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6: Teacher's Lounge

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Bruce pushed back from his desk with a sigh. Pen capped, he tossed it to rest in the seam of the Bannertech inside cover he'd been trying to personalize and scrubbed his eyes. The image of Natasha posing on his desk was still there when he opened them, clear as a holographic image.

It would probably be days before he could get any meaningful work done in his office without distraction. All part of the fun, he supposed. Standing, he made an attempt at a frustrated noise, only it came out more of a laugh.

He wandered over to the aquarium lighting up the center of the floor to ceiling bookshelf. He watched the five green pufferfish of varying types swim across his amused reflection. Tony didn't know how to give a gift without a wink in his eye. Polypheme and Whopper floated to the top of the tank, anticipating a third absent-minded feeding.

The fish were fed. His office had never been tidier. Actual work was impossible. Natasha had left the building a half hour ago. He should leave.

Bruce had stayed on the settee when Natasha had peeled herself off the leather and him. She'd perched, naked, in his chair and, with a few keystrokes, bypassed his security. She'd scrolled through the dossier, nodding here, editing there. She'd put on her bra and dress. Her panties she'd hung from his monitor. Modest lace and cotton — nobody would have guessed they were hers. She'd gone around the desk to don her cardigan, complete her costume. Both feet on the other side of doorway, Natasha had said, like she always did, "See you when I see you, Doc." Bruce had raised an arm in farewell. He'd said plenty already.

Bruce had gotten dressed but stayed in his office when she'd returned to his lab a while later, duffle bag, Clint, and Steve in tow. He'd listened to the three of them call dibs on who would drive to the airfield, who'd take the first shift of the unchartered flight. He'd flipped through the mission specs as they'd raided his stores. Six countries in ten days, real spy stuff, complete with the tedium. He'd pictured Natasha in a dusty room in Marrakesh, her bare feet propped next to a scanner, a bowl of pistachios in her lap that she alternated between eating and flinging, depending on how bad the jokes got. Bruce had never wanted to go on a mission before.

That was an issue. Running his mouth was another. Natasha's arrangement. Tony's fish and Tony's office. Bruce found solace in pleasures of someone else's design, found it easier that way to stop himself wanting more than he could take. Natasha had a way of making him forget that sometimes, but at least he could count on her to put him in his place.

Bruce left his borrowed office and rode the elevator to another indulgence, this one planned. Unlike most other floors in the Tower, the windows of the study had been done up to look like actual windows, complete with curtains. An exact replica of the library wing of the New York City mansion Tony had grown up in, Pepper had informed Bruce the first time they'd bumped into each other here.

On the end table next to his habitual stuffed leather chair, a mug, a self-heating kettle, and a stack of journals were waiting for him, just as Dara had offered. Along with them was a note: 'Dear Dr. Banner, You may tell Tony Stark he can stop sending me robots. I was suitably impressed, by your contributions most of all. Consider me a partner. Warm regards, Helen Cho.'

Bruce let himself relax into the chair muscle by muscle and poured the tea. The first sip was as delicious as the clerk had promised. He cracked the page of the first journal, excited to see the issue was about the latest in East Asian research on cellular recreation.

Overall, he was inclined to call this a good day.

He was one mug of tea and one article down when the speakers opened and Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" started blaring, followed by Pepper's trilling laughter and some kind of insinuation from Tony. Bruce froze. There was a bearskin rug about three inches from his feet.

"Tony — JARVIS, stop the music."

"Add a record scratch."

Tony and Pepper both laughed when JARVIS complied.

"Don't worry, Bruce." Pepper's voice carried from around a bookcase. "We know you're here."

Oh, thank God.

The pair appeared fully clothed, one arm wrapped tight around each other. Tony carried a bottle of champagne and Pepper three glasses. She swayed, but Tony kept her upright.

"Too much sun," Tony explained, bringing her over to the adjacent sofa.

"Too many cocktails," Pepper added, smile luminous. "I made Tony go to all the meetings today. Hours of them. Alone." She laid her head down on Tony's shoulder and turned her grin on Bruce. "Sweet revenge."

Tony brushed his hands over Pepper's skin, which looked warm even from where Bruce was sitting. "Worth it. You look great."

While they kissed, Bruce poured himself more tea.

"Woah, slow down there, party animal." Tony said. He held the champagne aloft. "Dr. Cho's people called my people. We're celebrating."

Pepper clinked one of the glasses she was holding against the other two. "Well done."

Bruce tried to return her smile. "You two didn't fly all the way back here just to — " A glass was shoved in his face as Tony stood.

"That's exactly what we did," he said. "U-Gin is a huge get, and I'm all about the responsible fiscal expansion of our company today. Aren't I, honey?"

Pepper leaned around him. "I have a baby shower to attend tomorrow." Her tone was one of reassurance. "Tony's pouting."

"You want a baby shower, you say the word," Tony said, tipping the champagne bottle against Pepper's glass.

"Loud and clear," Pepper agreed, gazing back up at him. "When we're ready."

"Eighty-four percent?"

"Eighty-eight."

The grins in their voices were audible even as Bruce stared into his champagne. He wished they'd done the toast already, if only so he'd have something to do with his hands.

"To Bruce," Pepper cried, thrusting up her glass.

"To sealing the deal," Tony added with a lusty wink. "You're a bit out of practice, but I'm sure the good doctor was gentle."

"Ha, ha," Bruce allowed, clinking glasses and taking a long drink. There was a certain smug satisfaction to be had in a secret; Natasha had never been wrong about that.

After downing her glass, Pepper fumbled into Tony's inside jacket pocket and pulled out Bruce's tie. "We found this on the floor of your lab, and Tony's been cracking wise ever since."

Bruce took it back, stopping himself from tripping over an explanation. Nothing incriminating about a tie. Were Tony to rifle through his desk draws on the other hand — that would be the start of a long conversation and, depending on how it went, the end of an arrangement. Natasha wouldn't hesitate.

A very unladylike sound issued out of a very embarrassed Pepper. "Excuse me," she said under her hand, teetering further into the study.

Tony settled back on the plush sofa, calling after her, "Need me to hold your hair?"

"That will never be necessary," was her muffled but dignified reply.

Tony leaned toward Bruce to refill his glass. "Think I should warn her that Stark fetuses don't play fair?"

"I think she knows you well enough to have guessed that, Tony."

He smiled and gave Bruce's knee a couple pats. He plucked up the note, eyebrow perked. "Well, well. I knew you'd have Cho eating out of the palm of your hand. Koreans, culturally speaking, respond very well to humility. Don't ask how I learned that."

"I bet they'd respond even better to not being stereotyped."

"See, you're sensitive, too. Women love that," Tony said, irony thick. "But, really, how high did the sparks fly?"

Bruce was already shaking his head from the joke, now he did it in earnest. "Tony, no."

"Come on, Banner. She's yours to a capital T for type. And she already has the hots for your research. 'Consider me a partner," he quoted, emphasis salacious. "That's an invitation to, ah, collaborate if I've ever heard one. And I have."

"I'm not discussing this."

"Too late, mon ami. The seed has been planted. I already have your visits to Seoul on the docket. She doesn't like robots? I'll send her a man and tickets to the opera. Story writes itself."

Tony toasted. Bruce just drank.

"We have got to figure out what to do about Romanoff, though."

Bruce choked, but kept himself from coughing. "What? Why — uh, what do you mean?" Smooth.

"Dara's reports are incredibly comprehensive. Romanoff putting in an appearance at your lecture? Romanoff coming down to the gift shop to comp the tab and promise autographs? She's up to something."

Lots of things simultaneously, no doubt. An ego boost for him, and for her — "Maybe she just wanted to make a good impression." Nobody wanted to be the bad guy all the time. And, with SHIELD gone, she didn't have to be anymore. Bruce wondered if that had truly sunk in yet.

"Spycraft. She's collecting assets. She's got JARVIS running some Privacy Protocol, and he won't tell me anything about it. Unless you've remembered who your real friends are, buddy?"

"I assure you, sir, Ms. Romanoff's protocol is well within her rights as a resident."

Tony threw an incredulous look Bruce's way. "He doesn't even have bodily urges, and she's somehow got him defending her. How does she do it?"

"'Each of the residents of this Tower is afforded a full and complete level of privacy to be determined at their own discretion.' I am quoting Ms. Potts," JARVIS returned.

"And doing me justice, JARVIS." Pepper's posture was almost back to its usual level of discipline, and she came to stand over Tony with her hands on her hips. "What are these accusations? Are you bored?"

"She didn't even send me the complete mission specs; Hill forwarded them to me."

"Oh, well that seals it. You light the torches, I'll get the pitchforks." Bruce made sure it came out soft and wry, but there was an edge there. Anger on her behalf, maybe. Maybe chagrin at being the last one to speak up. He put the champagne aside and freshened up his tea.

Tony gestured around the room. "Assets and allies, this is what she does." He held out a hand for Pepper to help him up. "HYDRA survived underground. Why not SHIELD? Can you even picture Romanoff without an agenda?"

Something bitter and sweet wrenched up from Bruce's chest, spread over his lips. From behind his mug, he said, "Sounds like a fantasy."

"Thank you. All I'm saying."

"I have a fantasy," Pepper interjected.

Tony's attention turned on a dime. "Does it involve practice making a baby Potts-Stark?"

She cupped her hand to whisper into Tony's ear for a long moment.

"Geez, not in front of my folks." He turned Pepper toward the colossal portrait of Howard and Maria Stark hanging above the empty fireplace, then swooped her into his arms, bouncing her to make her squeak twice.

Pepper's fingers waggled at him over Tony's shoulder. "Remember to eat something before you go to bed."

Rounding the corner, Tony said, "Enjoy your bang up evening, Friar Tuck."

Bruce snorted. Tony had broken out that nickname the last time he'd pledged to get Bruce laid. Only this time, Bruce had a smug little secret and Tony couldn't tell the difference. Dramatic irony or proof that Bruce was a lost cause?

Or maybe the diffeƒrence was that Tony wasn't trying to get Bruce laid, he was trying to strongarm him into a happy ending. Like Howard Stark before him, when Tony had quit the playboy lifestyle, he'd struck a reservoir of traditional values. Tony wanted a wife and kids and a legacy worthy of passing down. These were sentiments that could fill a man with virtue and pride, Bruce remembered. They should have demanded caution, but more often inspired shortcuts.

So now he lived on borrowed pleasures. A stuffed leather chair, the best tea money could buy. Revolutionary tech and collaborators who saved the world. An arrangement with a whip-smart, unpredictable woman who'd seen something in him worth putting on her agenda. Less than he wanted, more than he deserved.

Natasha, she wanted less, deserved more. She couldn't see it, but maybe he could teach her to. The idea filled him with a guilty sort of anticipation. He could picture an ending for them now. He'd be a learning experience, a small but integral part of her future happiness, and — for all the mess they'd made of the past — they'd look back on each other in fondness.

Bruce chuckled, out loud and at himself. Optimism as a coping mechanism. Even at his age, he was still learning. There was wisdom in that, at the very least.

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