[A/N] Another Tumblr prompt. I have a large queue, but I'm loving writing what you guys want! As always, thank you for your patience as I post fics (I cannot spend all my time writing Brucenat, which is most unfortunate).
For updates, Tumblr-exclusive fics, and Brucenat/Marvel content, follow me on brucenat on Tumblr.
Never before has she known this texture of comfort. Every form of respite is an act of resistance for her. Relaxation was a strange phenomenon she learned in the past fifteen years and, despite that, sleep has never gotten easier. Until now.
One minute, she's laying in bed with Bruce, unveiled windows open to the starless New York sky, discussing hypothetical space scenarios. The next, she's asleep, nestled into him. Yet, when morning comes, she's alone. Alone in Bruce's room in Stark Tower.
The sheets cascade off her as she sits up. Obviously he fell asleep after her but, in order to get her under the covers, he had to move off the bed. It seems he got up and didn't come back, judging by the relatively undisturbed bedspread beside her. She pushes out of the blanket swath, swallowing humid morning breath and the unpleasant myriad of ideas that arises. Instead of her usual tactical approach, she elects to look for answers before forming theories. Relationship matters, she's learned, are seldom approached like battles and missions.
Finding him isn't difficult. When she does, she wishes it had been harder, because maybe that would prevent the irritation that swells in her diaphragm.
He's asleep on a couch, clad in pajamas, socks still on. There's an inadequately sized blanket drawn over his torso and thighs, leaving the rest of him exposed and sprawled out. This couch isn't even large enough to accommodate him lying down and, yet, he chose it over all the other sofas and nooks in the tower. He chose this over sleeping with her.
Yeah, she's annoyed. A little hurt, even. Had this been the start of their relationship, it wouldn't be a big deal, but they'd been together half a year now, and they've liked each other a hell of a lot longer than that. He's even spent the night at her place before. What makes it somehow worse is knowing what this is probably about. This is likely something they've discussed and discussed for a lot longer than they've been together in a relationship. She's been patient—how could she not when his trauma is so similar to hers?—but she's entitled to this frustration. After the talks, the assurances, the reassurances, a few tears, the sheer volume of evidence, she gets to be frustrated when he won't stay beside her even when they're asleep.
The morning is not fresh and, frankly, neither is she. Having not planned for this means she lacks a toothbrush among other essentials. Her own tongue feels gross and slimy in her mouth, her shirt sticks to her uncomfortably, and she's just woken up alone at her boyfriend's. She's going back to her place to try and savage her mood.
She gathers the few items she brought and, despite her niggling aggravation, she stops by the claimed couch, scrunches Bruce's curls, and leaves. He groggily, confusedly comes to, mumbles after her, but she doesn't stop. She doesn't possess the wherewithal or proper allotment of patience to have this talk once again. Not now, at least. She's tired.
A big downside to apartment living is the perpetual lack of a personal training space. There are public gyms and resident-exclusive exercise machines, sure, but absolutely nothing about releasing her frustrations in front of others holds appeal. Both Stark Tower and, farther north, the Avengers Facility have excellent training spaces, but she won't be visiting either today. She gets creative in the space she has, sweating in her living room until there's a gentle knock on her door. The lack of notification from the doorman means three—realistically two—possibilities: Bruce, Clint, or someone who had assassinated a man simply doing his job.
It's the formermost. She can't consider herself surprised or overjoyed. Judging by the sheepish twist of Bruce's mouth, he knows that too.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself." She stalks back into her apartment, bound for the kitchen. That leaves him alone at the door with the option to leave or come in. Neither would be simple.
He steps inside and eases the entrance to a close. Unlike his other visits, his shoes stay on this time. "Sorry I missed you leaving." That's all he offers, although it is genuine.
At the risk of sounding petty, she keeps her tone even as an ice sheet. "There was a reason for that."
Though he doesn't acknowledge that outright, his gaze deflects. His fingers begin to wring themselves out, and he trudges over to the opposing side of the kitchen counter. It's like watching him wade through slush. She helps herself to a glass of water while he settles onto his elbows, hands fidgeting relentlessly.
She mirrors his pose, only with a cup in her grasp. The firm edge in her voice remains steadfast, though not furious. She, too, settles into the sort of sphere they construct with their bodies. "When I sleep over at my boyfriend's, I don't exactly expect to wake up alone."
He channels his apology through voice and gaze. "I'm sorry."
How she would love for that to be the end of it, to simply kiss and make up. She knows him better than that, though. They both deserve far better than a half-assed, faux reconciliation.
She asks, "Why'd you sleep on the couch?"
The answer she dreads then shadows his features. He tries to hide it and fails. They know each other infinitely more than the façades they put up to the rest of the population.
He has to say it. Not because she asked, but because there would be no forward motion until he does. Unfortunately, embarking into that progress would not be a smooth launch. He has to say it anyway.
He does. "I didn't want to risk anything."
Annoyance doesn't clip her words, not yet. "Risk what, Bruce?"
Another anticipated admission plummets between them. "Hurting you."
"You won't." How does she make him as sure as she is?
"How do you know?" The question comes so gently, yet it arrives with a sting; one he hadn't intended, but it hurts all the same.
"Because I know you." She rocks back, spine straight instead of curved into him. "And I know the other guy pretty well too—"
"How? I don't—"
"Sometimes I feel like he's here even when you're not green." As soon as it zips from her mouth, it smacks him, and she regrets it. She sees the impact plainly. Dammit.
This can't end yet, not when he tries to insist on a falsehood he ingrains into himself. "He is—"
"He's not." They're both standing straight, palms splayed on the counter, her glass forgotten, oddly unperturbed between them. She shouldn't be as exasperated as she is; she should rein it in, yet refuses. It's been months, arguably years, of push and pull. Understandably so but, at some point, he has to trust her enough to let her voice inside him too. She knows about being her own worst enemy, being the biggest impediment to her progress, and she's been watching that repeat for months in front of her. It hurts. Maybe that's selfish to think, but it's true. This hurts her just as it hurts him. "He's not part of who you are. He just stares your mind and body under very specific circumstances."
He continues to fight her instead of listen. "He's not just an alter ego—he's dangerous—"
"You're not!" That explodes out of her. Instead of tamping it down, she lets the bomb detonate. "And he's not. Not to me. He trusts me—why can't you?"
"It's not you—"
"Isn't it?" They're both approaching mutual yelling now, if they're not there already. "You won't sleep in the same bed as me, even though it's your own—"
"I'm trying to protect you—"
"I don't need your protection!"
Everything halts. There's no blood nor physical wound on Bruce, but there might as well be. Even without her gun, she's shot him and, by proxy, impaled herself with the shrapnel.
It's futile to say, to try and revoke the bullet, but she does anyway. "I didn't mean it like that, Bruce."
The damage is done. She's looking right at the wreckage.
"I'm gonna go." He says, torn between a wince and numbness.
"Bruce—"
Nothing in particular cuts her off. Nothing she says could or does stop him from going to the door and leaving. She could physically restrain him, but he'd still be gone.
She stands shellshocked in the kitchen as the door clicks shut.
Despite what she thought earlier, she does indeed return to Stark Tower. It's the one viable option after failed attempts to exercise, cooking then peering at takeout menus, watching something, even reading.
Nobody had ever guided her through the conundrums that come with relationships—the closest she'd gotten was some advice from Laura and Clint. According to them, it would be best to let the issue rest, to give herself and Bruce a bit to calm down and reflect. She hadn't been reflecting or resting, though; she's been obsessing, worrying, allowing rogue thoughts to travel to catastrophic places. If her brain is inflicting this upon her, there's no doubt that Bruce's is doing the same.
City traffic would add unnecessary time to her trip, so she walks. She keeps her focus ahead, slipping amongst the throngs with practiced ease. Brainstorming of what to say beyond "I'm sorry" proves a challenge. That occupies her until she walks through the doors and security of the tower.
Bruce isn't in his room, but on one of the uppermost floors, where the walls are also lookouts over the expanse of city. As expected, he looks as distracted as she's been all day.
She could've masked her footsteps if she wanted, but doesn't. She wants him to hear her, she wants the reaction to gauge where they're both at. Her steps on the smooth floor draw his gaze and the surprise, melancholy, and slight apprehension that accompany it. The latter jabs her, thrusts between her ribs like a knife. Her gait hitches, his mouth screws into some hybrid of sad and a grimace with an odd hint of a grin. It's as though he's trying to comfort her through his evident pain.
She doesn't want to be like everyone else to him. She's not, but she hasn't acted that way, not today. Even that is too much, though.
He says nothing and neither does she. Silence festers between them, the kind of quiet that is somehow too loud. It's like a beacon between them, searing bright but with its own gravitational pull. They don't turn away; they can't.
Her steps are more steady and sure than she is. She approaches him, tries to dig up words through the ground. By the time she gets to him, nothing's been excavated. They stand in the glaring quiet for moments that are too long. The city is on display for them but neither have attention to spare it.
He's chewing on possibilities too. There's probably fifty half-formed apologies on his tongue. That spurs her to speak, to discovery of what she wants to say.
"I can protect myself." Her addition doesn't undermine that. She assures, "That doesn't mean I'm better off alone." And it doesn't mean she wants to be. She reaches out, latches onto his sleeve with fingers gentle like he always is to her.
They angle toward each other, anchor one another even in the hurt.
Her next admission comes out slow, but is the most concrete she's said or done that day. "I care about you in a way I've never cared about anyone else. I'm trying to navigate that."
His fingers wrap around hers, which is nice—she much prefers his skin to his shirt.
"Me too," he says, quiet but sure. "I'm—"
"I know it's hard to trust yourself," she intercepts. He can't take all the blame on himself, not for this. "But can you have faith in me trusting you?" The question is far from accusation, far from a catalyst for guilt. She brings their joined hands in front of her stomach and holds them there like a love letter. "I wanna wake up to you, Bruce." She gives him a grin equivocal, sly, and kind. "There's a lot I want to do with you." Her spare hand hooks onto his jaw in a caress, then slides to his chest. "I don't want a future without you there."
Maybe, by normal conventions, it's too early in their relationship to admit that. They're closer to forever and odd than normal and uncertain, though.
His mouth relaxes from its twist. His other palm traces her arm connected to his chest, whispered assurances and little apologies accompanying his touch. Then, aloud, before she can kiss him, he tells her, "I adore you."
Then she does kiss him, gripping his shirt. Their hands come apart to pull each other close. This won't undo what they've done, what they said, but it's a step toward repair.
The kiss alone would've sufficed; for good measure, he adds on, "I'm sorry."
"Me too."
Even without looking outside, she knows the sun is dropping with each minute, dwindling toward dinner and evening. This day has been an amalgamation of miserable unproductivity, though that doesn't mean it has to end that way.
"Come back to my place." Of course, there was the unspoken condition, If you want to. If you're comfortable with that, still comfortable with me.
His nod comes quick and sure. He puts his answer in a smile, in his lips that press to her forehead. Then, "I'll get a bag."
She releases him with a squeeze and a jovial taunt, "I'll tell Tony I'm borrowing you." It's about time she, not Tony, got to spend the night with her boyfriend.