And the way he bossed Tony around – he was a man after her own heart.
Peppers remembers their second meeting, when she was nervous and wearing that dress; it was just before her first dance with Tony. Remembers, a week or so after that, getting him to walk out of the Stark Industries building with her on the pretense of a meeting. So Stane couldn't take any direct actions against her, not with a witness present.
Remembers the ride to the airport, after he'd crashed her date with Tony when they'd first put Stark Tower online; catching up in the limo, the way he evasively – but informatively, in that careful, deliberate way he had of not-answering – dodged her questions about the cellist, and it almost makes her cry all over again.
"What about Steve?" She asks, sinking further into the couch, curling her legs up underneath her.
"You know," Bruce says. "Wants what's best for everyone, fool for hopeless causes. His stance is that Loki has done his time, even if he doesn't agree with Asgard's methods. It was Asgard's call." He pauses, presses his lips together thoughtfully. "Loki is very powerful, and nearly indestructible. If he wants to fight on our side, who is Steve to refuse when his presence might help us save lives? And, worst-case scenario, they've always got me as backup."
He sounds tired when he says it, but he doesn't dread being the last resort like once did. This – Bruce as a kind of safety net – has really done wonders for him. There was time when the only piece of him he saw was the destructive monster, the death and terror he brought to anyone and everything he touched.
It slots into place, her understanding about Bruce's tolerance for Loki: if it's about having something very powerful on your side, something unpredictable; if it's about making that necessary, the way Tony has made Bruce necessary – then maybe it's also about saving the monster, too.
Pepper's heart goes out to Bruce, and she's suddenly, deliriously glad this man is here, has value and worth in his life.
"They're lucky to have you," she says, and tries not to think about his attempted suicide, tries to block out all the bad parts Tony'd explained, all the little references Bruce has mentioned himself without realizing it. Tries to see him through something other than a veil of grief, because he deserves so much more than pity.
"Thanks, Pepper," he says. "So I'm going to get on with this surgery now, and I'll try not to destroy anything today."
"You do that," she says. "Bye, Bruce."
"Bye, Pep."
She hangs up the phone, thinks about going back to her crossword. She's lost interest in it, mostly – sitting around the house is making her feel restless. She tries to think about what she would be doing right this minute, were circumstances different.
She realizes it's kind of like a holiday, because the answer to that would boil down to some incarnation of babysitting Tony Stark.
In another life, she would've resigned her position at Stark Industries at some point - made Tony man up and handle his own legacy, maybe. In Pepper's perfect life-with-Tony-world, they could've done the whole domestic thing, maybe with both of them in the same place the majority of the time. Maybe they could've had a few kids, spent quiet vacations in Kaua'i, or – something.
But the fact of the matter is, Tony doesn't have that in him; he's never happier than when he's elbows-deep in some robotic thing, when he's repairing his armor or when he's spending long evenings dragging his calloused fingertips across tablets, picking and pulling and tweaking designs grown the size of his living room, turning all available space into a computer desktop.
If Pepper is honest with herself, she can't sit idly by either. She spent so many years taking care of Tony's company before she ever officially ran the thing (just unofficially); and at the end of the day, she felt capable, competent. Valued.
It wasn't until after Stark Industries stopped manufacturing weapons that she actually felt good about it, felt they were doing something important.
The problem here, though – the problem at the bottom of the bucket – is that Tony is Ironman. Ironman has enemies, and because Ironman has enemies, so does Tony Stark.
Pepper could see it in herself to be done, someday. Maybe retire and run a charity, something to keep her busy, some kind of meaningful work that preserves her sense of accomplishment. But she wouldn't be in actual danger; for Tony, it wouldn't ever be like dating a cop, or a firefighter, always terrified that your partner will never come home.
But it's always like that for Pepper.
She wonders at what point it becomes acceptable, to draw the line between respecting the life choices of someone you love and refusing to watch them die. She wonders what would've happened, if she and Tony could've made it or if – if this would've destroyed them anyway.
She'll never know. Maybe she'll be grateful, someday, that Tony did this – that he prevented her from wasting any more time.
But it's probably a long way off.
Pepper's phone rings around lunchtime.
"Look, Jenkins, we've been over this – "
"Already? Jeez, Pep, it's been like – thirty-eight hours – "
"Oh. Hi, Tony," Pepper says, trying to keep the stiffness from her voice. And if her heart is hammering in her chest, well, it's not like he can hear it.
"Hi, Pepper," he says. He sounds lost, hurt, guilty. But he doesn't sound miserable. "I guess I wasn't who you were expecting?" He asks.
If it were anyone else, she'd expect jealousy or – or anger, or suspicion. Tony's just making conversation, trying to find a way in, a connection. He's not the type to get angry and shut someone down with an argument, or with something petty. He doesn't want something from her, doesn't want her to miss him or be lonely without him, doesn't want her to be unhappy.
Pepper knows Tony. And, at face value, he doesn't seem like a particularly upstanding moral character. But he's really just – once he gets his head straight, once he sorts through everything currently on board – he really tries. For other people. To take care of them, in his own way.
"Just keeping your awful company running smoothly," she says.
"Well, that's the problem with the people who work for my company," he tells her. "They aren't me. So, naturally, they are inferior, and they take weeks to develop code I can crank out overnight, and they can't get any of the really important stuff done ever."
"So humble," and this is the point where she would laugh, maybe roll her eyes. Maybe feel that impossibly deep well of affection bubble up inside of her. As it stands – all of these things happen except for the smile.
"Look, I just – we really need to have a conversation." Tony says. Then, hurriedly, he adds: "When you're ready, I don't – I know I fucked this up."
"Yeah," she says. "You did." Everything in her chest is tight, is crushing her from within, because this is exactly what it's like when someone loves you and doesn't want you anymore.
"I'd be content to just – to just leave you alone for awhile," he continues. "But we have things in common. I won't ask you to come back to the Tower right now, but I really hope someday you will."
"Tony – " she tries.
"No, hear me out. You're still my CEO, so you'll still have to deal with me from time to time. And," here he hesitates. "I'll – try to be better about paperwork and all that crap."
Pepper snorts; she can't help herself. "Don't do me any favors."
"Right, well," he says, solemn enough that it jarrs her momentarily, sincere in response to her flippancy, "At this point, I figure I owe you a few."
There's silence on the line, awkward because this is where the, "I love you, Pepper," would go during their still-together fights.
She wonders if they will fall back to the way things were before she loved him
(And this is a patent lie; she's loved him as long as they've been having knock-down, drag-out arguments about work and patents and appointments. It was irritating and stupid and it took her a long time to realize what was going on, what they were doing. And here she is today.)
But what will probably happen is they will evolve into a whole new subgroup of conflict resolution: subtle snipes at each other, or not-so-subtle, or flat-out aggressive when packaged in the we-used-to-date-and-it-was-a-pretty-serious-thing-before-you-cheated-on-me subtext.
"So I'm going to let you go now," he murmurs over the line. "And I'm sorry about – I want to apologize properly, so please don't – don't keep me waiting. I know I shouldn't ask anything of you, but I. I just."
"I know," Pepper says, just before her voice chokes. Interrupts, because she can't bear to hear him say it.
"I love you, Pepper," he tells her anyway, his voice flat and honest and as serious as he gets. "I do. I love you and I need you and I can't imagine my life without you."
"Tony, please, I – " she swallows, throat hot and small.
"Right, right, later. Give me a call sometime. Keep me updated. Oh, and the – the Manor is yours for now, if you want. You'll always have a place to stay. And you can, if you – if you need to – I mean." He hesitates.
"What, Tony?" She asks, exhausted and heartsick and lonely and so goddamn fond of him.
"The Malibu house. It's – it's yours."
She almost drops her phone. "Tony, it's not – we weren't married, you don't have to – "
"I want you to have it, Pepper. You love that house."
I love you, she thinks, weary and desperate. But after a minute, she sees what he's doing; he's offering her an out. Malibu, at just under an hour, is absolutely a shorter commute to LA than flying from fucking New York City.
Pepper tries to envision her life without that twice-weekly cross-continental jump. Thinks about gorgeous weather year-round, about the Big Apple in the winter time, about Tony and being around him after – everything.
She thinks about not being around him for awhile.
"I'll call you in a few days," she finally says. And, because it feels unnatural not to: "I love you, too, Tony."
She takes a week to get herself in order. She makes a lot of phone calls, and she moves some people around at corporate, and she has JARVIS get the Malibu house in order. It's amazing how much free time you have when you're not taking care of a dysfunctional adult manchild.
When everything is arranged – Tony's stuff will come here, to the manor, and hers will be shipped to California (the stuff they owned jointly is something she'll sort out later, when she's up to it) – she calls Bruce.
"I'm moving to Malibu," she tells him. "I'll miss you."
"I'll visit," he tells her sincerely.
She doesn't call Tony – but it's okay. She'll visit, too. When she's ready.
"Looks like it's just you and me, JARVIS," she tells the empty Stark mansion. "Can you book me a flight for tomorrow morning?"
"It would be my pleasure, Ms. Potts."