kore_logs | i don't want a lot for christmas

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i don't want a lot for christmas

Who: Bruce and Tony.
When: Day 24, after the party.
Where: Tony's room, house 6.
What: After a lot of innuendo-laden build-up, Tony finally delivers his present to Bruce.

By the time the party's wound down, Bruce is ready to leave. Nothing against the party; Bruce just hit his limit on being sociable and is looking forward to the walk home. Wintery nights are always more refreshing than summer ones, something about the cold air doing more to help him recharge and reset. He enjoyed his time in warmer climates, more than anything, and he was certainly surrounded by people in Kolkata, but he didn't have to talk to any of them; he could disappear into the crowd there, become some other nameless face, and that's refreshing in its own right too.

Not that his walk back is free from socialization, since he guides Tony back to their house, but that's okay. In general, Bruce doesn't bother himself with what people think about him because he assumes a default negative opinion, once they know the truth, or he just tries to be the pleasant, unassuming guy with a quiet sense of humor in the background. That takes enormous pressure off him. With Tony he's realizing he can assume a default positive opinion, and that's not easy to accept, but Tony's been presenting his case pretty convincingly.

He's also glad to usher Tony inside and start leading him down the hall to his room because Bruce is extremely excited -- though he's trying not to be -- about this present. It's been talked up enough that Bruce is fully prepared to be massively disappointed. Better to brace for the bad and be surprised if it's good, is his way of thinking.

He helps Tony through the door, then follows after him and pulls it shut behind him.

"Alright, here we are." He starts to do it casually, then remembers Tony can't see, and so he just openly starts looking for anything that might be a present.

"Just you and me, no interruptions," he teases, sliding one hand into his pocket. "What should I do to prepare myself? Sit? Strip?"

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For a man about to do something that could get very embarrassing very fast, Tony’s remarkably calm and unconcerned on the walk back to the house. It’s a nice night. The party turned out to be surprisingly entertaining, blindness and general captivity notwithstanding. And he’s leaving in the company of one of his best friends. His Seeing-Eye Bruce, as he’d referred to him, and if there’d been something slightly possessive about it, in his mind if not in his voice when he’d said it, he isn’t dwelling on it. Or acknowledging it.

It isn’t until they’re inside and heading toward his room that he starts to feel the first vague, topsy-turvy tendrils of anxiety twisting in his stomach. By then it’s too late to stop this, and anyway, he’s Tony Stark. Like he’s going to let a little stage fright put him off. He’s been practicing. He knows he can do this. It’s going to be fine.

Or Bruce is going to run out of the room in horror.

Tony’s a gambling man. He’s relatively certain that the odds are in his favor with this. And even if he wasn’t, it wouldn’t have prevented him from rolling the dice anyway.

He doesn’t sit down when they enter his room, opting instead to stand in the middle of it and gesture to Bruce to sit down. The bed, the ugly recliner he drug into it when he could still see, anywhere’s fine. And really, he should just get on with it, but Bruce’s offer to strip completely derails him.

“You should definitely strip. And sit down. And then give me about three minutes to complain that I can’t see you once you’re naked. Because that is just so not fair.”

"Oh sure, I'll strip, but you're not allowed to touch," he says, thick with sarcasm. In other words, how could he know? Bruce is playing this game the right way, right? This is how things are supposed to go, he thinks, and he's glad that he's figured out Tony's game well enough to play along. He hesitates, looking between the chair and the bed, and then he opts for the bed to prove that he's totally okay with joking around. He's even playing along enough that he's relaxed enough to sit on the bed!

Well, the edge. Then he has to make himself scoot back before he falls off.

"Okay, I'm ready. -- Are you good? Do you need any help?"

“That is not fair. That’s like—” He waves a hand in the air, trying to find a good analogy and failing miserably. Largely in part because he’s listening for the telltale rustle of clothes that says Bruce is actually doing it. “Like dangling a cookie in the face of a starving man. You are a cruel man, Bruce Banner.”

Only apparently he is not quite that cruel. Tony doesn’t hear rustling clothes. He doesn’t hear much of anything, except Bruce’s voice coming from the direction of the bed.

“No, I’m not good. You’re still wearing clothes.” But he’s joking, his tone’s too light to be serious. He’s also fidgeting slightly, playing with his hands, and he realizes that just like flirting, trying to perform in front of Bruce without being able to see is a lot harder than it would be if he could watch his face for any expressions that told him that he hated it.

Raking a hand through his hair, he takes a step closer. “Okay, but seriously, if you hate it, stop me. Don’t just—I’d rather you tell me to stop than let me keep going if you’re not into it. Deal?”

Bruce isn't really going to strip; he might have to bail out of this game of chicken there, so it's good that they stop there. It's easy to forget about that when Tony's so nervous, which Bruce is just starting to pick up on; that gets his attention, because no one's this nervous or fidgety over a joke, and especially Tony, or so Bruce thinks. He stops smirking, stops bracing himself for disappointment, and just focuses on Tony.

"I won't hate it." Whatever it is, he's sure of that, and his tone is gentle and reassuring. "I promise. Just show me."

Come on, Banner. He needs to let go of his expectations, and reorient; when was the last time he really got a good, surprise Christmas present, anyway? Any kind of grand gesture?

He’s going to hate it. But that’s okay. Tony can deal. And while it makes it difficult because he can’t see his face, it also makes kind of easier too.

Taking a deep breath, he shakes out his hands and puts them in his pocket. Exhaling, he takes them back out and lets them hang loosely at his sides. “You know, the original plan was Backstreet Boys, but not being able to see kind of screws up the whole dance routine I had planned.”

Which is the only warning that Bruce is getting before Tony clears his throat and launches into an a cappella version of a rock song that, after spending entirely too much time thinking about it, thought fit this whole situation fairly well.

“I sit alone and watch the clock
Trying to collect my thoughts
All I think about is you”

Unable to see, and not being able to hear much over himself, it’s easy for Tony to ignore the fact that he’s got an audience. And ignoring it, and the fact that he’s probably traumatizing Bruce for life, lets him relax into it a little more.

“And so I cry myself to sleep
And hope the devil I don't meet
In the dreams that I live through”

He doesn’t stop when he reaches the chorus. He probably should, but he’s on a roll now, and unless Bruce stops him, he’ll finish the whole damn song.

“Believe in me
I know you've waited for so long
Believe in me
Sometimes the weak become the strong
Believe in me
This life is not always what it seems
Believe in me
Cause I was made for chasing dreams…”

Bruce doesn't hate it.

...is the most understated way anyone could possibly describe Bruce's reaction to this. To say he's surprised is also an understatement, as this is the last thing he would have thought Tony would give him. Once Tony starts singing, Bruce is transfixed, going completely still as he listens, and watches, and wow -- Tony's a good singer. Magnetic in his stage presence, just as he's magnetic in everything else he does, and he lures Bruce in, until Bruce's world whittles down to Tony.

The lyrics, too, cut right through him, and he thinks maybe they're supposed to be part of the joke, but there's a note of sincerity underneath, in the way Tony's said these things to him, in the way he's convinced Tony sees Bruce like that. The romance is part of their running gag, he's sure of it, but as Tony keeps going, as Bruce notices he's so engrossed that he's holding his breath, he realizes...

Well, in the immortal words of a valley girl, he's majorly, totally, butt crazy in love with Tony.

Okay, love might be stretching it, might be early to call, but he knows what his eyes are filling up with, and it isn't within their friendly, joking parameters. God, he's so glad Tony can't see his face right now.

When Tony's done, Bruce isn't sure how to react, because he's pretty sure he should just walk up to Tony and kiss him.

"That was," he stops and clears his throat. He's actually choked up, and Tony might be able to hear that. There's definitely no amusement here, no mocking, no disgust. "That was really, really -- you're a really good singer." Wow, none of that is at all reflective of how much that meant to Bruce, but he's trying to play it down so he isn't a complete... wreck.

"I don't even know how to say... thank you. There's no way... There's no thank you that would be enough, not for that."

He could hug him, but now he's afraid to get too close to him, so he just stays on the bed, hunched and small.

It’s been a long time since he actually sang anything in front of anyone who wasn’t JARVIS. There have been plenty of times over the years when, alone in his workshop, he would belt out any number of songs, all of the rock variety and all a little too enthusiastically. But that was with JARVIS, who didn’t mind and only mocked him gently for it.

Singing in front of Bruce, singing to Bruce like some idiot from a sappy romantic comedy, is another story entirely. It’s a real performance, one that he legitimately tries to do well. And by the time he’s done, he feels like a nervous teenager asking someone out on a date for the first time. It’s not a feeling he particularly likes, or ever thought he’d feel again.

“For what? For finally stopping?” He hears how strange Bruce’s voice sounds and he doesn’t know what to make of it. Or the compliment. Tony knows he’s got a decent voice, but that doesn’t mean he knows how to accept anyone having anything genuinely positive to say about it. Making light of it is a defense mechanism to which he automatically turns. “I told you to stop me. You should’ve listened.”

He picks his way over toward the bed, managing not to walk into anything in the process, and reaches out, feeling around for Bruce’s arm or his shoulder or something.

“It’s not a tangible thing, I know. Presents should be tangible, but I can’t see and there’s not much here that’s worth anything to give you. I thought about putting a bow on my head, you know, like ‘here’s your present,’ but even I knew that was lame.” He’s rambling again. “Are you sure you’re not—Did I upset you?”

And then Tony has to go and get close to him, hand on his shoulder, but Bruce would've been able to keep it together and maybe brush it all off and resisted endangering himself. It's the insecurity in Tony's words that convince him that he needs to stow his feelings, get over his extremely unfortunate crush, and focus on Tony because Tony gave him something incredible, and it's unfair of Bruce to let his realization get in the way of that.

Wordlessly -- Tony rambles enough for the both of them -- Bruce stands up and pulls Tony into a hug -- facing front, this time, even if this time is a little more dangerous even than their last hug. He wraps his arms around Tony and sets his chin against his shoulder, but then he decides it should keep going -- that maybe he should pay back that hug, that maybe he should hold on until he's sure that insecurity is gone from Tony.

"Thank you," he mumbles into his shoulder, then sets his chin on him again so he can talk. "Presents don't need to be tangible, and you've already given me so much -- "

Watch it, Banner. He squeezes Tony tighter.

"But this was really... amazing. I mean that. Do you believe me? I loved it." His breath hitches at that last part.

Okay, Banner. Stop.

Because he can’t see, he’s startled by the hug. Not much. Certainly not enough to step back or wiggle away. It’s only a slight flinch, provoked by his inability to see it coming and prepare for it, but he does it, and the instant that he registers the hug for what it is and the way he’s just reacted, Tony wraps his arms around Bruce and hangs on like he’s going to try to get away.

It isn’t you, he thinks, so vehemently that it’s like he’s trying to use telepathy that he doesn’t possess. I didn’t know it was coming, don’t you dare think it was you. There’s no way to say it without sounding like an idiot, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets the tightness of his grip on the back of Bruce’s shirt speak for him.

“A bad drawing and a song isn’t all that much.” It’s such a token attempt at dismissal that he doesn’t know why he does it at all, save that it’s so automatic that he’s saying it before he realizes it.

Making an inarticulate sound in the back of his throat, audible annoyance at himself for not knowing the right way to act here, Tony leans his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder. “You’ve given me a lot too, you know. But this, this isn’t—It’s not enough. The world’s taken so much away from you, and I know I can’t give it back or make it right, but I can try, right? I can do something. So it’s—This is me trying. Right now, it’s music. Tomorrow it’ll be, I don’t know, ducks. Just, just go with it.”

The flinch doesn't bother him because he'd flinch if he were hugged -- he did flinch when Tony hugged him first. He just keeps holding on, long past when he really ought to pull away because this isn't healthy, not for him, not when he knows how he's interpreting this. Clearly, though, Tony needs it, and Bruce is trapped between him and the bed -- that makes it okay, doesn't it? That means he can hang on a little longer, right?

Bruce's laugh is so broken that he hopes he can pass it off as still just being inappropriately emotional about his private concert, and not a specific reaction to what Tony's saying. He has given Bruce just about everything -- everything he's willing to accept right now, and then more, because Bruce went and broke the cardinal rule here. He isn't playing the game the right way anymore, and he doesn't know what that means yet.

But he can't push Tony away, not right now.

"Ducks. You're going to catch me a duck?" I don't need a duck. I need you. Sure, Banner. Dream big.

"I've had seven years of Christmas on my own." He was invited places, some years, not every year, and he turned down one, once, not wanting to get too close to anyone. He draws back, hands sliding to Tony's hips, and he catches his eye. The emotion in them now is acceptable, as it's mostly gratitude, of an infinite variety.

"A good drawing and a song is everything."

He takes Bruce’s laughter as a small victory. Small, because it doesn’t sound quite right, but victory nonetheless, because he’s still laughing. He isn’t talking in that oddly choked voice that makes Tony think there’s something wrong. Other than the obvious, of course. There are a lot of things wrong; with the town, with the circumstances of their continued presence in it. He doesn’t want to inadvertently add to the wrong by upsetting Bruce on top of it all.

Tony doesn’t mind how long the hug’s lasting, that it’s stretching out beyond the boundaries of a normal, friendly hug between two friends. Part of that is selfishness and he knows it, because he likes being close to Bruce as it is and the loss of his sight has only emphasized that. The other part thinks that maybe Bruce is gleaning some comfort from it too, for whatever reason, and that alone makes it worth it.

“Or geese or other forms of waterfo… Look, I don’t know. It was the first thing that came out of my mouth. It was stupid, but it was spur of the moment. I can at least get a pass for that, can’t I?”

Bruce is pulling back and unless he wants to look like a weak, desperate fool who can’t let go – he doesn’t – he has to, too. Letting go of his shirt, Tony slides his hands over his shoulders, lets them slip down the front of his chest just a little before he remembers common decency and withdraws them.

“If I ever get my sight back, I’ll draw you some more.” He smiles, one of those I’m kidding but I’m not really kidding smiles that means he’ll get started on it as soon as possible. “Bruce and Tony’s excellent adventure through the music industry. I can even throw in a few songs, make a soundtrack.”

There's a lot wrong here. If they were at home, and he figured this out, he would be gone before the week's out. Here, he doesn't have very far to run, so he has to figure out what's the best way to protect himself -- which is a selfish consideration, particularly when Tony can't see, and he can't really talk himself into cutting and running when Tony still needs him. But what's he going to do if Tony never does get his sight back?

Okay, Bruce is getting ahead of himself. So he's got feelings for Tony; if he tells himself it's never going to happen and makes sure to keep himself in check, maybe he can survive this. He can put up with a lot of things, after all.

Oh, look, his first test. Tony's comfort with touching people, with pushing buttons, means he can't back away without winding Bruce up a little, and again -- it's a good thing he can't see in case anything shows in Bruce's face. He clamps down on the impulse to suck in a breath, so at least he doesn't get to hear that.

"It's not stupid. Maybe it'll lay a golden egg. This place, who knows." His hands slip off Tony and come together in front of him, fingers locking together, as he starts the painful process of closing himself off to Tony, as much as he can. The bad thing is, he doesn't know how possible that is anymore; Tony's so good at prying at him, and Bruce doesn't know if he can block him out.

"I love it. Kenzi plays drums, maybe we can get a band started." Which Bruce means in that I'm kidding because I never really do anything that impulsive way, but when he gets mixed up with Tony, those things he jokes about tend to come to fruition.

Like, you know, feelings.

“Golden eggs aren’t going to be much use in a place without money,” Tony reminds him, not knowing what to do with his hands now. His default option is his pants pockets, so that’s where they go. At least until he has to move from this spot. “Unless they’re magical golden eggs. We could probably use some magic.”

Not that Tony’s comfortable putting his trust in magic. But it came in handy during the search for Bruce and maybe it could help him restore his sight and Steve’s voice.

“I’m down with starting a band. There’s got to be some old instruments lying around. Even if there isn’t, they’re not that hard to make. Primitive people were making them centuries ago. I’d like to think we could handle it.”

He doesn’t realize that Bruce is uncomfortable. He can’t hear anything unusual in his voice, and without being able to see his expression, or his body language, he’s only got his sense of hearing to rely on. Right now, it’s not much help.

“As a founding member of the band, you can call dibs on your instrument of choice.”

"Alright, then, regular eggs. I'll take those. We all could use some." Their dwindling food supply is something to think about, depressing and scary and far more grounded than his silly affection for Tony. Yes, Banner; depress yourself. That'll do the trick.

He sizes Tony up, then touches his arm gently so Bruce can get by him, squeeze out from between him and the bed. Considering the circumstances, that's not really a good place to be at the moment, or ever. He drifts away, walking slowly and not fighting the awkward hovering of his hands, unable to settle any place in particular.

"I'll take the triangle and the clapping parts," he says, gently teasing. "My guitar skills aren't up to snuff. And I can take backup vocals. What about you? Lead singer, right? Do you need an instrument?"

There isn’t anything he can do to prevent Bruce from walking away without being obvious about it. And no actual reason to, either. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. So why he feels an inexplicable sense of loss as Bruce moves past him, Tony doesn’t know and refuses to think about too deeply. It’s just paranoia, after all; his weakness, exacerbated by the blindness, and the fact that Bruce disappeared on him once. Nothing more.

“You can do more than that, though for the moment, I’ll take it as a temporary measure until we get the equipment we need.”

What would he do in a band? Tony doesn’t know. Rock stars, or pop sensations, don’t generally have need for pianos. “Sing until we find someone better? Then I’ll, I don’t know, play the keytar or something.”

Bruce finally finds a place to occupy him when he stops at Tony's dresser, and he reaches out to fiddle with one of the knobs, something to channel his nervous energy into. He really should leave, but then it would be rude to leave Tony on his own when he might still need help; he'll stay until it seems like Tony's ready to be on his own. He'll kick Bruce out eventually, right?

If not, he'll leave. He can do that. He's walked away before.

"Keytar?" There's laughter in his voice again, and he looks up to wrinkle his nose at Tony. "You play piano?"

“It was my mother’s idea.”

Does Bruce know how rare it is for him to talk openly about his parents? Tony isn’t entirely certain. Bruce is perceptive. He may have never stated it, but it’s possible he’s picked up on it.

“She wanted me to be a gentleman. The old-fashioned, old-world kind, I guess. Etiquette, piano, dance lessons; I can greet you, play a song, and waltz you around the room to it without breaking a sweat. I could also saddle up a horse and ride off into the sunset afterward like a real Disney prince, sing-along and all.” He can’t see, but he can still roll his eyes and he does. “Personally, I think she saw Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty too many times.”

His mouth twists into a wry smile. “How badly have I ruined your opinion of me now?”

Bruce doesn't really know, but he can guess, as he isn't big on discussing his parents much either. During their conversation the other day, it became pretty clear that his parents are a touchy subject, and he suspects that hearing about them now is a result of that. He and Tony have reached a point where apparently there's no topic that's off limits, which is strange and new for Bruce. He can't not respect that Tony's opening himself up here.

So instead he takes the dangerous route and tries to imagine Tony growing up, learning all these things, and he rather unfortunately allows himself the mental image of Tony as a Disney prince, waltzing him around the room. Bruce isn't that romantic, but he is that silly.

"Is that supposed to ruin my opinion? Isn't that what people used to aspire to be?" His voice is fond, amused, peppered with his light sarcasm, as usual. He's glad he's able to keep himself so well under wraps.

"I'm guessing you didn't enjoy any of that."

“Not really, no.” That’s an understatement. Maybe the way he huffs as he says that gives it away. It certainly isn’t a secret. “I wanted to be down in the garage taking the car apart. Or rewiring the TV. Not—” Here his voice takes on a British accent, and because the only British accent he’s familiar with is JARVIS, it sounds like he’s doing an impersonation of him. “—learning where the salad fork goes and the proper way to fold a napkin.”

Dropping the accent, he rolls his eyes again. He also backs up and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Bruce told him something intensely private the other night, it’s only fair that he does the same.

“She was always disappointed in me for that. She’d had such high hopes, and the only thing I wanted to do was get greasy playing with machines. He was too, but less because I wasn’t turning out to be a high society man and more because I just wasn’t as good as him. Having a loser for a son when you’re Howard Stark is a pretty big blow to the ego and he never let me forget it.”

It’s not at all as horrific as what Bruce’s father did, so he doesn’t dwell on it. Just grins again, like it’s no big deal. “I can make a pretty awesome napkin hat, though. Not such a big hit at the fancy dinners, but a diner during late-night birthday celebrations, they’re the best.”

"I like a good napkin hat." He's still fiddling with the dresser knob, one hand in his pocket, but the distance between them feels longer than it really is. With most people, he keeps his distance, but here it's an affect, a tool he's using to keep from making things worse for himself. He's still chewing over that idea in his mind, in the background.

"They're more useful than knowing where the salad fork goes anyway. And so is rewiring a TV." He frowns, tapping his finger against the knob. He isn't fooled by the grin, and whether or not what Howard did is to the same scale or not doesn't matter because this is Tony's upbringing, and he obviously didn't feel loved or wanted for being what he is, and neither did Bruce.

"They should see you now. Everything you've done, the man you've grown into. Maybe you didn't want to be a society man, but you remembered what she wanted you to know. And there's no way your father could say you're not as good as him now."

Deciding, he pushes away from the dresser and sits next to Tony, too close; their shoulders touch, but he has to give this the right way, no matter what his feelings are. He leans in, mouth near Tony's ear.

"And you're not allowed to call yourself a loser again. I think you know why." He should; it's a mirror to Tony telling Bruce that he shouldn't call himself a monster.

Tony has never met the woman that, since meeting Steve’s girlfriend, he has been privately thinking of as Bruce’s Peggy Carter. He knows next to nothing about her, save what was in the file SHIELD had given him about the Hulk incident with Thaddeus Ross. Yet part of him envies her for what she’d had, just as part of him feels a strange sort of resentful dislike for her for having given it up. Because he wishes he could be what Bruce wants, what he needs, and he knows that he’s none of those things.

He’s a good friend, though, even if he isn’t what he wants to be, and he knows he can continue being that good friend. It’s all he’ll ever have.

A fine, tiny shiver makes its way down his spine when he hears Bruce’s voice in his ear. Dimly, he wonders if this is how he felt when it had been Tony whispering in his ear, but he dismisses it as foolishness. If anything, Tony figures he was probably wishing he’d just get out of his personal space. And with that thought, he knows he shouldn’t act on the impulse that grips him. He knows he should just let it go. But he’s never been one to do the right and appropriate thing, he can’t imagine why he’d start doing it now.

Feeling Bruce’s shoulder pressing against his own, Tony uses it and what he knows of his mannerisms – how he holds himself, what he does with his hands – to try to triangulate where his hand is. It’s too hard. Sitting like this, there are too many chances to miss and send entirely the wrong message, all flirting aside. Touching the arm next to his own, he slides his hand down to Bruce’s, meaning to settle his over top of it.

“I won’t if you won’t,” he says, leaning pointedly against his shoulder. “Deal?”

Bruce loves Betty, present tense, and some part of him always will. It wasn't easy for him to walk away from her, but it'd been the right thing to do; there's no way he could have stayed with her, and no way he would've brought her with him into the life that he was leading. She deserves more than that, better than that, and he hopes she's happy with whoever she settled down with. He considers that part of his life over, though; they can't go back to that, or they shouldn't.

And now there's Tony, another mess that Bruce doesn't know how to deal with, but he is everything he wants, everything he needs; he's been that since the moment they met. In retrospect, he doesn't know why he's so surprised to be sitting here, full up with the want for something that can't happen -- or won't happen, no can'ts about it.

He bites his lip to hold back the intake of breath when Tony reaches for his hand, but he does turn his hand over to catch it, letting their fingers link together.

"Deal." He bumps their shoulders together lightly to make this more of a playful thing than what it currently is because he can't take this seriousness for too long, not without wanting to -- to do something he really shouldn't do. Instead he smirks, not that Tony can see, and he frees his hand from Tony's so he can instead link their pinkies together.

"This is a binding contract now. No take-backs."

“Uh oh, breaking out the big guns, huh?”

A half-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as his head dips down. It’s only been a day since he lost his sight, not enough time for him to get used to the fact that he doesn’t have to do the same things anyway. He can’t see their hands, he doesn’t have to try to look toward them. Perhaps he will always need to turn to the people to whom he’s speaking, to do anything else seems rude and dismissive, but the other things, little gestures and automatic responses, are no longer necessary.

It’s a depressing line of thought, and he resolves to explore it later, once Bruce has gone for the night. There’s no reason to wallow in misery and ruin the one thing he actually enjoys about this place.

“You can’t get more serious than a pinkie swear.” Tightening his around Bruce’s pinkie, Tony shakes his hand once, firmly. “And there you go. It’s set in stone now."

Letting go of Bruce's hand, Tony sets his down on his own leg, idly picking at the fabric of his pants. "So how'd you like the party?"

He notices Tony dip his head, and it is a numbing thought. He needs to get to work on figuring out this rash of blindness, but his equipment is limited and he isn't sure what he should do. Maybe he ought to talk to Anna; she offered her help caring for people in emergency situations. He'd go to Mina since she's apparently powerful, but he doesn't have much faith that she'd actually be interested in helping anyone anymore. And then there's Kenzi, too, a whole other problem outside of Tony and Steve and Galen and Blaine and who knows who else.

No, he has to stop that train of thought. He'll figure something out; he'll talk to someone else, Anna or Castiel, he offered help too. He can't let the guilt consume him.

At least they have that "set in stone" -- that neither one of them is allowed to let himself get too far down the road of self-loathing, or he'll just have to deal with the other one pulling him back. It's as close as Bruce can get to telling Tony what he's really feeling, but then, that's pretty close.

"Better than most parties, but exhausting. It was partially a PR campaign for me, you know. I want to stay in everyone's good graces. What about you? Did you have fun?"

“It was?” That actually surprises him, and he turns to face Bruce even though he can’t search his face the way that he wants to. “I didn’t even realize...”

He stops himself just short of asking why, remembering at the last minute Bruce’s concern about the town’s opinion of him now that everyone knows about the Hulk. And maybe it’s telling, in its own way, how little Tony views the Hulk as a threat to allies and innocents, that he doesn’t always consciously remember that it’s an issue at all.

“Sorry, I should have…” Done what? How would he have helped the situation? Tony doesn’t know. “I don’t know. Done something to help you with that. Instead of just held up the wall.”

That’s a clue about Tony’s feelings on the party, but eventually he gets around to answering the question directly. “It wasn’t terrible. How’d that girl – Kenzi, I think her name was – put it? There wasn’t an earthquake and no one died, so bonus points for that.”

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