"Great!" Tony clapped his hands and tilted his chair onto its back legs. "Well, now that's all sorted out, how about a real drink? No more of this tea bullsh-"
"I don't keep alcohol in the house anymore. I've been trying to rid my life of toxic substances, you see. That's why I shut the door on you, Stark."
"It's true, I am rather intoxicating, aren't I?"
"Why don't you stay quiet for a while so that I don't change my mind, yes?" Tony opened his mouth, clearly not inclined to taking her suggestion, but Bruce preempted him.
"If you don't mind my asking, how do you two know each other?" Sol stared at him incredulously.
"He really didn't tell you anything?" Bruce shook his head, and she leaned back in her chair, swirling her tea and considering her answer.
July 14, 2002, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Delilah fidgeted with the hem of her linen dress, glancing around at the glittering, glamorous crowd shifting and rustling around her. When Professor Rosen had said "formal wear," clearly he had a different definition in mind. She craned to see over the heads of the heavily-adorned multitudes, searching for her professor's crown of wild silver hair and kind, bespectacled face. Or, failing that, at least a stiff whiskey.
"Looking for someone?" Still on the tips of her toes, she jerked around, kicked her own ankle with the unforgiving heel of her shoe, and completed her 180 degree turn by toppling forward, clutching her wounded appendage. She braced herself, but instead of impacting the cold marble floor, she was steadied by a pair of warm hands on her waist. Looking up, Delilah found a pair of sparkling dark eyes and a wicked smile.
"I… yes. Do you know where I could find a medical professional to hover around? As you can see, these shoes are essentially a loaded Chekhov's gun." She blushed lightly, but, she was sure, visibly. The impish stranger hadn't taken his hands away from her torso.
"Sorry, I make it a point to steer clear of people who give sensible advice. But I would be happy to perform any and all hovering duties that you request. And as for the shoes…"
He bent down, removed both of his own impeccable, gleaming black dress shoes, turned around, and hurled them one after the other into the night. "Ahhhh. That feels much better. Your turn." Delilah was fairly sure that her jaw had dropped.
"Oh, right, my turn. Of course." Still staring, she lifted one foot off the ground to remove the strappy deathtrap thereupon. When she wobbled, the capricious man with the mischievous eyes steadied her by once again placing his hand on the small of her back. It sent a pleasant shock through her spine. She jerked off the shoe and threw it as far as she could. After a moment, they heard a muffled cry of pain from somewhere in the crowd. She winced and glanced over at her co-conspirator. He was grinning madly, and she couldn't help but laugh.
"Well, Mr. Stark, two minutes with my researcher and you already have her launching weapons. You do work fast." They turned to see Professor Rosen surveying the scene with his usual benevolent air.
"Rosen, buddy, how've you been?" Mr. Stark minced forward to grip the hand of the older man. "She's one of yours? I must say, your vision seems to have improved."
"Never better, dear boy, never better. But I won't have you making eyes at her. She's too young and far too ethical for anything you might have in mind, professionally or otherwise."
"I think I can decide that for myself, professor," Delilah interposed, and Stark shot her another grin.
"Damn right. Also, aren't you going to congratulate me, Rosen? I seem to remember a little bet we made when I left MIT."
"Oh, of course! Ten years running Stark Enterprises. I believe I owe you five dollars." Rosen began rifling through his pockets.
"I'll waive the forfeit if you'll plead my case with Miss…?" He looked inquiringly at Delilah. If he weren't so charming, he would be insufferable.
"Solomon. Delilah Solomon."
"Well that's discouragingly biblical."
"I'm afraid that I had very little say in the matter."
"I guess it can't be helped now. Oh, look, they're playing a non-funereal song! Come on, let's dance."
"Tell you what. Tomorrow, you can come by and brief me on the arc reactor situation, and I'll tell you a story or two about Stark."
"You're terrible at telling stories. No timing," grumbled Tony from his chair.
"And you have no sense of reality, which I believe is the greater narrative defect," she snapped back. She turned to Bruce again. "Stop by tomorrow and we'll talk." He nodded, drained his tea, and made to stand.
"Hold on, I'm not invited?" Tony demanded indignantly.
"Emphatically not. Goodbye now. I assume you can find the door." And with that, Sol had returned to the papers, leaving them to drain their tea (or, in Tony's case, emphatically pour it down the sink) and show themselves out.
The next morning, Bruce Banner took far longer than usual to get ready. He showered, brushed his teeth twice, flossed aggressively, shaved, and even tried to run a comb through his unruly mop of hair. If anyone had asked for an explanation of the extra ablutions, he would have been at a loss to provide one.
All he knew was that, at 11:00, after car ride spent in stuffy, oppressive silence shared with a marvelously groomed, meticulously mute chauffeur provided by Tony, he found himself once again in front of the attractive brick apartment building near Portobello Market, climbing two flights of steps, and lingering indecisively in front of the door.
There was no rational reason to be nervous. He had been invited, after all. But it seemed surreal, somehow, to knock on the door of a pretty woman's apartment. It was the sort of thing that normal men did.
Just as he finally made to rap on the door, files clasped tightly to his chest, it flew open of its own accord and Delilah Solomon careened into him in her haste to escape the apartment. He dropped the papers and seized her shoulders to steady her as she slammed the door on her own heels and tripped forward onto him. When she looked up and met his eyes, her face registered pleasant surprise that he was not used to inspiring.
"Dr. Banner. How smashing to see you," she exclaimed, blissfully unaware of her unfortunate choice of words. She regained her balance and raked a hand through her loose hair, smiling apologetically. "I would invite you in, but I was just in the process of fleeing."
"Fleeing?"
"Yes, fleeing. Annie-my flatmate-has company and, without going into too many details, there are..." she waved a hand vaguely, "...shenanigans transpiring." Bruce nodded sagely, biting back a grin. "So on the whole, it seemed best to leave her to enjoy her..." She trailed off, searching for a word.
"Lover?" Bruce provided.
"More gentile than the word I would have used, but that's the idea."
"Ah." Silence fell as they registered the intrinsic awkwardness of the situation: two near-strangers standing inappropriately close together in a narrow, fluorescently-lit corridor, treading on top-secret documents scattered across the floor, discussing sex and not breaking eye contact. Bruce realized that his hands were still on her shoulders and quickly dropped his arms.
"So," Sol began finally, looking away from Banner's (strangely mesmeric, she thought) dark eyes to survey the mess at their feet and raising a quizzical brow, "I assume that you weren't stopping by for a chat." Well, that wasn't encouraging.
"You invited me. Yesterday, remember?"
"Oh. Oh right! Sorry, I really must start writing these things down." She knelt down and began to gather the files haphazardly. "Are you enjoying England?" Banner joined her on the floor and mulled over his answer as he seized papers and shoved them into folders at random.
"I haven't seen much of it, actually. I'm not sure where to start."
"You ought to have someone show you around. Americans really shouldn't travel unescorted."
"You're probably right, but I don't know anyone else in London." Well, that wasn't exactly true. "I mean, I know Tony. But when I tried to walk with him he started trying out his various 'British' accents and I started wanting to try out a murder-suicide." Solomon buried her face in both hands and shook her head in despair.
"Good Lord, I thought I had broken him of that long ago. I'm so sorry that you had to go through such an ordeal. Please tell me that you didn't take him on the tube."
"I really do wish I could tell you that." Sol winced and patted his arm sympathetically with a black-gloved hand.
"You've really been through hell, haven't you? Normally I would offer you consolatory biscuits at the flat, but if you went in right now it would only add to the years of therapy that Stark has already made necessary. There's a lovely coffee shop just down the road, though. Do you care to join me?"
"Oh I don't drink coffee. Adrenaline doesn't suit me," he said with an ironic half-smile.
"Oh dear. If only there existed in England some other type of hot beverage commonly consumed with biscuits..."
"Alright, point taken," he conceded. "Are you sure you aren't busy?"
"Absolutely certain. Stark bought my job."
This time he grinned in earnest.
"Okay, then. Lead on."
Author's note: thank you to my reviewers, Rainbor123, gammawidow67, and the mysterious Guest. All (constructive) feedback is, positive or otherwise, is always welcome.
