- - -Chapter 12: Coping Methods I - - - - - - - - -

Three weeks later, Steve's dad dies. Bruce hasn't talked to Tony since the night he and Betty broke up, but not for a lack of trying. Unread text messages—'I'm sorry', 'would now be a bad time to say no homo?', 'Can we just be friends again?'—litter the outbox of the phone Tony had jail-broken for him months ago. There's never once been a reply, not even a 'Read at: 3:24' that would have told Bruce that Tony was meaningfully avoiding him, which is fine, really. If Tony wants to be friends again, he will do it on his own terms, in his own time. Bruce just has to wait.

During one particularly endless day of waiting, Bruce's phone alights with a message from a number on his hotlist. His hotlist only has Tony and his mom on it, and Mom is at work, no texting allowed. Bruce all but pounces on his phone.

Bruce. Ur friend steve's dad was just rushed into my station. He's seizing intensely, found him collapsed on the side of the road; were transferring him to Mount Sinai now, call steve and tell him to get there ASAP I don't have his #
- Mom

It's not Tony; it's Mom. The disappointment barely registers through the haze of panic that inundates Bruce's mind. Does he even have Steve's number? Yes he does, of course he does; Steve had texted him when Tony was in the hospital. A second later, Bruce is tapping on Steve's contact and waiting one, two, three rings for Steve to pick up.

" Bruce? What's up? Haven't heard from you in a while."

"Your dad's in the hospital. Mount Sinai."

There's a pause on the line.

"Excuse me?"

"He was having a seizure on the side of the street by my mom's work. They took him in and are moving him to Mount Sinai. Mom says you need to get there as soon as you can."

Bruce hears Steve yell to his mom over the phone line. His voice is shaking when it returns to Bruce.

"Okay. Okay, my Mom is grabbing her keys. Text me if your Mom says anything else. Mom! I'm all set—yes, I'll grab my jacket—no Bruce didn't know anything else—let's just go already!"

The phone goes silent as Steve clicks off, leaving Bruce alone on the couch with misplaced anxiety under his eyelids that makes him want to dislocate his knuckles. He's getting worried over Tony not fucking texting him while Steve's dad is in the ER seizing his braincells out. What kind of person does that make him? Bruce bites his fingernails until they're outlined with blood. He's so pathetic. He wishes he had a knife.

There are no last words. No poignant 'I love you' or 'I'm proud of you, son' uttered in a final breath. Dad is cross-eye'd with drool slobbering down his chin, incognizant, inaccessible, and inhuman when the last flickers of color drain from his body. Steve doesn't know the corpse on the hospital bed. He doesn't know why Mom is crying over the imposter wearing his dad's skin or why his own eyes are watering as well.

Three days later, the shock still hasn't worn off. His dad is not inside the casket, being lowered into the ground; the muddy pair of brown loafers adorning his father's shrine are going to be worn again. Steve finds himself shaking when asked to speak about his father. The response he manages is kosher and faintly detached. Still, it makes his mother cry harder.

After the burial, Steve overhears his mom whispering to the funeral director behind the church. No one else is around.

"If you use our loan plan to pay for the service, then it will take about thirty-six months to pay off." Steve hears his mom gulp. The director continues, "It's eight-thousand total. You said that your husband did not have life insurance?"

"He was always so healthy," she says.

The director nods. "They always are. Well, I know it will be difficult to get this paid off, but I want you to know that we are here for you every step of the way, Ms. Rogers. There will be an interest rate on the payments, compounded annually. It will end up being about $220 a month for the first year, and then $240, $270 and so forth for each subsequent year."

"Yes, of course."

"Alright. I am truly sorry for your loss. God bless."

"God bless."

Eight thousand dollars. His dad dies, and his mom has to pay eight thousand dollars. It's wayward. It makes Steve want to punch something. (He settles for his pillow.)

By time he's back in school a week later, that urge still hasn't dissipated. Steve's thankful that everyone is mostly avoiding him, minus the occasional 'Are you okay?' and 'I'm so sorry.' Tony doesn't even acknowledge his existence, as per usual, which is a blast of normality Steve is grateful for. He couldn't handle it if Tony started feeling sorry for him too. It's not until Steve accidentally bumps into him in the hallway that Tony actually interacts with him.

"Steven," Tony says then pauses, glancing around before continuing in a lower voice, "Just a forewarning: my dad's been saying he wants to talk to you. I'd advise avoiding him at all costs."

"Your dad? Talking to me? Did he say about what?"

"No idea," Tony adds and walks past him towards his locker. Steve follows.

"Am I in trouble? Is that why you where whispering? Is it bad news? Good news?" Anything that can distract Steve from his dad's corpse for a few seconds? "Howard Stark is kind of a big name, Tony."

Tony sneers then says, "His big name and giant weapons are just overcompensation, Rogers. I neither know nor care about what Daddy Dearest wants with you. I'm just giving you a heads up. And the whispering was just in case Big Father decided to wiretap me like he did my first day of middle school."

"Right," Steve says after a minute, lingering by Tony's locker. "Hey, can I sit outside with you and Bruce for lunch today?"

A jarring stiffness jolts through Tony's body. Then Tony takes a long breath. "No. I don't sit outside anymore, anyhow."

"Why's that? I almost never saw you in the lunch room up until last week, despite the mounds of snow outside. Did you and Bruce have a fight or something?"

Tony slams his locker shit. "You can sit outside if you want, but I won't be. Goodbye, Rogers."

"Bye?" Steve calls as Tony struts away from him. Something is definitely happening between Tony and Bruce and if simply mentioning Bruce yields that kind of reaction from Tony. The drama is a welcome diversion from the disarray in his own life and from the two-hundred dollars due on the 31st that Steve knows his mom can't pay. As such, Steve resolves to at least find out exactly what is going on at Stark Mansion. Later, after a dinner with only two place settings, Steve sends Bruce a text while looking up Howard Stark's number in the yellow pages.

things ok b/t you and Tony? i asked him about u today and he seemed a little tense
-Steve

hey! you noticed how to do phone signatures. as for tony and me, there was a bit of a falling out. we're on rocky grounds right now but its fine. how are you fairing?
- Bruce

It's an innocent question, but the last thing Steve wants to think about at the moment is himself, so he pushes Bruce for more on him and Tony instead.

'rocky grounds'?
-Steve

more like protruding, boulder-ridden cliffs, but the metaphor holds. we fought at his house. it ended in punches
- Bruce

want me to talk 2 him 4 you?
-Steve

there's not much point in spelling out 'you' if you're just going to abbreviate numbers, steve. also no, its fine. i dont want to force anything
- Bruce

no force! promise. just plain, simple snooping! i can even get clint and maybe nat to help. loki too, tho I wouldn't trust him with anything 2 confidential
-Steve

wise man. but seriously, thank you and all, but there's no need to interfere. this just needs to run its course.
- Bruce

U know you can talk 2 me. I'll even use proper grammer.
-Steve

grammar*. also, shouldn't I be the one offering you a soundboard for your troubles?
- Bruce

i already have everyone else doing that. i just want something to take my mind off it all. also, unrelated, but tony said his dad wanted to talk to me about something, do you have his #? mr stark's home # isn't in the phone book
-Steve

who still uses a paper phone book? Its 212 356 0536—howard's personal cell number that he only gave to family and friends. if he told tony about wanting to talk to you, then he probably figures tony will give you it anyway.
- Bruce

alright, thanks man! keep in touch, seriously. i'll see you around and talk to you soon!
-Steve

Bye
- Bruce

Bruce Banner shuts off his smartphone and sighs. He gets that Steve wants some escapism—Bruce always found his through self-mutilation—but Bruce still isn't able to think about Tony without wanting to choke himself. Tony hasn't spoken to him for yet another week despite Bruce sending increasingly apologetic text messages every other day.

Thinking back to the kiss, Bruce swears Tony had kissed back or had, at the very least, leaned into it. Bruce isn't an idiot. He is an observationalist and an expertin Biology; he can tell when someone wants to kiss him or not. Flushed faces, dilated pupils, feet angled towards him. The slight parting of the lips. Every symptom was there, or so Bruce thought. For all he knows about Biology, Chemistry will always be his subject of choice, and even the most rudimentary of chemists can tell that chemical imbalances, especially from anxiety, can warp observations. Tony had probably wanted to puke when Bruce had kissed him. Or punch him again. The bruises from their spat, hidden under his shirt where no one can see, still adorn Bruce's bulging stomach. He has always hated himself without a shirt on. Now there's even more reasons to.

The only positive aspect of the bruising is that it quells Bruce's urge to harm himself. Whenever he feels like punching his arm, Bruce can just focus on the perennial throbbing in his ribcage and let that pain ground him. An hour later, when the worst of his wounds starts pulsing, Bruce turns on his phone. No new messages. The pain turns from a pulsing to a searing and doesn't go away until Bruce forces himself to another listless sleep.

That Saturday night, Tony is debugging Jarvis's sarcasm script when an unwelcome Howard barges into the lab.

"Oh fantastic," Jarvis drawls, making Tony smile. So the script is functional.

"Is that, um, Javin?" Howard asks. Tony ignores him. "That phone app you've been working on, right? Seems to be coming along nicely. Fits your personality for sure."

Tony needs to find a slang database to import into Jarvis. Having his AI mention 'dank memes' would probably make Bruce laugh so hard, he'd cry, Tony thinks. Then Tony's smile drops, and he remembers that him and Bruce aren't friends anymore. Footsteps echo against the tile as Howard walks over.

"Regardless, you need to get dressed," Howard says. "We're taking the Rogers out to dinner tonight at Masa's."

"We're what?"

"The reservation is in 30 minutes. You're clearly not doing anything dire at the moment."

"It's vitally fire, I can assure yo," Jarvis chimes, making Tony scowl.

Tony flips his hand over, turning to his father. "Why exactly are we taking the Freedom Fighters out for food, again? Steve's not my friend. If you knew anything about me, you'd know that."

"Nonsense; Steve's a good kid. And his father and I had corresponded briefly at a military event I was speaking at. That man had been in the first flight to utilize our self-piloting fighter-bombs back when he served in the air force."

"Wonder if he go that stroke because the self-piloter's emissions," Tony comments, fiddling with Jarvis's USB connector. Howard rips the cord out of his hand.

"Get. Dressed. We're going, and you're going to act respectfully. You of all people should know what he is going through."

Tony glances back at Jarvis. "I've never had a stroke."

"I was talking about Steve."

Tony glares into his father's eyes.

"'Course you were."

They stare for a little longer before Tony concedes, stepping towards the dresser. Since Tony moved back in, Howard has made a habit of barring Tony's lab access whenever Tony acted up. It's easiest to just go along with whatever Howard wants, Tony has learned.

At the restaurant, Steve is dressed in a pair of khakis and a button down shirt that couldn't have cost more than $17 at Ross's. Mrs. Rogers is in a black polyester dress with pilling on the sleeves. Tony expects Howard to make a sly comment on their wardrobe like he does with Tony whenever the hems of his jackets aren't perfectly aligned. Instead, Howard takes Mrs. Roger's hand and kisses it.

"You look beautiful, and your son cleans up quite handsomely," Howard says.

Mrs. Rogers flushes and laughs, her son doing the same.

"I wouldn't go that far, but thank you," she replies with a smile. The suit Tony is wearing is by Gucci, $1250 dollars, custom-tailored. Tony supposes taste doesn't matter, though, when it comes to Howard and the all-mighty Rogers.

Inside the restaurant, the four of them are placed in a sealed-off section of the bar corner where they can see chef Masa preparing the food. Tony and his dad sit perpendicular to Steve and his mother, Howard and Ms. Rogers next to one another, too close Tony's comfort, but Tony doesn't want to lose his lab access by pointing it out.

The Rogers and Howard talk about nothing. At least, Tony registers nothing. Howard reiterates the same war stories he always tells to people he's trying to impress, and Mrs. Rogers and Steve listen as though they aren't bored a quarter-way to death. Occasionally, Steve responds to Howard's tales with a saga of his own about the terrors of ROTC or a supposedly 'hilarious' training session gone wrong.

"So the mock-Captain throws a grenade into the middle of our circle, right?" Steve begins. Howard leans in with interest, and Tony swallows down a groan. "And I make an idiot out of myself. The Captain yells 'Grenade!' and everyone leaps for cover save me who, thinking it was an actual bomb, jumps onto the bomb and covers it with my body. I mean, there were at least thirty kids in the circle, and if one body absorbed the shock, I figured there'd be a better chance of more of them surviving. I thought I was going to get reamed, but the Captain was actually proud of me. Everyone called me 'Pounce' after that since apparently I leapt on that thing like a leopard."

"That's admirable. Not often you find bravery like that now-a-days."

"It's not brave, sir. I didn't even realize I'd done it until everyone was staring at me and the grenade was poking into my chest."

Howard shakes his head. "All the more impressive." Giving Mrs. Rogers an animated nudge, Howard whispers to her, "You know, you've raised a quality boy, you and your husband have."

"Thank you," she says.

Thirty, Tony thinks. Howard loses his shit over Steve fake saving thirty people? Is that a joke? Tony's made blueprints for machines that could save a thousand times that amount, and he doesn't plan on getting his head shot off in a battle field when he turns eighteen either. He'll have the rest of his life to continue helping people, and what will Steve get? A plaque in his name and some red-blue heart. Tony's more impressive than that. He knows he is. His dad is an idiot for not seeing it. Fucking brain-dead.

"You know, I've always tried to get Tony to try ROTC," Howard continues to the Rogers. "Never quite took to it, though."

"Because of the heart thing, right?" Steve asks. "I mean, I used to have mild asthma as a kid, and I never would have been able to get through basic training if it had stuck with me."

"Pity you had to keep breathing," Tony murmurs. Only Howard hears him, however, and hisses to his son:

"Be polite, for once in your lifetime."

"Sorry if I'm not buying into the stars and stripes here," Tony snaps, this time loudly enough for Mrs. Rogers and Steve to hear. Steve tries to ameliorate the tension with a strained laugh.

"Right, Tony always has the most patriotic nicknames for me. Stars-n-stripes Rogers is the most popular, of course. Always a laugh."

"I call you those because I don't like you," Tony says, resting his cheek on his hand.

Howard grabs his arm. "Is it so hard to ask for one good night with you? Just one?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"You're such a child," Howard hisses.

Tony scoffs. "You're the one gushing over Steve like he's some vintage Captain America card."

"Should we go?" Mrs. Rogers interjects, breaking the death-lock Tony and his father are in. Howard looks away first, taking a deep breath.

"Look, the food isn't even here yet," he says to her. "I'm sure Tony will be fine after he washes his face for a minute."

"I don't need to wash my—" Tony starts, but Howard glares at him with a scowl intense enough for Tony to know he doesn't have a say in the matter. He pushes his chair back and stands up. "Fine. Don't have too much fun without me," and he storms off to the restroom with as much control as he can muster.

Washing his face does help him feel a little calmer. He's no Bruce when it comes to stressful situations, but Howard makes Tony want to hit someone. At the moment, it's Steve, though it's not Steve's fault so much as it is his idiot Dad's. Howard has such a hard-on for soldiers. Of course he likes Steve better. Once Tony has scrubbed every facet of his face, he turns off the sink and steps back into the restaurant. Their food is on the bar, and the looks on Howard's and the Roger's faces look like a promo image for Full House, all disgustingly friendly smiles and familial chuckles. As Tony walks up to them, he overhears Howard after the laughter dies down.

"You're really something, Steven. Polite, strong, and driven. The marines will be lucky to have you." Howard pauses and sighs. "You know, I wish Tony could be more like you. He always—"

Tony turns around. He capsizes and steps out the restaurant in a trance, a bout of bile rising in his throat. It's not—the restaurant is too stuffy, the sea-food is vile, and Tony has better ways to spend his nights than hanging out with Howard and Saint Steven. Swallowing down his nausea, Tony glances around the outside of the restaurant to assess where he is.

Oh, Tony thinks. He knows this street.

Bruce looks at the rolls on his stomach and yellowing bruises across his ribs in the body-mirror attached to his bedroom door. E looks more disgusting than usual, he thinks, tying the purple bathrobe back around himself. Even a long, heavily masturbatory shower in one of the communal bathroom's stalls didn't make him feel better. He is still repulsive, fat, and dirty. After screaming at Betty, he can't even say he has a decent personality anymore.

As he goes to dry his dripping hair, he hears Mom knocking on the front door. She had told him that she would be working either a double or a single based on what the restaurant needed that night. They must have let her off with just the dinner shift.

After another second, the knocking starts up again, making Bruce sigh. Mom must have forgotten her keys, again, he figures. Or she left them at work. What she would do if Bruce actually had a social life and wasn't home twenty-four-ever, Bruce will never know. He towels off his hair and walks to the front door, cracking his neck as he pulls it open.

When he sees who it is, his stomach drops.

"Hey," Tony exhales, bracing his arms against the doorframe. "Your mom home?"

Bruce stares at him another second before his brain registers Tony's words.

"Um. No. Night shifts." As his senses come back, Bruce notices Tony is out of breath and wearing a suit that looks incongruous to the amount of sweat adorning his forehead. "Is something wrong?"

"Nope." The reply is quick and breathless. Tony steps forward. "I can come in?"

Bruce coughs. "Yeah, yes, sure. I just showered, I can change. Won't take a minute." He goes to turn around and Tony stops him.

"Bruce," he says.

"Present," Bruce spatters, eyes locking with Tony's. Tony moves his hand up to the side of Bruce's head and wipes away a drop of water that had fallen on Bruce's ear. Bruce's heart skips.

Inching closer again, Tony tilts Bruce's chin up with his thumb until their eyes meet and Bruce can feel Tony's breath against his lips.

"Take off your bathrobe," Tony says.

Bruce's response is barely audible.

"Okay."