Alright, so this one is a long one, I think. Thanks for all the feedback so far, I really like to hear that people are interested (it keeps me inspired), and I really appreciate the time you guys take to do it. It makes my day to hear that people like this, so thanks:)
CHAPTER WARNINGS: mentions of child abuse, language, hints of slash, sexual harassment, alcoholism, allusions to an eating disorder and depression, references to past self harm
Wow. When I write it all out it sounds like a depressing chapter.
Enjoy!
"Did you ever notice Bruce's bruises?" Coulson asked, regarding Steve over the top of his notepad.
Steve considered Coulson a moment before replying hesitantly, "I…Bruce has always had some problems with other guys roughing him up."
"Why?" Coulson asked bluntly. Steve shrugged and looked up at him, clearly confused. "Because he's smart? Because he's smaller than them?"
"I guess," Steve agreed softly, something dark flickering across his expression.
Coulson pressed further. "You've seen him being harassed?"
Steve nodded stiffly, his jaw set in a hard line.
"Have you tried to stop them?" Coulson asked.
"Of course I have," Steve muttered, clenching his fingers into tight fists in his lap. "He never wanted me to, and I know he can take care of himself, but I couldn't just stand there and watch him get hurt."
"So you feel protective of him?" Coulson asked mildly.
Steve nodded.
"Protective enough to hide something from the police if it meant keeping him safe?" Coulson cocked an eyebrow inquiringly, his voice deceptively light and calm.
Steve's expression didn't shift as he replied. "Very few things are more important to me than his safety."
Steve stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, focusing intently on the tendrils of hair falling from Natasha's bun. He'd been working on her hair for fifteen minutes and he still couldn't get it to look right. Something was off, and it was driving him crazy. The person in the picture didn't look like her. If someone who didn't know her looked at the picture, they wouldn't see a strong, talented, patient dancer who didn't put up with any disrespect, had a killer dry sense of humor, and worked desperately hard to juggle everything she had going on. In the drawing, she looked too prim and proper and complacent, and just not Natasha.
"Is that really what my hair looks like?"
Steve glanced up at the sound of Bruce's voice and saw the smaller man standing next to the booth, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the sketch. The corner of his lips was quirked into a small, shy smile, and his hand rested on the table inches away from Steve's sketchpad. His other hand stole to his hair to rake the thick, dark curls out of his eyes.
Steve scootched over so Bruce could slide into the booth next to him, tugging his sketchpad with him. Bruce couldn't completely hide his wince as carefully slid onto the red vinyl, and his arm moved to wrap around his middle, as if his ribs were causing him pain. Steve's jaw tightened and he tapped his pencil against the tabletop, scrutinizing Bruce more closely to figure out what was wrong.
On closer inspection, he noticed the slightly raised skin across Bruce's cheek and the small bump on his bottom lip. He hesitantly reached out and gripped Bruce's chin gently, tilting his face up to get a better look at the expertly concealed damage without Bruce's hair obscuring most of his features. Bruce's eyes flickered over Steve's face searchingly. Steve's mouth twisted into a frown when he managed to find the spots where Bruce's skin was a fraction of a shade darker under the carefully applied concealer. Steve wasn't sure if he was more pissed off about how good Bruce was at hiding his bruises, or about how Bruce felt like he had to hide them at all.
"What was it this time?" Steve asked quietly, forcing his voice to remain calm and controlled.
Bruce ducked his head, pulling out of Steve's grip, and shrugged, reaching for Steve's sketchpad. With the exception of Bucky and Natasha, Bruce was the only person allowed to flip through his sketchbook without permission. Bruce turned a couple pages, examining a sketch of Natasha on the front steps of the school, Tony asleep at his desk in Chemistry, and Thor on the bench at the last football game Steve had been able to see. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and shrugged, unconcerned. "I was late. He had a rough day."
"So he took it out on you," Steve said softly. Bruce's calloused fingers froze where they were paging through the sketchbook for a fraction of a second before continuing to turn the pages. "It's happening a lot more frequently lately."
Bruce chewed at his bottom lip, tearing off pieces of skin. He shrugged again, and turned another page. He froze for a moment and stared at the sketch blankly. It was one Steve had done of him a couple weeks ago, when they'd been at Thor's game. Thor had scored and everyone had jumped to their feet. Tony had yanked Bruce up with him, and Bruce clearly hadn't been expecting it. He had stumbled forward, surprised, and would have toppled onto the person in front of him if Steve hadn't managed to get a grip on his waist to keep him upright. For a split second, Bruce had smiled; not his practiced, carefully guarded of-course-I'm-fine smile, but a warm, lopsided, genuine grin that Steve could count on one hand how many times he'd seen. Steve had committed that smile to memory and filed it away for later that night when he could get his hands on his sketchbook.
Bruce's fingers ran over the dull lines of the pencil as he gazed down at the picture and bit his lip. He seemed perplexed by the drawing, as if he couldn't reconcile this smiling, relaxed person Steve had drawn with how he saw himself. He shook his head and muttered apologetically, "I…I don't…I don't look like that."
"What? Happy?" Steve asked him, tilting his head and examining the drawing closely. Bruce shrugged, his shoulders brushing Steve's. Steve lifted his gaze from the page and found his face just inches away from Bruce's. Bruce cocked an eyebrow so it disappeared into the mess of wild curls that flopped over his forehead. Steve fought to urge to reach out and brush them out of Bruce's dark brown eyes, not wanting to scare Bruce off with too much physical contact. He pressed his lips together and bumped Bruce's knee with his own under the table. "Then I guess I'll have to work on that."
Bruce's gaze flickered up from the table to meet Steve's for a few seconds, his dark eyes temporarily betraying his feelings of confusion and hesitant curiosity. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Tony's voice calling loudly from across the diner, "Well, isn't this adorable? I almost hate to interrupt."
Bruce rolled his eyes and moved closer to Steve to make room for Tony at the end of their booth. Tony, however, didn't sit down; he froze at the end of the table, staring at Bruce's cheek where the makeup covered the fresh cuts, clearly seeing the same thing Steve had. His hand clenched into a fist at his side and he gritted his teeth together angrily. "That fucking bastard."
"Sit down, Tony," Bruce snapped, yanking Tony down with a grip around his wrist. "People are staring."
"People are staring because your face is totally fucked up," Tony snorted indignantly, pulling his arm away from Bruce to throw his hands exasperatedly in the air.
Bruce glanced at his reflection in the chrome napkin holder and said slowly, "It's not that bad."
Tony mouthed the words 'not that bad' in disbelief, gaping at his best friend. He shook his head and said firmly, "You're staying with me tonight."
"No," Bruce said mildly, closing Steve's sketchbook.
Tony pouted at him, but didn't press. As much as he couldn't stand Tony sometimes, Steve couldn't begrudge him the fact that Bruce was comfortable with standing up to him and appreciate that Tony didn't bully him into doing whatever he wanted the same way he would with anybody else.
"Whatever, princess," Tony muttered, disgruntled. He snatched a menu from the rack in the center of the table and flipped it open. "What do you want?"
"I'm not hungry," Bruce said, and that launched them into their age-old argument about how Bruce had to eat, but he wasn't hungry, but he was wasting away, and "don't-tell-me-how-I-feel-Tony", and "stop-being-so-damn-stubborn-Bruce-it's-not-like-I-can't-afford-it".
Steve was only half-listening as he unfolded his own menu and scanned the list of sandwiches while he waited for them to stop arguing and for Thor and Clint to arrive.
"Bruce has bruises a lot?" Coulson asked, leaning back in his chair.
Thor considered the question for a moment before he shrugged and nodded slowly. "I suppose."
"You suppose?" Coulson repeated condescendingly. "It's a yes or no question."
"Yes," Thor replied through gritted teeth, his hands curling into fists in his lap. "He does. But this is his father you are implying, and I don't believe—"
Coulson raised an eyebrow skeptically, and asked, "You think he wouldn't hurt him just because they're related?" When Thor didn't reply and instead glared staunchly at the wall, Coulson continued incredulously, "People are hurt by their family members all the time."
"I know," Thor replied through gritted teeth, ducking his head so his blonde mane hid his eyes from view.
Thor toweled off his hair, scrubbing his fingers hard against his scalp to try to shake loose as much moisture as possible. He straightened up and wrapped the towel around his waist without looking at himself in the mirror, afraid of what he'd see. He'd eaten a sandwich that day the diner with the others, and he could practically feel himself getting heavier, regaining the weight he tried desperately to run off. He resolved not to eat for the rest of the night, knowing in the back of his mind that he wouldn't hold himself to that promise. He would start to feel low, and then he would eat, and then he would hate himself even more for his lack of control.
Thor pushed open the bathroom door, letting the steam billow around his ankles into the hallway. He padded across the thick carpet towards his bedroom, but froze when a thin, cold hand wrapped around his bicep and shoved him roughly so he overbalanced and fell against the wall. He clutched his towel around him, vaguely grateful it hadn't fallen off of him completely.
Loki's sharp fingernails dug into his stomach, pushing at the thin layer of softness wrapping around Thor's waist. "Letting yourself go a little, aren't you?"
Thor blushed, feeling the red flesh spreading across his shoulders and rising up his neck. "Cease your criticisms, Loki, I cannot—"
"Criticisms?" Loki raised perfectly curved eyebrow at his brother, gazing down at him coldly. "They are merely facts, Thor. It seems you've been getting a little lax about your training since we've come here."
"I have had a lot on my mind," Thor replied through gritted teeth. He tried to duck around Loki, but his brother simply pressed him further into the wall, refusing to let him escape so easily. He tried again, demanding lowly, "Loki, let me go."
"I don't think it's wise to order your future king around," Loki sneered, digging his fingernails into Thor's chest until Thor could feel them drawing blood. He gritted his teeth and bared it, unwilling to fight back. Loki was his baby brother. He could never hurt him, no matter what Loki may say to him.
Thor swallowed hard and managed to choke out, "You are not next in line for the throne, brother."
"Not yet," Loki agreed, watching the blood bubble up around his fingernails with faint interest. "But I'm sure it won't be long before Father changes that."
"He wouldn't," Thor argued, his voice gaining strength. He shoved Loki away from him angrily and glared up at his younger brother, frowning when Loki simply smiled at him condescendingly. "I have been preparing and training for this since I was born. He will not take that away from me simply because I…because there were some setbacks."
"Setbacks?" Loki repeated softly, mockingly, his dark eyes glittering with anger and disgust. "You and I seem to recall the day we fled very differently." Thor ducked his head, allowing his damp blonde locks to obscure his face, and didn't speak. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm fairly certain you had a breakdown and almost killed a servant because you thought he was Endrik. I can't say that that is a normal, healthy reaction."
"I was lost in my grief," Thor said softly, a blush of shame creeping up his cheeks at the memory. "I was…confused…"
"It's been two years, brother," Loki hissed, stepping closer to crowd Thor against the wall again, but made no move to touch him. "And you still seem horribly, irrevocably lost in your grief. It's made you unstable, and it is only a matter of time before Father recognizes it."
Thor's gaze hardened and he snapped, "I am not unstable." The rest of Loki's word sunk in, about him being irrevocably lost in his own grief, and his heart rate increased slightly with panic. He desperately hoped he would not feel this weight on his chest for the rest of his life. He had thus far learned to live with it, but the prospect of living his entire life with this heavy feeling in his chest was daunting.
"Thor, Loki!" their father's voice boomed up the stairs, breaking the tense silence between them. Loki stepped away from Thor, eyeing him with derision. "Dinner!"
Loki turned on his heel and started for the stairs, not bothering to look back and see if Thor was following. Thor cleared his throat and called down the stairs, trying to keep his voice as casual sounding as possible, "I'll be down in a moment."
He ducked into his room and pulled a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from his drawers. He looked down at himself, hating the way his shirt hugged his frame so closely, showing off all of his imperfections. He picked up his sweatshirt from the floor next to his bed and pulled it on. He felt slightly better wearing the baggy sweatshirt that hid his frame, and he used the sleeves to wipe his eyes. He didn't have time to get emotional then, nor did he wish to. He wanted to stop feeling altogether, if feeling the way he did was what feeling meant.
Coulson sucked in a deep breath and leaned forward on the desk. "You dropped him off the night it happened, correct?"
Steve nodded shortly, eyeing Coulson warily and crossing his arms over his chest more tightly. "Yeah, I gave him a lift home from the diner downtown. He lives two streets over, so it's no big deal."
"How was he acting?" Coulson asked softly, tapping his pen against his chin and fixing Steve with a serious, inquiring expression.
Steve shrugged, his eyes flickering to different spots in the room, and admitted, "I…a little quiet, I guess, but sometimes he gets like that. I asked him if he wanted to stay at my place for the night, and he said he had to get home."
"So, fairly normal," Coulson summarized, jotting down a few notes in the margins of his notepad.
Inexplicably, Steve broke out into a small, exasperated smile. "He seemed fine."
Steve glanced at Bruce across the center console, slightly concerned. Usually it was fairly easy to get Bruce to talk if he brought up classes, or science, or any of the science fiction things he and Tony enjoyed so much, but Bruce had barely spoken a word since they'd left the diner. Bruce hadn't eaten much either, simply picked his food over until it looked like he'd eaten something. Thor, too, had been unusually quiet, barely managing to smile at Clint when his friend tried to joke around with him.
Steve mulled it over apprehensively. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was seriously wrong lately. Tony was carrying his inhaler again, Natasha's hatred and resentment towards her parents grew each day, Clint had been acting weird whenever someone mentioned his brother, Thor was barely eating, and Bruce was quietly falling apart. Steve had a stomach dropping feeling that they were all hurtling towards a cliff with nothing to stop them from going over the edge.
Bruce shifted in the passenger's seat and picked up something from the floor. Steve recognized it as one of the pamphlets for one of the art schools that Erskine had given him. It must have fallen off the stack when he'd brought them home. Bruce paged through it curiously for a few moments before asking, "You want to go to art school?"
Steve shrugged and tried to brush the question off casually, his chest tightening. "Not really. Erskine gave me some brochures for a couple schools, but it's unrealistic."
"Why not?" Bruce asked, looking up at Steve from the pamphlet. Steve moved his eyes from the road to meet Bruce's inquisitive gaze for a split second.
He shrugged and tore his eyes from Bruce's concerned, calculating gaze, unable to hold it for long. It amazed him sometimes, how Bruce could look at him with so much concern when the left side of his face was one painful bruise under a layer of makeup. "I just…there are so many people who are better than I am. You guys think my stuff's good, but you have nothing to compare it to. I'm mediocre."
Bruce raised an eyebrow and batted Steve's arm with the booklet lightly. "I don't know if we're looking at the same sketch book, but you're pretty damn talented. You see the shadows and shades in scenes that I could never notice. You spent two years just working on learning the proportions of the human body and you've gotten to be so good at it. The…the expression in the faces of the people you draw…I mean, I can see Bucky in them. It's amazing."
Steve tensed at the mention of Bucky and shook his head. "You don't…Thanks for the support, but it's unrealistic. I'll have to support a family someday…"
"Please," Bruce snorted, his lips curving into a small smile. "I'll give you Tony's credit card number; you'll be set for life." Steve pursed his lips and smiled reluctantly. Bruce's grin widened ever so slightly when he saw the smile tug at Steve's lips. "I get that you're concerned about your future, but you should be concerned about being happy, too." He paused for a moment, clearing having some trouble with putting his thoughts into words. Steve remained quiet, allowing him to finish; he knew that sometimes it took Bruce a minute to figure out what he wanted to say, especially when it was something emotional that he wasn't familiar with. "You shouldn't…if you could do anything in the world, would that be it?"
Steve opened his mouth to refute it, but paused. He shrugged and replied honestly, "I…yes. If I could…I'd want to illustrate. Books, book covers, comic books, whatever." Steve cut himself off, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks. He'd never really told anyone about what he wanted to do specifically, with the exception of Bucky.
Bruce reached out and gripped Steve's knee for a brief moment. "You shouldn't be ashamed of going after what you want."
Steve chewed on his bottom lip, dropping one hand from the wheel and brushing his fingers over Bruce's as Bruce pulled his hand away. Bruce started slightly, surprised, and folded his hands in his lap, tangling his fingers together. Steve gripped the steering wheel again and cleared his throat. "What about you?"
"What about me?" Bruce asked.
"What do you want?" Steve clarified.
Bruce's eyebrows drew together as he considered Steve's question, and Steve couldn't help but wonder if anyone had ever asked Bruce that before. "Well, I…I want to go to college. I've always thought about…always considered studying for a PhD in nuclear physics. I mean, I've always kind of been interested in radiation…"
"Doctor Banner?" Steve grinned. He turned onto Bruce's street. "It has a nice ring to it."
"You think?" Bruce smiled faintly, lifting his gaze from his hands to Steve. "I mean, either that or maybe something medical…I don't really know yet. Either way, I guess…"
"Medical?" Steve repeated. He'd learned that Bruce was interested in almost every faucet of science, art, and history that he could get his hands on. He picked a topic and he devoured every book he could find on the subject, learned as much as he could, and usually managed to get Tony at least mildly interested. He loved to learn, he was hungry for knowledge and information, and he had a remarkable memory for it all. Steve was almost surprised that he'd managed to narrow down what field he wanted to go into. "I didn't know you were seriously interested in that."
Bruce shrugged. "I…I'd like to help people. Maybe. I'd at least like to get some basic training so I can help out at the clinic or something."
"In all your free time?" Steve teased him, raising his eyebrows. "When you're not too busy developing the future nuclear energy source for the world?"
Bruce made a small, amused sound in the back of his throat and shook his head, his dark eyes bright with laughter. "Maybe I'll even pencil in some time to go to some of your book signings."
Steve pulled over to the side of the road to park, allowing himself a moment to grin and believe Bruce for a few seconds. "Gee, thanks. Just for that, you can walk the rest of the way home."
"And here I thought you were a gentleman," Bruce said dryly, pushing open his door and dropping to the ground. He always had Steve drop him off six houses down from his, in an effort to appease his father. Steve had always had the feeling Brian Banner didn't like him spending time with Bruce for some reason, and felt vaguely guilty when he thought of him taking it out on Bruce.
"Hey," he called before Bruce could shut the door. Bruce paused turned to look back at Steve, forced to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Steve rubbed his hand across his mouth nervously and said, "I…Are you going to be alright? I know you told Tony no, but if you need somewhere to stay…"
"I'll be fine," Bruce brushed off his concern with a convincing smile and stepped away from the truck. "He just had a rough night last night. It doesn't happen often." He gripped the edge of the door. "Thanks for the ride, Steve. See you around."
Bruce slammed the door shut and started towards his house, pulling his jacket tightly around his slim frame and ducking his head against the wind.
"Obadiah Stane has been around in the company for how long?" Coulson asked, regarding Tony over the top of his folder.
Tony shrugged and waved a hand vaguely in the air. "Since I can remember, I dunno."
"You were close?" Coulson asked quietly.
Tony pursed his lips, considering, but Coulson could see the answer written across his face clear as day.
Tony pulled the door shut behind him and kicked off his boots, the warm air of the foyer cocooning around him immediately. He rubbed his hands together and blew on his fingers to warm them up. He dug one hand into his pocket and checked his phone, still hoping that Bruce would call and tell him to come pick him up. He knew Bruce hated it when he "mothered" him, but he couldn't help himself; it's not as if Bruce's mother did it enough. Honestly, Tony was sometimes taken aback by the fierce protectiveness he had over Bruce. He'd experienced it rarely; for his ex-girlfriend Pepper (who he was still close with), for example, or his best friend Rhodey (who had left for military school three years ago).
There were no missed calls from Bruce, but seven from his father. Considering his father hadn't called him seven times in the past seven years combined, Tony couldn't help but feel slightly concerned. He wasn't concerned enough to call back. He stuck his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and headed for the stairs, his mind already on the robotic arm he was building in his workshop.
"Anthony Stark."
Tony paused outside his father's office as he passed when his name was called. He peered around the half open door and poked his head into the office. "Yeah?"
Howard Stark was sitting behind his desk, his hands folded in front of him and dressed in one of his best business suits. Tony had never understood why his father wore a suit and tie even at home, but he'd never had the balls to bring it up. Obadiah Stane sat in the chair opposite Howard. When Tony pushed open the door, Obie beamed at him warmly. "Tony! I haven't seen you in a while. You must have grown a foot since last month."
"Hey, Obie," Tony greeted him warmly, smiling despite himself. While he'd been initially wary, he grown to like the older man. Obie had taken to showing up a few times a month when his dad was gone to check in on him, usually bringing dinner and hanging around long enough to see whatever Tony was working on at the time. Tony couldn't say his disliked the attention. "I thought we talked about not mentioning my height. Low self-esteem, remember?"
"I think that's the last thing we have to worry about," Obie chuckled softly, grinning at him with amusement.
Howard huffed derisively and cut in sharply, "I didn't call you in here to socialize, Tony."
"What did you call me in here for, then?" Tony asked. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. "It would be nice if we could get to it soon. I have some important stuff to work on, not that this isn't—"
"I called you ten times," Howard said through gritted teeth, his hands balling into fists on his desktop. "Your mother and I were worried sick. We went to check on you this morning and you weren't there."
"I went out to lunch with my friends," Tony shrugged, unconcerned. "I just got home. I didn't think I'd have to run it by you."
"According to the rules I gave you, you are supposed to ask your mother or I before you go out, so we know where you are," Howard snapped irritably, reaching for his phone. "I'll call your mother and tell her I've found you. Go up to your room."
"Seriously?" Tony raised his eyebrows at Howard, amused. "You're sending me to my room? I'm seventeen, not seven."
"I don't have time for this right now," Howard muttered irritably, dropping his phone back onto his desk and picking up one of the folders in front of him. "Just get out."
Tony gritted his teeth, tempted to snap back a stinging retort, but bit it back before it could escape his lips at a warning look from Obie. He was probably right; it wasn't worth it.
Instead, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Tony threw himself onto his bed and curled up on his side, clutching his phone to his chest. His eyes felt oddly dry and his throat felt tight. He grabbed his pillow and pulled it to his chest, curling himself into a ball around it protectively and squishing his face against the fabric.
It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. His dad had never batted an eye when he'd gotten a full scholarship to high school, when he scored a genius level IQ on his IQ test, when colleges had started knocking on their door the day he turned fifteen. He had never once told Tony he was proud of him; Tony couldn't remember the last time his dad had told him he loved him. He'd only told Tony that he needed to find more respectable friends (like Steve Rogers), and behave like an angel in class (like Steve Rogers). And now Howard just waltzed back into his life and expected him to welcome him with open arms; expected him to follow rules set by a man who had no understanding whatsoever of the circumstances of Tony's life because he hadn't been there for almost ten years? Tony's stomach rolled with rage and his blood boiled with anger and he clenched the sheets on his bed in tight, sweaty fists.
His tears soaked into the pillowcase, leaving a small damp patch on the fabric.
He allowed himself to stay like that for exactly two minutes before he pushed himself into a sitting position and ran his hands over his eyes, wiping away any moisture remaining there. He cleared his throat and stood up, wiping his hand under his nose and forcing himself to push his feelings of anger and confusion and some unidentifiable disappointment back into the box where they belonged in the back of his mind.
He had a robot to build, and Howard Stark wasn't going to ruin that for him.
"Your boyfriend was here earlier looking for you," Coulson said, watching Natasha closely for a reaction.
Natasha's eyebrow twitched, but otherwise she gave nothing away. "He's not my boyfriend."
"He seems to think he is," Coulson titled his head curiously.
Natasha shrugged, forcing herself to remain impassive and calm. "He was. It didn't work out."
"I had a great time tonight," Natasha lied, smiling as genuinely as she could manage. "Thanks."
"I did, too," Michael reached out and gripped her hands, pulling her towards him. She reluctantly allowed him to, not wanting to seem completely rude. He reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I…Natasha, I think this is going really well."
Natasha simply smiled politely, unable to answer truthfully without shattering her aunt's hopes for her future.
He leaned forward and kissed her. She tilted her head to the side slightly, trying to find a way to make them fit together more comfortably, but she'd yet to discover a way that didn't feel awkward and wrong. His lips pressed against her insistently, which automatically made her tense. She didn't like that he tried to control her, to dominate her when they kissed. She hated how he made her feel like she was weaker than him.
She started in surprise when his hands slid below her waist. She shoved Michael away and glared at him, uncomfortable and shocked. He'd never even tried to make a move on her before, and she would never have expected him to try anything. "Don't touch me."
"I'm sorry," Michael said, red creeping into his cheeks. "I just thought…we've been together for a couple months now. I didn't realize…"
"I would just prefer it if you kept your hands where they belong," Natasha said tersely, reaching out to open the front door and escape into her house. "To yourself."
"Natasha, wait," Michael caught her around the wrist and held her back, keeping her from slipping inside. She reluctantly stepped back onto the front stoop, pulling her arm away from him and frowning at him disapprovingly. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you weren't okay with it. Don't get mad at me."
"I'm not," Natasha muttered, ducking her head and tucking a lock of fiery red hair behind her ear. She scuffed the bottom of her shoe against the ground, feeling small and uncomfortable and not at all happy. "I just…I'm sorry. I'm just…not ready to move that fast."
Michael shrugged and smiled at her. "Of course. I understand. I guess we have plenty of time for that, right?"
Natasha forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes and nodded in affirmation. "Right."
Her aunt and uncle were sitting on the couch when she came inside, watching the door expectantly. Natasha kicked off her shoes and pointed her feet in an effort to get rid of the cramps and pains from wearing high heels all night.
"How was your date?" Alyona perked up at Natasha's entrance and immediately began her usual barrage of questions.
Natasha shrugged and crossed the living room quickly, determined to make it upstairs as soon as possible. "It was fine."
"Wait a moment, Natalia," Alyona called. Natasha froze with her right foot on the first step and her hand on the bottom of the railing, and reluctantly turned around to face her parents.
"Yes?" she forced her voice to sound pleasant and calm, despite her irritation.
"Come sit down for a second," Alyona motioned to the armchair across from the couch, smiling in way that made Natasha hesitate. Nonetheless, she stepped down from the stairs and padded over to the armchair. Alyona waited until she had settled in to continue. "I think it's important that we talk about this as a family. You and Michael seem to be getting very serious."
"He's…he's nice," Natasha said diplomatically.
Alyona beamed at her and covered her hand with her mouth, his eyes suddenly shining with tears. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. Your eighteenth birthday is coming up, and it's about time you seriously started thinking about marriage."
"Marriage?" Natasha repeated incredulously, almost choking on the word. She was tired and sick of being prim and proper, and she was not in the mood for that discussion. "I'm seventeen. Why should I be thinking about marriage? I'm leaving for college next year."
"But you're not going far," Alyona pointed out, looking to her husband for support. He grunted noncommittally, as usual, not wanting to get involved. "Only to the school of dance across town, correct? Michael will only be down the street at the business school. Don't you want to settle down, get married, have children?"
Natasha automatically began to nod, but stopped herself. She paused for a moment, thinking about what her aunt's future would mean for her; she would marry Michael, attend college for dance while he earned his business degree, move in with him, have kids, dance again once the kids were born and old enough to go to daycare. She would send the kids to school every morning, reach a few classes, come home to make dinner, help with homework, and tuck the kids into bed, only to deal with Michael as well. The thought of it made her stomach turn and her chest hurt.
She dug her fingernails into her palms and shook her head shortly, muttering, "No. No, I don't want that. I don't want to dance, I don't want to get married yet, and I don't want kids. I don't want to spend the rest of my life with Michael, and I don't want to be a housewife."
Alyona blinked at her, perplexed by her outburst. Natasha had never outright spoken up against her aunt's plans, and she was slightly put off by it. "What do you mean?"
Natasha sighed and reached up to take her hair out of its carefully arranged bun, allowing her thick curls to fall around her face. She stretched the elastic between her fingers, unable to look up at her aunt and uncle.
"I don't like to dance," she admitted softly, bracing herself for Alyona's reaction. She pressed on before her aunt could interrupt, afraid that if she stopped then, she would never get the words out. "I used to love it, but now it's taking over my entire life and I hate it, I dread it. I don't want to go to school for it, and I certainly don't want to be married to Michael."
Alyona gaped at Natasha in disbelief, turning to her husband as if she wanted him to confirm what she'd just heard. Dmitri merely glanced up at Natasha for a moment, both understanding and some modicum of pride in his eyes. She had suspect that he'd noticed her growing resentment towards dance and Michael, but he had yet to address it directly. She suspected he never would. He was too afraid of upsetting his wife to speak out against her.
"You're a woman now," Alyona argued, a desperate edge to her voice. "You should be preparing to be married. You'll need a man to support you. How can you expect to advance in your dance career and run a household without a man to help take care of you?"
"I plan on being able to take care of myself," Natasha replied firmly. "I don't want to dance anymore. I haven't for a long time."
Alyona shook her head and bit her lip, obviously upset. "Don't say that. You're probably just tired. Your mother would be so disappointed if she was here to hear you talk like that."
Natasha balked at the mention of her mother; she hated when Alyona used her mother's career as a ballerina to guilt her. Natasha had been hearing that for as long as she could remember; your mother would be so proud, she always wanted you to follow in her footsteps, you inherited her natural talent… At first, she had been proud, but as time progressed, she realized more and more that she didn't want to dance for the rest of her life. She didn't want to dance at all anymore.
"She died so you could be saved, Natalia," Alyona insisted, tears gathering in her eyes again. Natasha's stomach turned; she knew where this was going. Despite that, she felt her defenses weakening. "She dragged herself out of that burning building to get you to safety. She always told me that she was so proud that she had such a beautiful daughter to teach to dance, to carry on our family's legacy…She put so much faith in you, and she had so much hope for your future…We just want what's best for you. We don't want your talent wasted because of some…some boy." Alyona's voice suddenly gained a steel edge. "This isn't about some boy, is it? One of those boys you're always with? I thought Madame Koshkov talked to you about them."
"You mean my friends?" Natasha asked, anger reigniting itself in her chest.
Alyona clicked her tongue and shook her head condescendingly. "Natalia, Natalia…I was always afraid this would happen. I'd hoped you'd make friends who were female as you got older, but it seems you never quite grew out of this…"
"My friends care about me," Natasha said lowly, digging her fingernails harder into her palm, drawing blood. "Their gender isn't of consequence."
"Don't be naïve," Alyona chastised her gently, her voice not losing its harsh edge. "Their gender isn't the only problem. It is unsightly for you to be seen with Stark, who is notorious for the amount of girls he's dated, and the son of the town drunk. I am surprised Stark and Banner allow them to see each other when they are on such opposite ends of the social spectrum, though they tangle rather closely on the moral spectrum. And, not to mention, your long term friendship with that ruffian—"
"Don't talk about my friends like that," Natasha snapped, her tone sharper than she'd intended it to be. "You don't know them, and it's not fair of you to judge them by their parents. And Clint is my best friend, he has been since before preschool. How is that so difficult for you to understand?"
"Do not talk back to me," Alyona rose from the couch, all traces of tears gone from her eyes, replaced by a hard defiance. "We pay for you to take dance; we have invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in this. This is all your mother ever wanted for you. We even found you a reliable, hardworking future husband. We've done everything for you, and this is how you repay us?" She pursed her lips and pointed at the stairs, turning her face away from her niece, as if she was overwhelmed by pain and disappointment. "Go to your room. We're all tired, I think. You'll regret ever saying these things in the morning."
Natasha rose to her feet gracefully and stomped up the stairs. She closed her bedroom door carefully behind her and paused for a moment, staring at the headboard of her bed. A plain white Styrofoam container was placed on the center of her pillow. She could make out Clint's handwriting on the piece of paper taped to the top that read, "Figured you'd want some real food after dinner with the Douche at whatever fancy place he dragged you this time. They were out of American cheese."
She could smell the food from the door, and recognized it immediately as a burger from the diner in town. She pressed her back against the door and slid to the floor, holding her jacket to her chest, torn between tears and laughter.
"Did you ever talk to your brother about his problem?" Coulson asked bluntly, noting Clint's mild flinch at the mention of his brother.
Clint shrugged and scratched the side of his nose. "I wouldn't call it talking."
Coulson's gaze lifted from the pages in front of him and he fixed Clint was a lightly amused gaze. "More like shouting matches?"
Clint almost smiled, but caught himself just in time and maintained his scowl. "I guess."
Clint tapped his fingers on the table, watching the back door impatiently. He glanced at the clock on the stove again, and sighed when he saw the bright blue numbers read 11:45. If Barney wasn't home in fifteen minutes, Buck was going to get home before him and be furious that Barney had stayed out past his curfew. Clint wouldn't care if Barney was simply late (he'd stayed out past curfew enough times himself), but Clint had the sinking feeling his brother had been out partying and drinking again.
Clint was becoming increasingly concerned about Barney. He was a teenager, and it wasn't unusual for him to want to experiment with alcohol, but it was becoming a serious issue. He was gone every night on the weekends and most nights during the week, and when he did finally return home, he was staggeringly drunk.
There was a thud against the door, and the sound of hands scrabbling for the knob. Clint's shoulders tensed and he leaned forward on the table, expectantly watching the door creak open.
Barney stumbled inside and caught himself on the edge of the counter, mumbling under his breath and almost sinking to the floor. He hooked his foot on the door and managed to slam it shut. He turned and started to inch towards the hallway, gripping the counter for support, unable to support himself.
"Nice to see you got home safe," Clint spoke up suddenly.
Barney started and whirled around, noticing Clint was sitting at the table for the first time. He pressed his hand over his racing heart and gasped, sucking in a deep breath to get his quickening heartbeat back to normal. "God, Clint, you sc'red me."
"I scared you?" Clint demanded incredulously, flattening his hands on the table in front of him and digging his nails into the wood. "You're home two and a half hours late, without a fucking phone call to let me know you were still alive. Don't complain that I scared you."
"Aww, c'mon," Barney slurred, stumbling forward and catching himself on the table. Clint grimaced when the smell of alcohol enveloped him as his brother moved closer. "D'n't act all high 'n might wif me. Like you've n'ver gotten a little…little drunk and be'n…gotten home late…"
"Maybe once," Clint snapped, rising to his feet angrily. "Not every goddamn weekend. You can't keep doing this; you're not going to get away with it much longer, and you're going to hurt yourself. Stop being an idiot."
"Dn't take it out on me 'cause your girlfriend ditched you," Barney's upper lip curled into a sneer and rage ignited in Clint's chest, hot and sharp. "Maybe you should take up w'th that Banner kid, Ross says he looks like the best damn lay in school."
Clint grabbed the front of Barney's shirt and yanked him over the table until their faces were only inches apart. "She is not my girlfriend, she did not ditch me, and if I ever hear you talk about Bruce like that again, I'll punch your teeth in."
"I d'n't say it!" Barney held up his hands in a 'don't shoot' gesture, and tried to pull away from Clint. "Ross's got a fucking…a fucking creepy, sad'stic crush on Banner. 'S sick, to hear 'im talk, you know? I mean, Ross's my friend, an' I like 'im, but when he talks 'bout Bruce…'s a little explicit s'mtimes…"
"I don't care who said it," Clint gritted his teeth and shoved Barney away from him. "Just…just go to bed. Good luck at school tomorrow with the bitch of hangover you'll have."
He left Barney crumpled against the counter, struggling to get his feet under himself, and disappeared into his room, slamming his door behind him.
Part of him hoped Buck would come home right then and find Barney passed out drunk on the floor.
Coulson dropped the stack of Bruce's medical records on the desk in front of Steve and tapped them with his fingers. "These are Bruce's medical records."
Steve's eyes flickered down to the pages for barely a moment.
Coulson propped his hip on the edge of the desk and regarded Steve seriously. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you what's in there."
"It's not any of our business," Steve replied through gritted teeth. His fingers dug harder into his arms.
Coulson shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, mirroring Steve. "It might be."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Steve demanded softly.
Coulson frowned at Steve and said bluntly, "The other guys working on this case think you're the reason he shows signs of being sexually assaulted. Now, I know it wasn't you. Not everyone else is quite so sure."
"I've never touched him," Steve rose to his feet, propelled by anger, and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. "I would never make him…I completely respect the way he is, and I wouldn't ever pressure him into anything."
"I know that," Coulson reassured him, holding up his hands innocently. "My colleagues aren't as sure. Help me out, give me something to work with here; has Bruce been seeing someone?"
Steve shook his head and sank back into his chair, the anger seemingly draining from his body. He stared down at his hands where his fingers were curled into loose fists. "I…no. He's not…"
"Has anyone made any kind of unwanted advances?" Coulson asked.
Steve hesitated a moment before he shrugged almost imperceptibly. "I…there is this one guy…" he shook his head and set his lips into a thin line. "It's not my place to say."
Steve peeled off his shirt and tossed it into his gym locker before pulling out the loose blue t-shirt. He shut his locker door and plopped down on the end of one of the benches to tie his shoes. He was tired, honestly; sometimes he found it difficult to get back to sleep without the sound of Bucky's heavy snoring in the next bed over.
Steve was jarred out of his thoughts by the sound of a body being shoved into the lockers and Ross's cold, taunting voice saying jeeringly, "What's wrong, Banner, are you afraid you'll catch yourself eyeing me up a little too long?"
Steve tensed and tightened the knot of his shoe before rising to his feet and listening closely, ready to interfere if things got out of hand. He knew Bruce wouldn't appreciate him being too overprotective, but the sound of Ross's voice was enough to set him of edge already. He'd never liked the way Ross looked at Bruce, or talked to Bruce, and he'd especially hated the "accidental" touches when he brushed by Bruce in the hallway that were closer to him feeling Bruce up than anything. Bruce gritted his teeth and put up with it, reluctant to talk about it or tell anyone what was going on. Steve had attempted to bring it up more times than he could count, but Bruce always blinked at him innocently and said he didn't know what Steve was talking about.
"You'd rather have me out here so I could look at you?" Bruce replied sharply, his voice quiet but strong. "I didn't realize you were interested."
The sound of a body hitting the lockers again sent Steve into action, and he whipped around the corner to find Bruce being shoved into the lockers by an angry looking Ross. Ross had an arm across Bruce's throat, and damn it that Banner had to go and make enemies with one of the biggest guys in school. Ross towered over Bruce, and ducked his head to hiss into his ear, "I'd be careful how you talked to me, Banner, or I might take it as an invitation."
"You wish," Bruce gasped, reaching up to dig his fingernails into Ross's arm. He dragged them across his skin, drawing blood, but Ross didn't let go. His other hand was preoccupied with wandering down to the waistband of Bruce's jeans.
"I swear to God, Bruce," Ross spoke so lowly Steve could barely hear him. His mouth was centimeters from Bruce's ear, so close his lips probably brushed Bruce's skin. "You will come crawling back to me; you're mine, you belong to me, you always have, and it's about time you recognized it."
Steve managed to insert himself between Bruce and Ross before Bruce hauled back and punched the taller boy in the face; the last thing Bruce needed was to be dragged into the office and suspended for fighting again. Bruce always came back to school nursing more bruises than he'd left with. Steve grinned tightly down at Ross and placed his hands on his chest to push the light haired boy away. "Hey, calm down, guys. Ross, just leave Bruce alone. He wasn't bothering you."
"I'm just curious about what he's hiding under all those layers," Ross's eyes flashed maliciously and he sneered at Bruce. "You've never wondered why he hides in the showers to change?" When Steve didn't reply, Ross's eyebrows drew together and he eyed Steve with renewed interest. "Unless you've already seen." Ross shot a glare back at Bruce, rage twisting his features into a grimace. "Is that why you don't want me? You're putting out for him?"
Steve's expression remained stoic, but his stomach went cold as his repressed suspicions flooded his mind at Ross's mention of Bruce hiding something under all his layers of clothing.
"Well, in that case, you won't mind this," Ross grinned and managed to get an arm around Steve to yank the hem of Bruce's shirt up.
It didn't expose much, just a strip of skin maybe an inch wide, but it was enough. Dark, painful bruises marred Bruce's pale skin and blossomed all along the waistband of his jeans. The ones over his hips and stomach were especially dark. Bruce managed to yank the hem of his shirt back down, blushing bright red with embarrassment. Steve felt the hot flush in Bruce's cheek where it was pressed to the back of his neck. Steve shoved Ross away from both of them and snarled angrily, "I said stay away from him, Ross."
Ross's upper lip curled and he paused for a moment, examining Steve closely. Steve was tempted to let out a deep breath when Ross finally took a step away. He could feel Bruce's chest heaving against his back, and the smaller boy's fingers curled into the back of Steve's navy colored shirt tightly.
Ross's gaze dropped from Steve's face to glare at Bruce for a moment, but nodded stiffly before stepping away, saying, "Whatever. Don't worry about it, Banner. I'll have to find you some other time." He turned on his heel and strode towards the door through the deserted locker room and into the gym.
Steve sucked in a deep breath and moved to release Bruce from where he was pinned to the lockers. Bruce let go of Steve's shirt and crossed his arms across his chest, ducking his head so his thick curls fell into his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably and forced himself to look up at Steve, but was obviously shaken by what Ross had said. He cleared his throat and said softly, "Thanks, Steve. But I had it under control."
"Hmmm," Steve hummed doubtfully and eyed Bruce carefully. There were dark circles under his eyes, which weren't necessarily unusual, but they worried Steve nonetheless "I couldn't listen to him talk to you like that. About you like that, I mean. It's sick, Bruce. He has no right to even think of you that…that way."
"He can think whatever he wants," Bruce snorted, digging his fingers into his arms. The words obviously caused him some discomfort, and Steve could see him struggling with the thought of Ross imagining him like that.
Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek and shook his head shortly, reaching out to rest a hand on Bruce's arm. Bruce had a point, but that didn't stop Steve from wanting to beat Ross's face in for ever making Bruce feel like this. He hesitated before he suggested softly, "If you talk to someone…"
Bruce's eyes flashed and he picked up his books from where they were stacked on the bench. He clutched them to his chest and snapped, "I can take care of myself, Steve. I know that might be hard for you and Tony to believe, but I am perfectly capable of handling myself. Just…just leave it alone, alright?"
Steve was stunned by the outburst and gaped silently at Bruce as the younger man strode out of the locker room clutching his books so tightly his knuckles were white.
"I do find it interesting," Coulson commented lightly, flicking through the papers in front of him. He could feel Tony's eyes on him, watching him, trying to determine his next move. "That Banner has an IQ that is well above genius level, that your principal tells me that he feels Bruce's intellect can't even be measured on the same scale, yet he is barely passing his classes."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "What, you want me to complain about how arbitrary that test is and talk about how the American education system is crap? Everyone knows that."
"Don't avoid the question," Coulson smiled coolly. "You're smart, Stark, but you make your mistake in thinking everyone else is stupid. Maybe that's why you like Bruce so much. He can keep up with you, but you don't have to compete for grades."
"That has nothing to do with it," Tony's sarcastic smile immediately dropped and he glared at Coulson, his expression solemn and serious. "He's my best friend, and I'm not going to cheapen that by letting you define our relationship with another goddamn number."
Tony tapped his foot impatiently, keeping an eye on the door of the locker room as he checked his email on his phone. Bruce was usually the last one out, because he waited for everyone else to change, but everyone had filed out five minutes ago and there was still no sign of Bruce.
The door was pushed open again and Tony opened his mouth, ready to complain about how they were going to be late for English, but groaned when he saw it was Steve. "Damn it, Rogers, I thought you were Bruce."
"We do bear a striking resemblance," Steve said dryly, and Tony had to hold back a small smile.
He forced him lips to turn downwards in a scowl. "Fortunately for Bruce, you don't. Where is he?"
Steve got that deer in the headlights look that Tony usually associated with his reaction to being asked about Bucky. He rubbed the back of his neck (in a very Bruce like way, Tony noted irritably) and replied slowly, "I…I'm not sure. He ditched class."
"He ditched class?" Tony drew his eyebrows together skeptically. "What happened?"
Steve cleared his throat and admitted softly, "Ross cornered him before gym in the locker room. He…he said some things, roughed him up…I pried them apart and Bruce disappeared."
"What did Ross say to him?" Tony narrowed his eyes and glared in the direction Ross had gone when he'd left the locker room. He was so fucking sick of Ross and how he treated Bruce. It was disgusting. If he had to tell Bruce one more time that it was okay that he didn't want to sleep with Ross, that it was his choice, and that he had nothing to be ashamed of, he was going to scream.
Steve blushed and murmured quietly, "Just…just some bull about how Bruce was his, and how he was going to…to come crawling back to him. His…his hands kind of…wandered, before I could get in between them."
"That's not the worst thing he's said to Bruce," Tony said gruffly, jerking his head in the direction of the science wing of the building and taking off. Steve hurried to keep up with him, glancing back uncertainly at the Spanish classroom he was supposed to be heading towards. "What did you say to him?"
"I just told Ross didn't have the right to talk to him like that, or think of him like that," Steve said tersely. He hesitated a moment, and Tony could tell there was more. "And I…I said that maybe, if he would talk to someone…"
Tony groaned and quickened his pace. "Damn it, Steve. You had to open your mouth."
"I wanted to help," Steve offered weakly, lengthening his stride to keep up with Tony. "I didn't mean to make him more upset."
"Well, you did," Tony snapped. He suddenly found himself being grabbed by the shoulders and slammed in to the wall of lockers on the side of the hall.
Steve had been considerate enough not to shove him up against the protruding locks, but the metal still dug into his back uncomfortably. Steve met Tony's gaze steadily, his blue eyes solemn. "Listen, Stark, I know you don't like me all that much, but you know perfectly well that I care about him."
Tony put his hands on Steve's chest to shove him away roughly. "I know you do. That's what I'm freaked out about."
"Freaked out about?" Steve repeated softly, releasing his grip on Tony's shirt and taking a step back. "Why?"
Tony swallowed hard and ducked his head, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably. "Because it scares him, too."
Steve stared at him for a moment, unsure of what Tony meant. Tony cleared his throat and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. His eyes flickered up to Steve's face and his gaze hardened. He jabbed his finger into Steve's chest and said forcefully. "And if you hurt him, if you make one move that he's not okay with, if you ever make him feel like shit for anything he does, anything he is, I won't fucking hesitate to wreck you, Rogers. And don't think I can't do it."
Steve's eyebrows drew together and he looked down at Tony, confused. "Is this the talk you gave everyone else when they told you they cared about Bruce? I have the feeling Natasha wouldn't take well to being threatened."
Tony rolled his eyes and muttered something about how 'two people who are so fucking oblivious deserve each other' before storming away down the hallway. Steve trailed after him, perplexed at Tony's reaction. Tony held up a hand and called, "Go to class. I'll talk to him. He won't want you to see him upset."
"Tony—" Steve started to protest, but didn't get a chance to argue his case before Tony had ducked into one of the deserted labs and slammed the door behind him. He could hear Steve jiggling the knob for a moment before cursing softly and striding away, evidently giving up for the time being. Tony had no doubt he'd find Bruce after school to talk to him.
He turned to glance around the room, expecting Bruce to be in his usual spot at the counter in the back corner of the room. He started slightly when he realized Bruce was sitting on the floor in front of the counter closest to him, his back pressed against one of the counters and a notebook open on his lap. He was writing something frantically, his face creased with concentration. Tony wandered over to him and plopped down next to him, remaining silent for the time being. He had to evaluate just how upset Bruce was before he tried to say anything.
He looked down at the page, trying to discern what Bruce was working on.
It didn't look like anything specifically; it was just a long string of equations, but Tony figured it had some sort of significance in Bruce's mind. Bruce would probably want the papers burned when he calmed down, for fear of his father discovering them.
"Hey, Bruce," Tony laid a hand across the paper, stopping Bruce from writing and forcing him to look up. Bruce reluctantly tore his gaze from the paper and met Tony's eyes, chewing nervously on his bottom lip. Tony smiled at him reassuringly and asked, "What are you working on?"
"Just some equations," Bruce made a vague motion with his hands and twisted his lips into a frown. "I mean, theoretical stuff…I can't…I'm not…"
"Hey, it's alright," Tony cut him off before he could start to panic again, resting a hand on his knee. "Don't bother trying to explain it to me, I can't follow half that stuff anyway."
Bruce raised an eyebrow doubtfully, his eyes clearing slightly. "Don't do that."
"What?" Tony asked innocently, squeezing Bruce's knee reassuringly. "Touch your leg, or talk?"
"Shut up," Bruce muttered, a faint smile crossing his features. He tilted his head back against the counter and let his eyes fall closed, taking a deep breath. After a few moments, he spoke up softly, "We're late."
"Ms. Gray will understand," Tony brushed off Bruce's concern, knowing that he wouldn't have a problem talking his way out of this. It helped that most of the teachers had a soft spot for Bruce; Tony attributed it to the fluffy hair. "Take a second if you need it."
Bruce nodded, inhaling and exhaling a few more times before the knots in his shoulders unwound slightly. His Adam's apple bobbed almost imperceptibly when he swallowed hard before he spoke again. "I shouldn't have snapped at him. He just wants to help."
Tony pursed his lips and tilted his head in reluctant agreement. "He's got good intentions. You, however, were apparently fairly shaken up at the time."
"I wasn't shaken up," Bruce denied flatly, glaring at Tony out of the corner of his eye.
"Funny," Tony leaned back against the counter and gazed up at the ceiling with faked interest. "I'd probably be shaken up if a guy twice my size pinned me to a locker, felt me up, and threatened me."
"It's not anything new," Bruce said softly, hunching forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He buried his hands in his hair, tugging at the wild curls with his fingers. "I'm used to it. It's not a big deal."
"You shouldn't be used to that," Tony shook his head indignantly, sitting up straight. "Listen to yourself, Bruce; you're used to being sexually harassed by that ape?"
Bruce shrugged and dropped his arms to his sides, turning his head to look up at Tony helplessly. "What am I supposed to do? Tell someone? What do you think they'll do, realistically, Tony? At best, they'll drag me in for a physical exam, and that opens up a whole new can of worms."
"Maybe it's about time some of those worms made their way out of the can," Tony muttered, rubbing his hands over his face tiredly. He hadn't slept well the night before. His parents had been fighting down the hallway in their room, and he couldn't make himself fall asleep before they'd stopped.
Bruce gave him a weird look. He reached out and rested a hand on the crook of Tony's elbow lightly. "Are you alright?"
"Me? Yeah, of course," Tony pushed himself to his feet, hoping Bruce didn't notice the way he swayed slightly. He reached down and offered a hand to Bruce to help him up. Bruce took it reluctantly. Tony frowned when he felt how easy it was to lift Bruce from the floor; despite Tony's best efforts, he couldn't force Bruce to eat. Bruce eyed him suspiciously and pulled his hand out of Tony's once he'd righted himself.
Bruce cleared his throat and demanded softly, "Roll up your sleeves."
"Why?" Tony asked automatically, his stomach going cold. His heart jumped to his throat and his breathing become slightly more labored. He reflexively felt for his inhaler in his left pocket.
Bruce went a shade paler and crossed his arms over his chest. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and serious. "Let me see your arms."
"I don't see why—"
"Tony," Bruce snapped shortly, a thin line appearing between his eyebrows. "Please just…you've looked tired and stressed lately and I just want to make sure…please…"
Tony swallowed hard and turned his head away from Bruce, unable to maintain eye contact with his best friend, but rolled up the sleeves of his long sleeve shirt. Bruce reached out and gripped his arms, examining them closely and being extremely careful not to touch the thin white ridges that crisscrossed the soft skin. Satisfied, he let go of Tony and took a step back. Bruce let out a shaky sounding sigh of relief and turned away from him, covering his face with trembling hands.
Tony cleared his throat and said quietly, "I promised. And I haven't stopped taking my meds. I see the doctor at least once a month."
"I know," Bruce agreed, his voice edging on hysterical. "I just…you've been…I know it's not…"
Tony moved closer to Bruce and reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder. As much as he'd beaten himself up and destroyed himself during his breakdown a few years back, he's dragged Bruce through just as much shit.
Bruce tensed for a moment under his touch automatically before he relaxed and turned to face Tony, his expression schooled back into being calm and pleasant. Something deep inside Tony shifted and cracked at the sight of how easy it was for Bruce to look okay, and he flung his arms around Bruce, struck by a sudden surge of emotion warming his chest. Bruce's arms snaked around his waist to return the embrace, and Tony buried his nose in Bruce's thick hair, inhaling the scent of cheap soap and cigarette smoke. He wasn't so much of a hugger himself, and Bruce normally shrunk away from physical contact, but he had to admit that it felt good, it felt safe, when they did embrace. He'd woken up wrapped around Bruce more times than he cared to admit on nights when they'd stayed up to work late, and he always slept better with Bruce around.
Tony drew away from the tight embrace, not letting go of Bruce's bicep quite yet. His lips twitched into a half smile. Bruce looked a little embarrassed, and he swiped at the corners of his eyes irritably. Tony squeezed his arms and said reassuringly, "I'm okay, Bruce."
Bruce nodded gratefully, clutching at Tony's shirt. Tony let go of Bruce's arms and Bruce released the front of his shirt reluctantly. Tony smoothed out his clothing and smiled widely at Bruce, his snarky, charming mask firmly back in place. "I guess we should try to figure out an excuse for Gray. I was thinking about going with the old 'we got stuck helping Logan lug in the new gym equipment he ordered for his classes'. He'd cover for us if she asked."
"Alright," Bruce agreed, in that faint voice that Tony had learned to associate with exhaustion. Tony pulled open the door and held it for Bruce, allowing the smaller man to shuffle through before him.
He jabbed at the small of Bruce's back as he passed by, causing the other man to jump and let out a surprised yelp. Tony grinned at him innocently. "Don't look so grim."
"I'm not," Bruce insisted sharply. "That's just my face."
Tony rolled his eyes and let the door close behind them.
In the deserted lab, the pages of a plain blue notebook rustled in the breeze from the open window.
So there you go. I hope you all liked it *chuckles nervously*
Things will get intense, I promise. There will be more action soon (hopefully).
Please review if you have a second, I love to hear from you:)
Thanks for reading!
