- - -Chapter 11: Not- - - - - - - - -
The distance becomes an issue with Betty. She and Bruce only get to see each other every few weeks, which doesn't do much for Bruce's libido. He's still not on Tony's level of needing sex three times a week, which Bruce will admit has died down on since they've become friends, but Bruce is a man, and Betty is ridiculously attractive, and every time Bruce is with her, he gets over Tony all more, so sleeping with her is a win-win-win situation.
One particularly long dry spell occurs over Christmas break when Betty goes to Orlando to visit her grandparents. By New Year's Eve, it's been a month and a half since they last slept together. Bruce still talks to her every day, trying to turn the Iron Skeleton into an Iron Man or laughing over Christmas absurdities, but it's hard to stay interested in pixels on a Skype-call screen when Tony is right there in the flesh, fingers covered in grease and smiling white, shiny, and kissable as he tests the torque on the Iron Skeleton's knees and casually comments:
"You know, Veronica would still be down to screw you if the Betty respites every hit you too hard.
"Bruce chuckles. "The Veronica that gave me the fake phone number, you mean? The only thing she'd do in a room with me is laugh at me."
The greasy cloth in Tony's hand lowers as Tony bites his lip and glances away. "Maybe not as fake as I made it out to be at the time. I might have altered the truth a bit to get back at you for usurping me as valedictorian back then."
Bruce picks up a wrench and points it at Tony. "One, that's a dick move that really doesn't surprise me considering freshmen-year-you was clinically terrible, and, two, are you telling me Veronica Mars actually gave me her number?"
"She likes thicker guys; what can I say?"
Bruce glances down at his bulging stomach and chubby arms, comparing them to Tony's paper-flat figure and incipient biceps. Keep the shirt on with Betty next time, Bruce notes.
Tony, meanwhile, continues unaffected. "You're a catch, though. In a dweeby, dorky, nerdy kinda way."
"Right," Bruce murmurs, but it still doesn't make sense. He barely eats. Everywhere he has to be, he walks. Karate every Wednesday at 7:00pm. Tony has even admitted before that Bruce is stronger than him. Why do his thighs touch? Bruce becomes increasingly aware of the puffy fat bloating his cheeks. With a cough, Bruce remarks, "I'm not super thick." Morbidly obese and disgusting, but not super thick.
Tony rolls his eyes. "You say it like it's a bad thing. Thick is the new thin. Even I like something extra to grab onto. They don't call them love-handles for nothing, Babblebrooks."
It's not better, but Bruce has always found it easier to pretend his anxiety doesn't exist when Tony is around. Now is a premiere example.
"Oddly enough," Bruce began, "I still find the nickname 'Babblebrooks' more offensive than 'Food Stamps.' And I think most women still prefer guys like you," he finishes with a gesture to Tony.
"The lovely Ms. Betty doesn't."
"Now, you," Bruce starts, wiping the oil off his fingers with Tony's discarded, black-stained rag. "I thought you didn't like her."
Tony looks up. "What? Where'd you get that idea?"
"You just get weird sometimes when I mention her. Less so now than in the beginning."
"I'm protective of my best friend. Sue me."
Bruce tosses the dirty rag onto Tony's forehead. "I don't have the assets to sue you." Tugging the rag off his face, Tony smiles and asks Bruce if he has any plans Friday night. Bruce doesn't, of course, but by the end of the conversation his Fridays are booked up for the next month.
Steve is surprised when he receives an invite to the Coulson's New Year's Eve party. He goes for the sake of Phil (who's been having a hard time adjusting to normal life ever since his, Natasha's, and Clint's stint in London ended) and stays for the sake of Peggy, his date, who insists on trying to sneak into where Odinsons keep their wine coolers instead of actually partying. They only get as far as the basement before Steve points out that there is nothing here and Peggy covers his mouth with her fingertip and puts her hand on his crotch and whispers, "Coulson's family doesn't drink," with a smile that makes Steve's knees shake.
They don't have sex—Steve is adamant about waiting until marriage—but Peggy's blowjob makes him cum so hard he sees colored dots. Afterwards, Steve pulls up his pants and notices his phone glowing with missed texts from Mom in his pocket. He pulls it out and powers it on, Peggy kissing his cheek and asking if everything is okay.
Steve. It's dad. There's been an accident. Please call.
- Mom
Steve drops his phone.
At school, Steve's dad is all anyone talks about. Steve's not in class, obviously, but Tony can tell from the pregnant tension in the air that everyone's hearts are with him. Pity Tony's heart doesn't work.
"No one dies from strokes. Not until they're eighty, at least," he says to Bruce on the way outside to lunch. There's a fresh powder of New York snow on the ground.
Bruce pulls the flaps of his hat over his ears. "Still, Tony, it's scary to have happen. I never knew my dad. He was a drunk, according to Mom, though my aunt maintains that Mom was the only one who drank between the two of them. Still, knowing someone and losing them or seeing them hurt is never easy. I might not be the best of friends with Steve, but I can sympathize with what he's going through. God knows you could, Tony," Bruce adds, giving Tony a nod. Tony sighs, brushing a clump of snow off the bench and dropping his lunch in Bruce's lap as they sit down next to each other.
"I don't want his dad to die, if that's what you're implying. I'm just saying, the whole school doesn't have to be crying over it. Mr. Roger's Neighborhood is fine, last I heard."
"You're probably right. I might text Steve later though to see how his dad's doing."
"You do that."
They eat in silence until Tony breaks it.
"Pity about Coulson's party, though. I heard you and Betty were having a great time in Mrs. Coulson's bed. It was the first time you saw your girlfriend in what, a month?"
"And three weeks. And no, we were just making out. Nothing noteworthy. And Steve's dad getting a stroke did sort of kill the mood."
"That asshole," Tony declares dryly. Bruce stares at him for a second, and then they both start laughing. For the first time since they've starting sitting outside together, Bruce doesn't notice Tony's leg brushing against his. Betty's thighs, naked and spread, are far more alluring.
Bruce does get a rain check with Betty later that week on Thursday. She's over Tony's house with Bruce, helping to debug the ongoing rotation issues with the Iron Skeleton's legs. After the first hour of work, Tony conveniently excuses himself, claiming he is going out for drinks and that no funny business should occur, especially not in Guest Room #3, which happens to be mysteriously unlocked, Tony adds with a wink.
They have sex. Bruce keeps his shirt on. Briefly, while his hands are full of Betty's breasts, Bruce wonders if this makes him bisexual or biromantic or whatever else a person could be. He likes women; he likes men. He likes Betty; he really liked Tony. Past tense. Bruce feels proud of himself for finally getting over his crush on Tony, even if it is just within the confines of his own head. After he and Betty are finished, Bruce leans in to kiss her and Betty stops, pushing him back teasingly. He leans in again, trying to capture her lips. His mouth ends up on a pillow.
"Would you knock that off?" he muffles into the pillowcase.
"Knock what off, Love?" Betty grins. Bruce pushes himself up and slides a sweat-stained hair out of his face and touches her arm, inching forward. Just as their mouths are about to touch, Betty pulls back again and starts laughing. It's a game they've done before, a thousand times, like running into receding beach waves and backpedaling when they wash back up. Today, though, it's different. There's no reason for it. No logic to the sudden urge Bruce gets to rip off his fingernails when Betty's guffaws scrape his eardrums. Bruce squeezes his fingers together, taking deep breaths.
"Okay," he manages, surprised by how calm he sounds. "Let's try that one last time, okay Babe? I just need to kiss you right now." It would make his fingers stop twitching.
Betty smiles and pushes towards him. Then, when Bruce's lower lip tickles her upper one, Betty jerks backwards, sticking her tongue out.
"Gonna have to try harder than that, Babblebruce."
Bruce squeezes his fist tighter. His whitening knuckles crack, and just as Betty starts to ask what's wrong, Bruce snaps.
"What is your problem? I asked you to stop; didn't I just ask you to stop?" he yells, Betty recoiling at the sudden loudness. "It's just a fucking game to you, right? Just a stupid game that doesn't mean anything, right? Right?"
"B-Bruce?" she stammers, halfway between confusion and fear.
"No, it's not right. Not right at all. If I ask you to not do something, don't do it. Is that so fucking hard to understand? Do I need to draw a picture for you? A fucking wireframe?" Bruce snarls. Betty gapes at him, her mouth open and her hands wide before she dashes for her bra and her bag and sprints out the room. "Wait, Betty, I didn't mean that!" Bruce starts, but he can already hear the front door slamming shut. She's gone.
Bruce sits alone in the guest bed. He doesn't move. His brain feels engorged, like it's going to snap his skull and come pouring out of him. Betty was being nice. She was playing around. Bruce loves that game. Teasing. Why did he scream? Nothing was happening. Nothing was wrong. He hadn't shouted at someone like that since that girl in the hallway freshmen year. Why now? What was wrong with him? A distinct urge to punch his arm passes through him. Bruce settles for mashing his forehead against the wooden bedframe until a bruise forms underneath his bangs.
When Tony comes back with a shopping cart full of drinks in-toe, he can't tell anything is out of the ordinary until he busts into Guest Room #3 cooing, "Please tell me everyone's decent in here!" and notices Bruce slouched on the bed with his forehead resting against the headboard. "Bruce?" No response.
Tony drops the bags from the cart and rushes onto the bed next to Bruce.
"What's wrong? Bruce. Hey, Bruce." Tony cups a tentative hand over Bruce's shoulder. "Why is your head bleeding?"
Bruce winces. He isn't moving, so Tony pushes his shoulder slightly to get a better view and—
"Do not fucking touch me," Bruce snarls, turning to him. A streak of blood drips down the right of his nose, and Tony's eyebrows arc up. He's never seen Bruce this angry before.
"Yeesh, what'd she do? Say hell-no to fellatio? Ask for butt stuff? It's okay if she asked for butt stuff."
"Can you be serious for five seconds? Or are you too shallow for that too?" Bruce continues. "Then again, I wouldn't expect you to know a thing about this. Not like you've ever had feelings for anyone or any-fucking-thing other than yourself."
Tony then pauses, his hand dropping from Bruce's body.
"And thanks, by the way, for lying to me about Veronica giving me her number when we first met. Shows just how trustworthy you are. Good to know this shit-friendship was founded a shit lie as well. Really what I needed right now."
"Okay," Tony says, face blank. He stands up off the bed and cracks his knuckles and neck. "Let's do this. Fight me."
"What?"
"You clearly need to spar, and I'm plenty fucking ticked off now to give you a good matchup."
"You want to fight me? I'd break your nose."
"Try it."
Bruce glares. Then he slides off the bed, wiping the blood off of his face. "Any rules?" Bruce asks.
"Avoid the aforementioned bone-breaking, if possible."
"Deal."
Tony punches first. He aims for Bruce's gut and manages to knock Bruce back onto the bed where Tony then lunges forward to get on top of him. Bruce's knee then connects with his rib cage, knocking the wind out of him long enough for Bruce to force him into the sheets. The pillows squish beneath Tony's back as Bruce's arms hold his own in a vice grip. Tony wants to give in, but he's too proud. Instead he sucks in some air and clashes his skull against Bruce's. Bells ring in his ears as Tony rams his fist into Bruce's jaw. Bruce's head snaps back and bangs against the bloody headboard, dazing him just long enough for Tony to straddle Bruce's chest and pin Bruce's arms down with his shins. Panting, Tony finally looks down at Bruce.
"You going to fucking explain yourself now?" Tony exhales. Bruce looks up at him, defiant, but not struggling. After a few seconds, Tony sees the exact moment the adrenaline rushes out of Bruce's head and the fucking terror sets in.
"Oh god," he says, face scrunching up. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Tony, I am so sorry."
"You're the one about to get a concussion. Not fair starting a fight if the other guy already has contusions on his skull. Self-inflicted, I'm assuming."
Bruce glances up, trying to see the lump under his bangs. "Is it bad?"
Tony runs his hand up Bruce's forehead, sliding his hair away from the bruise. He also shifts his shin, freeing one of Bruce's hands so it can feel the purpling wound.
"Oh Jesus Christ," Bruce says. At first Tony think's it's because of the lump on his forehead, but then he notices Bruce's eyes on the dirty patch Bruce's knee had left on Tony's shirt. "Didn't I knee you in the chest? Fuck, your heart is going to explode. Oh my god, your heart is going fucking burst."
"I'm tougher than I look. And, really, you feel that pitcher's mound on your forehead, and it's me you're worried about?"
"I just snapped." Bruce shakes his head, biting his lips as his eyes swell red. "I fucking spazzed out on Betty, and now on you. What's wrong with me? Wrong, wrong, wrong. Like fucking some monster; I'm sorry. Sorry."
As Bruce starts to panic below him, Tony slides down, freeing both of Bruce's hands, which Bruce immediately uses to cover his forehead.
"Hey, it's okay, um. Pal," Tony says. He's not entirely sure of the protocol for this situation.
"I wish you'd have hit me harder."
"Well, there's always next time, hey?"
Bruce chokes out a sound between a laugh and a sob. He wipes his eyes and then looks up at Tony. "You're not selfish."
"Yes I am."
Bruce continues as though he hadn't heard him, "And I don't care about the Veronica thing. That was ages ago."
"It was a dick move."
"You're my best friend."
"You're mine."
The look they share is electric, and Tony doesn't register Bruce sitting up or himself leaning down until the bruises on their chests are touching and Bruce's lips are against his own. They kiss for a half-second before Tony registers what is happening. Then he jolts back. His widened eyes catch Bruce's puffy ones as Bruce turns away shoves Tony off of him. Bruce's arms are shaking.
"I didn't just do that," Bruce says. "I didn't. Don't hate me; it never happened; I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry. Sorry."
The repetition is offsetting. Tony swallows a clump in his throat and nods.
"I told you I was like this. You called me 'low-maintenance'," Bruce chokes out with a laugh. "Me. Of everyone in the fucking world."
Tony doesn't know what to do. He's partially scared, but mostly worried. Words escape him, so Tony just grabs Bruce's hand with his own and lets Bruce squeeze.
"I can't stand myself," Bruce whispers, his head leaning into Tony's chest.
And what is Tony supposed to say to that? He can feel Bruce's tears wetting his collarbone.
"What do I say?" Tony asks. "Tell me what to say."
"I'm sorry." Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
And it is okay, really, Tony wants to say, wants to think, but no it isn't. It can't be. It never will be again. (Tony doesn't know how long they stay like that, but by the time Bruce is gone, the sun is rising, and Tony feels like he is going to vomit all over again.)