Avengers fic: Snowball Fights
Title: Snowball Fights
Pairing/characters: Bruce Banner/Tony Stark
Rating: PG
Words: 1,900
Summary: Christmas in Manhattan brings snow
Warning: Fluffyness
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine
A/N: This is self indulgent Christmas fluff (a little late for Christmas...) and I am not ashamed.
It’s taken months, but around Stark Tower Manhattan has rebuilt, composed in a symphony of machinery and construction voices. When the last drill falls silent - or as silent as New York ever is - sleep comes easier to Bruce than it has in years, safe in the trust that he’s among friends.
Tony wouldn’t take no - or anything but ‘yes’ - as an answer, insisting that Bruce Banner belonged at Stark Industries. Silently he had prayed that Tony might ignore his warnings, give him a place in the world despite his disclaimers. He had quickly found himself attached to the newly rebuild Stark tower with all its sprawling laboratories of glass and metal and chemical reactions.
By day he loses himself in reactions and experimentations, conclusions drawn from science where everything’s simple and calculable. The nights he spends in the penthouse suite that Tony gifted to him; a whim that was never quite explained. Bruce doesn’t question it, finding he can’t question the kindness of the world’s peace force of one.
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For some reason as indecipherable as the man himself, Tony decides that he’ll spend Christmas with Bruce, and Bruce’s infinitely grateful for the fact. He’s despairingly prone to lonely Christmases filled with solo dinners. It’s been a long time since someone chose to spend the Christmas season with him.
When he walks down into main room of the living quarters one morning, he’s hardly surprised to find a two and a half metre tall Christmas tree standing in the centre of the room. He’s not sure how Tony got it inside the Stark Tower but he doesn’t bother to ask. There are two boxes of Christmas decoration in front of the tree and a sack of presents beside them.
“Don’t just stand there, Godzilla.” Tony’s standing in the door to his (sometimes vacant, sometimes used) room, watching Bruce with sharp eyes. “Deck that tree. What a shame we don’t have bells of Holly.”
“What a shame indeed.” There’s only a moment’s hesitation before Bruce walks forward to the boxes. Inside everything’s bright tinsel, coloured beads, fairy lights and bobbles that shine in the light. All of it’s still in their original packing, newly purchased, and he can’t stop the wave of appreciation that surges in his chest.
He picks up the first box he sees, filled with ornamental balls. Six images stare back at him, Tony Stark's face smiling up from the decorations. There’s a happy sigh and footsteps coming up beside him.
“It’s like Christmas, but with more me.” Bruce can’t stop the bubbling laughter.
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If he’s going to be honest, the tree’s only slightly more of a disaster than he thought it was going to be. Really it’s Tony’s fault for enlisting Butterfingers to help them. The vaguely incompetent robot had something of a seizure, sending the tree crashing down on top of Bruce.
It took them two hours to clean up the mess, reposition the tree and decorate it properly, without Butterfingers’ help. It stands tall and proud, tinsel dressed with a hundred Tony Stark’s staring down at them - Bruce counted. They grin at each other, caught in a strange feeling of triumph and Bruce has the sudden urge to hang mistletoe and dance around to Christmas carols.
Instead they ride the elevator down and go walking among the freshly fallen snow. Their footsteps stretch behind them, matching step for step as though the world wants to remember where they walked together. Somehow they end up in Central Park, sauntering along between the skeleton trees.
It’s just a whim, a random fancy with an untraceable origin, that makes Bruce scoops up a handful of snow and hurdle it at the back of that perfectly styled head. Tony freezes and slowly turns, face a mask of ambiguity. For a moment Bruce thinks he might actually be angry.
Then he’s ducking desperately as snowballs come spinning at him. There’s no choice but to return fire. Dashing towards the cover of a park bench, he bends and scoops up a handful of snow from the ground. It flies past Tony’s ear as the man dives behind a snow-laden bush.
Diving behind the bench, Bruce instantly starts gathering ammunition, snow seeping cold through his gloves. He’s got three snowballs in front of him when one splats against the wooden slats inches from his head. Tiny slivers of snow slip through and shower his neck, sliding down his back like frozen fingers tracing his spine. Distant laughter reaches his ears and instinctively his eyes narrow.
Carefully peering through the slats of the bench, he calculates the angle. Numbers come easily, lines of trajectories and numeric equations of velocity are sketched over reality. Hefting a snowball in one hand, he swings back and lobs the projectile into the air. It flies in a perfect arc, landing directly behind the bush.
There’s a muffled yelp and Bruce can’t stop a grin spreading across his face. He quickly grabs another snowball and sends it along the same trajectory. Another shout and it feels like satisfaction. Fingers stiff from cold, he reshapes the last ball, watching powdery snow slip and slide against his gloves. Again he throws along the calculated trajectory.
There’s no answer this time, no yelp or shout. Bruce frowns and glares through the slats of the bench, trying to glimpse even the slightest of movements. Nothing’s there, just a bush and snow and the rest of the park.
He hears the crunching footsteps at the last minute and there’s no chance for him to do any more than turn towards them. A figure’s barrelling towards him and he can’t see who it is. Then he’s being tackled to the ground, the breath whooshing from his body as he’s thrown into the snow behind him.
“Ha HA!” The triumphant cry echoes beside his ear, slightly muffled by snow. The body pressing his to the ground pulls away and Tony’s hovering above him, grin plastered across his face. “Looks like I win, Dr. Jekyll.”
“Cheater,” Bruce manages to wheeze, still trying to catch his breath. “You cheated.”
“So you have rules now?” Tony shifts backwards, happily sitting on Bruce’s stomach. “How quaint.”
“Fine.” He doesn’t have enough breath to argue, pushing weakly at Tony’s chest in an effort to get him off. “You. Win.”
“Once more with feeling,” the man replies, grinning widely down at his captive. Bruce glares at him furiously and Tony laughs but shifts his weight from the other man’s stomach. Gratefully Bruce sucks down air in great gasps as Tony watches with amusement evident on his face. “Leave some oxygen for the rest of us.”
“Was the sitting on me really necessary?” Bruce pushs himself up onto his elbows, lower body still trapped by Tony’s, although breathing is no longer difficult. “The other guy might have objected.”
“Since the other guy has yet to hurt me in anyway, I didn’t think it would be a problem.” Tony grins, knees on either side of Bruce’s hips. He scoops up a handful of snow and drops it into Bruce’s hair. “I guess I’m just too loveable.”
There’s crystalline sprinkles of ice running on the top of Tony’s eyelashes and in his mind Bruce sees the atomic composition of h2o. A soft red blush spreads on his cheeks, a by-product of the cold and Bruce thinks about homeostasis. His lips shine wet from melted snow and Bruce thinks about all the chemical reactions that control human desire.
Then he forgets to think and presses his mouth to Tony Stark’s. The heat between them is like a fire to keep them warm against the winter chill. Propped in the snow, Bruce’s elbows are frozen but warm hands circle his biceps and it’s not hard to forget the cold ground beneath him.
The kiss - and it is a kiss no matter how he may try to disprove the conclusion later - lasts a few seconds but it feels like longer. Finally he pulls away and now Bruce’s not the only one gasping for breath. Tony grins at him and Bruce braces for the snarky comment but none comes.
Instead the billionaire stands and offers Bruce a hand, pulls him easily from the ground. They turn around, eyes settling on the Stark Tower. Home. Side-by-side they walk back, stepping in their footprints as they go.
They almost make it out of Central Park, almost manage to get away.
“I know you two.” A man’s pointing at them, voice filled with distrust and fury. “You’re that Stark guy, Iron Man and the Hulk.”
“They are too.” A teenager joins in. “I’d know their faces anywhere.”
“Part of those Avengers they are.” Bruce curses under his breath. This is nothing new, nothing they haven’t encountered before, and he should’ve known better to go for a walk in Central Park, damn it. “They destroyed the city!”
“It wasn’t their fault,” an older man snaps back, the only one coming to their defense. Just their luck, running into a crowd of anti-superheroes.
Voices raise after that, fill the park with anger and resentment that follows them as they try to walk away. They’re at the edge of the park when the first snowball hits Bruce in the small of his back. It doesn’t hurt, doesn’t even throw his balance, but still a jolt of pain runs through his body. Another snowball catches Tony as he turns to defend his companion.
It doesn’t take long for the small mob following them to catch on. Snowballs pelt at them in a constant shower of ice. Seconds ago it had been fun. As he ducks his head, Bruce stares at the ground. The snow beneath his feet looks peculiar and it takes him a moment to realise that it’s turned green.
“No.” He thinks his voice is nothing more than a whisper, at least it seems that way, dropping underwater. Then a hand closes around his wrist, warm and solid, and sharp voice tells him to run. For a heartbeat his feet scrabble against the ground, too large, too cumbersome, to move.
Then he’s running and the green ground’s spinning past beneath his feet. The snow balls follow them and ice slides down from his hair, dripping wet against his eyelashes. He gives in and closes his eyes, lets the green fade away and trusts the hand guiding him.
Maybe three minutes later they stop. It’s sudden and unexpected and Bruce almost stumbles into Tony’s back. The hand drops from his wrist and without warning he’s dropping to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut as that angry green voice screams at him.
Save them all and they hate us. Why bother? Kill them all then see how they feel. Then they'd wish they'd been kinder.
Hands fall on his shoulders, fingers squeezing, digging in. Skin meets skin, a forehead pressing against his. There’s a voice calm and steady, with measured words and it’s saying: “I got you. It’s alright. Everything’s fine. I’ve got you.”
He opens his eyes to New York in technicolour with white snow drifts and black trees and blue skies and nothing’s green in winter. The man before him’s dressed in red and blue and his skin’s coloured pink from the cold.
Everything’s steady and calm, the world doesn’t spin out of axis, the seas don’t turn the landscape green. Tony’s kneeling before him, hands on his shoulder to hold him down. Head dipped in prayer, foreheads pressed together, the Iron Man’s promises to always be there to anchor him in green storms.