You Can Leave Your Cape On - Tony Stark x Bruce Wayne Part 3

[kahn]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue


It takes another year for Bruce to return. Tony finds out about it like this:

He's wearing an old tank top that at one point had probably been red before Tony's unfortunate foray into laundry had left it an off-red color that's too obviously an accident to really be called pink. It's got oil stains and so do his jeans, which sling kind of low because Tony's lost weight again. Tony doesn't care because they're his softest pair-but that's because they're also his oldest pair, threads held together by grime and a prayer. He's got his favorite aviator-goggles-cum-safety-glasses pushed into his hairline, undoubtedly making the uncombed mess even worse.

He's covered in plaster dust because he's in the middle of renovating his mother's mansion in Gotham which, at the moment, basically consists of Tony bashing in walls with a sledgehammer. It's very therapeutic. His therapist would be horrified. She doesn't seem the type to understand coping with tension through violence.

He's crossing past the second-story dining room, probably in his own little dust cloud, with the sledgehammer slung over his shoulder, when he sees a man-shaped shadow move by one of the tall windows. His heart's immediately in his throat, and he can feel phantom ropes around his wrists again, which his therapist has told him is a perfectly reasonable reaction to his trauma, but that doesn't make it any easier to live with. It makes him want to curl up and it makes him want to punch things. Instead, he just tightens his grip on his sledgehammer and moves to investigate with an aggressive sort of fearfulness.

Bruce Wayne stands in a pale cut of light, suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder, gray button down open at the collar, looking like an ad in a men's fashion magazine. They blink at each other and then Bruce raises an eyebrow, his eyes trailing a slow and thorough up-and-down-and-up-again.

Shit, he's gorgeous. Tony'd forgotten how goddamned beautiful the man could be, every movement elegant and controlled-moreso now than when they were kids, like he's perfectly suited to those stylish parties and high society functions that bore Tony out of his head. He can see the glint of crystal champagne flutes in Bruce's smile and the glitter of diamonds in his eyes. He's grown some, too, tall and broad shouldered, filling out his perfectly tailored suit. Tony feels small and dark and scruffy by comparison.

"Is that a sledgehammer or are you just happy to see me?" Bruce asks in a drawl that manages to make the old, worn cliché come off as charming.

"It's a sledgehammer," Tony says flatly, squeezing all the emotions that suddenly surge up at the sight of him, a wide range from joy all the way down to rage, out of his voice. He continues to hold the hammer in front of him because, frankly, he's contemplating using it on Bruce's head. It's either that or fling himself into Bruce's arms, and that would be completely unacceptable. "How did you get in here?"

"I like what you're doing to the place." He touches the dust cloth that's draped over one of the chairs.

"No, seriously, I need to know where the security breach is."

"I have the code to the gate."

"No, you don't."

"Sure I do."

Tony stops and stares at Bruce, hard. He's lying. He's lying right to Tony's face, and maybe it's not about something big-there are holes in this house's security all over the place; it's on the mental list of things for Tony to fix-but the ease at which he does it sets off all sorts of warning bells, triggers the little part of Tony that's been quietly seething since Bruce left him behind, hardens the shell around all of his soft bits.

"Since you seem to know this place so well, you must know where the door is." Tony turns away and starts heading in the direction of a guest room where he plans on knocking out part of the ceiling to install a ventilation system and a range hood. "You can see yourself out."

"It took me less than two minutes to hack the network hub, turn off the cameras and the alarms, get past them and then turn them back on. The system has a lag on when it loses power and when it sounds the alarm of three minutes."

Tony turns back reluctantly, pulled by curiosity and his inability to really ignore Bruce properly. "And the fact that you're lurking on the second floor?"

"I figured the upper level windows had a higher chance of being unlocked."

Tony narrows his eyes and waits.

"And I thought the challenge might be fun," Bruce says, shrugging. His expression is a friendly, open look that Tony knows from his own experience works really well on deflecting reporters, hangers-on and basically anyone Tony doesn't want to deal with but also doesn't want to piss off. That Bruce would use it on him makes his hackles rise, but it sounds like he's telling the truth. One way to be sure.

"Show me."

Bruce turns back to the window. "Well, if you want to watch, I could probably make the climb now-"

"I mean the network hack, you asshole."

Bruce grins and Tony has the sinking feeling that he's losing, despite the prickly resentment that Tony can feel under his skin like quills.

"Sure," Bruce says and leads the way toward the security room-a small, closed space with no windows and filled with monitors that Tony intends to make obsolete as soon as he upgrades the closed camera system to wireless that can be accessed from a tablet anywhere in the house.

"I'm not even going to ask how you know where this is, you creepy, floor-plan memorizing stalker."

Bruce's white teeth flash in the dark as he sits down and begins tapping through the screens with a competency that Tony finds surprising, even though he knows he shouldn't. Bruce has always been able to master anything he set his mind to. He slips his safety goggles off and tosses them into an extra chair, sets his hammer against the wall and settles in to watch Bruce demonstrate brilliance in yet another subject, only slightly begrudging.

"So," Bruce says after a few moments of silence. "I heard you had an encounter."

"Hm?" Tony's been lulled by the dance of Bruce's long fingers over the keyboard, the soft sound of rapid tapping, the mental calculations of how much effort needs to go into fixing the weakness in the system that Bruce is showing him.

"With the Batman."

The chill that coils down his throat and tightens around his stomach is expected, but the speed at which it ruins Tony's tentative calm is still surprising. He sits straighter, tries and fails not to fidget.

"I don't really remember it."

"No?"

"Are you going to pretend that you didn't read the articles?"

"Nobody tells the press the whole truth."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly at my best." Tony swallows and can still feel the syrup sickly sweet taste on the back of his tongue from drugged drinks forced down his throat, the imprint of hands holding him down, despite the fact that he knew all those bruises had faded long ago. "Also, kind of super concussed from being nearly shot in the head. I'm fine, though. By the way." Because if he says it enough times, it's bound to be true eventually.

The room is kept cool to help the CPUs run at capacity, but Tony feels too hot. It's getting difficult to breathe evenly and there aren't enough exits. He stands up, angling for the door, but then Bruce swivels toward him and catches his arm. It's a soft hold, not meant to trap, or Tony would have fought it off and kept going. Instead, it stalls him.

Bruce's fingertips skim down Tony's arm, making him shiver, and touches the hand that Tony has clenched around his own wrist without even realizing it. Bruce doesn't even have to try hard to get Tony to let go, to turn Tony's arm over and press both thumbs against the reddening imprint of Tony's nails on the underside of his wrist.

"I knew you were all right," he says without looking up from the study he's making of Tony's veins and tendons. "I made sure."

Tony scoffs, but it comes out shakier than he would have liked. "How? Did you steal my medical records? Because I sure as hell didn't see you at the hospital."

The pause that follows might have been unnoticeable to anyone else, but it's just long enough that Tony knows whatever is going to come out of Bruce's mouth next is going to be another lie. "I talked to Obadiah."

And see, that answer actually makes sense , but it's still a lie, and Tony doesn't know what game Bruce is playing, but his thumbs start rubbing circles into Tony's skin and the little intermittent shivers become full body-and it's not fear. Tony's been flinching away from contact since he came back from Amsterdam-Obadiah, even Rhodey can't touch him without Tony having to fight through his first, reactive need get away . But Bruce puts his hands on Tony and Tony finds himself leaning closer.

Tony doesn't even think Bruce realizes how big that is, and it makes him want to headbutt Bruce in the face and also chain them together so that Bruce can never ever get away and neither of those reactions are healthy. Tony knows this, but that doesn't make the thoughts stop.

Tony has been clawing his way through this world without Bruce for almost a decade, and has spent the last year determinedly putting his life back together on his own. It shouldn't be this easy to fall back into Bruce's orbit. Tony shouldn't want to collapse into Bruce's lap and curl up and let him take care of things. Bruce is going to leave again, someday. Tony was never enough to make him stay. That's a sobering enough thought that he finds it in him to pull away.

"I need you to leave, now."

Bruce looks up at him, and it's that same fire Tony remembers from years ago, when they were two grieving boys sitting in a room together where day had come again, despite the fact that the world seemed to have slowed to a stop, caught in the endless loop of two gunshots, two bodies hitting the ground. It's banked, now, no longer wild but no less consuming, no less compelling. Tony looks away.

"Tony," Bruce says.

"Go." Tony puts all the forcefulness he can manage into that word, and then moves to the doorway just so he can put some distance between them. After a few moments, Bruce stands and follows him.

They walk all the way up to the foyer in silence, which some cleaning company has kept impeccable despite the fact that this place has been uninhabited for three years. Bruce moves way too quietly for a big guy in dress shoes. Tony wants to ask him about it, but doesn't. Even as socially awkward as Obadiah despairs him being, he guesses it would be bad taste to demand the secrets of someone you're kicking out.

"Tony," Bruce says, and Tony has to brace himself before turning toward him. He searches Tony's face for a moment, but whatever he sees shutters his expression, and the he smiles that bland in-front-of-cameras smile that makes Tony's skin crawl. "If you're in Gotham sometime, we should do lunch."

"Sure. Of course."

It's so generically polite it's almost physically painful. Then Bruce is turning away, walking out the front door and down the steps.

It's evening, which is a surprise-when did that happen?-but Tony barely even notices that he apparently lost about six hours to this house and its ghosts. Bruce's back is to Tony, and that's all Tony sees-his friend's back, the set of his shoulders in the stiff black suit, the gulf of space between them that seems to have grown wider than Tony thought possible. He remembers this feeling. This feeling is familiar. This feeling is a funeral, a death in the family. He doesn't have maps for this; they didn't plan for this and now he's not sure he can find the way.

All Tony knows for sure is that he's been waiting for something for a while, no matter how many times he's told himself that he's moved on, that life goes on, that Tony's world doesn't stop spinning just because Bruce Wayne isn't in it, that 'home' absolutely cannot be a person. People are too weak to build foundations on. He also knows that if he lets Bruce walk away he'll probably be waiting forever.

Tony is down the steps before he really registers the movement; his hands are on Bruce's black jacket and Bruce has turned toward him with that hideously neutral expression that Tony takes in both hands and kisses, hard.

Bruce kisses back like he's been waiting for this, which he may have been because he's always been annoyingly good at predicting Tony, the asshole. His large hands span the breadth from Tony's jaw to his temple, cradling as he tips Tony's head back to get a better angle, and Tony makes an annoyed sound, even as he shivers, and bites Bruce's bottom lip hard enough to make him back off a bit.

"You're sending a lot of mixed signals." Bruce's tone is light and teasing, but his hands still hold Tony with a determination that says a crowbar may need to be applied to get him to let go.

"Fuck you," Tony snaps, not in the mood to put up with any horseshit. "You are the king of mixed signals." He's dragging Bruce back toward the house determinedly, although he suspects they're only making progress because Bruce is letting him, giant, stupid, muscled jerkface. "You don't get to complain about anything."

"Is that so?"

"Seven. Years."

"I came back."

"On your own time. That doesn't earn you any points. You know what would earn you points, though?"

"Less talk, more kissing?"

"And people call me the super genius. Wait." They're at the steps, now, so Tony makes Bruce stand at the bottom as he takes two steps up under Bruce's bemused gaze. Then he pulls Bruce back in.

Two steps is enough to make Tony a little taller than Bruce, and he knows the moment Bruce figures it out by the shape of his grin against Tony's lips, his hands skimming up Tony's ribs, hitching his shirt up a little. It makes Tony think of being twelve, Bruce fourteen and leaving-again, this time with a sense of finality that made Tony want to do crazy things, like kiss Bruce just as the night turned over to dawn.

Even though it brings back the memory, this is nothing like it was when they were kids, making out in the furtive dark. Back then, Bruce had been saying goodbye and Tony had been trying to make him stay, and everything had been frantic and fraught and broken.

This feels like pieces settling back into place.

They find a guest room because Tony declares the master bedroom to be too creepy that's my mother's bed what's wrong with you? and unearth it from dust covers until Bruce declares it acceptable and Tony declares your obsessive tendencies aren't sexy; you know that, right?

When Tony's back hits the bed and Bruce's weight presses him down, he has a moment where he doesn't register that it's Bruce, his rabbit-brain only telling him he's trapped beneath someone larger and he needs to get away. It doesn't last more than a moment, at least Tony hopes it doesn't, but when he comes back Bruce is sitting up, watchful.

"We don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable," Bruce says, and the gentleness in his voice is underlined with a thread of something darker, like a promise that Bruce will break necks if Tony asks him to.

Tony's never been comfortable with the idea of Bruce having to rescue him. He's always been quietly convinced that it'll be his job, one day, to save Bruce.

"I know that, dipshit," Tony snaps, grabbing a handful of Bruce's shirt-his jacket oh-so-neatly hung on the back of a chair already-reveling in getting plaster dust all over the silvery silk as he pulls Bruce down. Bruce lets himself be pulled; Tony's under no illusions about his own strength. Physically, Bruce will probably always beat him. But Tony's relatively certain that he can out-stubborn Bruce at least fifty percent of the time. "I want to."

The small, worried line doesn't entirely ease from between Bruce's eyebrows. He reaches out a hand and Tony meets him halfway, but instead of guiding to down to his cock, hot and heavy and beginning to feel constricted it his pants so they can get on with it, he brings it brings it to his face and nuzzles into it because his subconscious mind wants to kill him with embarrassment, apparently.

"If it gets weird, I'll tell you," he says to Bruce's searching look.

Bruce curves his fingers, rubbing little circles into Tony's scalp, sending soft burrs of pleasure through him that make his toes curl.

"Promise." It's not a question; it's a command.

Usually, Tony would be contrary just to prove a point, but he thinks Bruce might need this, and maybe Tony does, too. He turns his head and presses a kiss into Bruce's palm. "I promise."

Then Bruce shifts his hand until it's hot against the back of Tony's neck and reels him in, still a little careful, until Tony huffs and pounces. His knees land on either side of Bruce's hips as Bruce rolls onto his back to accommodate, and he brackets Bruce's head with his arms as he leans down and kisses Bruce hungrily, loosing himself in for a few minutes in the softness of Bruce's lips, the slick tease of his tongue, the rough burn of stubble.

Bruce's hands skim up the backs of Tony's thighs and the grip his ass, pulling Tony down as he rocks up and Tony has to break off with a gasp and resist the urge to rut shamelessly against Bruce while they're still clothed. He bites softly at Bruce's shoulder through his shirt in retaliation.

"Hands-y," he says, breathier than he would have liked.

"Eager," Bruce retorts and looks unbearably smug as another squeeze makes Tony gasp again.

"Okay, pants off. And I hope you came prepared," Tony adds as he slides off the bed and goes about taking his shoes off with the least amount of clumsiness he can manage, "because if we have to use lube and condoms left here by my mother and whatever company she kept-we're still doing this, but I'm not going to talk to you for at least a week afterward."

Bruce is getting out of his pants in a much more graceful way, of course, and he's come prepared, of course, producing a tube of lubricant and enough condoms that Tony raises an eyebrow.

"Optimistic much?"

Bruce raises and eyebrow right back. He's still fiddling with his cuffs, and mostly turned away, shirt open, legs bare-and Tony should not be so distracted the legs of a man he's known practically his whole life. "Are you saying you're not up for the challenge?"

"Oh I'm up for it." And he rocks his hips in Bruce's direction, completely naked now and unashamed. Shame and Tony Stark have not been on speaking terms for a while, and besides, Tony likes his cock. It's a nice shape; it's a nice length, and he knows how to use it.

Bruce gives him a look so droll it's practically an entire dissertation about how much of a disappointment he finds Tony at this moment.

"Come on," Tony protests. "You practically handed that to me on a silver platter!"

Bruce finally finishes fiddling with his cuffs and slips out of his shirt in a liquid movement that looks like he's practiced for the sole purpose of seducing someone, and turns toward him, dropping. The shirt goes on the chair, folded neatly, and then Bruce turns toward him and all the air goes out of Tony's lungs, as does his ability to form coherent sentences, because fuck, Bruce is gorgeous.

Tony closes the distance between them, and presses a palm against Bruce's pec, rubbing down and over a nipple and smiles a little when Bruce leans into it. His other hand, a teasing slide of fingertips from Bruce's navel up to the curve of his ribs, finds a rough spot that feels odd, and Tony's smile drops away when he looks at it curiously. It's a healed wound, about the size of a dime and almost perfectly round, still fresh enough to be pink.

Bruce's hazy, lust-filled gaze sharpens a little, and he moves to pull away, but not before Tony snakes his hand around Bruce's back and feels the much messier exit wound, splayed out just beneath Bruce's shoulder blade.

"Did you get shot?"

"Polo accident."

Tony can't even-he can't even find words to express how much he does not believe Bruce at this moment, and his long, hard stare must convey at least some of that because Bruce looks a little abashed.

"Before you have to lie to somebody about that for real, you're going to make up something at least a little bit believable, okay?"

"Tony-"

He doesn't want to hear it, to have to deal with something else Bruce isn't willing to tell him, and lust is still hot in his veins, clouding his good judgment, so he blurts, "Can I suck you off?"

The please, gets stuck behind his teeth because Stark men don't beg (then again, they're not really supposed to suck cock either, Anthony, so why even bother with this last little hangup?), but Tony tries to put all his pleading into his eyes as he tilts his head back and looks Bruce in the face.

Bruce sucks in a sharp breath, pupils dilating, and a faint but fascinating flush moving slowly down his chest. Tony smirks and crowds Bruce backward until his knees hit the bed and he sits, a little less gracefully than usual. Tony kneels between his legs, nudging them apart until he's made space for himself, and then gestures imperiously.

"Condom me."

Bruce snorts, but he also practically falls backward in a scramble to find one in the folds of the classy cream comforter of the guest bed. The movement makes Bruce's half-hard cock rock a little closer and a little switch flicks off in Tony's head, the one that controls the no, stop signal.

With one hand still upturned and waiting, propped on Bruce's knee, he reaches with the other, palm skimming down Bruce's length. Bruce arches a bit and then goes boneless with a little, strangled sound that makes Tony smile and tip forward, fingers closing a bit more firmly, feeling the swelling heat of it, nuzzling down to the base where he presses his tongue to the bristly-soft hair in a firm lick that makes the cock in his hand twitch, makes Bruce's thighs tense and press against Tony as if to hold him there. Tony pauses for a self-check, waiting for the panic that would usually rear its head at the hint of being trapped.

When Tony determines that the rapid beating of his heart as nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how very much he wants Bruce's cock in his mouth, he lets himself relax a little, pressing himself up against the bed, the comforter smooth and a little cool and Tony rubs against it a little wantonly. He lifts Bruce's cock and presses a soft kiss to the underside, then lower, nuzzling and breathing deep. Bruce smells mostly of soap, something something with a warm, masculine undertone of fragrance, and hints of ozone.

Tony applies just the slightest edge of teeth to one of the soft, heavy sacs and then stops again, this time to check on Bruce. Not everyone is okay with teeth, and usually this is about the time that a hand grabs Tony's hair and guides him, but, except for the tension in Bruce's thighs and the intermittent, almost imperceptible shivers Tony can feel wracking Bruce's muscular frame, he hasn't really moved, much.

"Babe, you okay?" When that doesn't get a response, Tony sits up and rubs both hands over Bruce's thighs, a little coil of worry tightening around Tony's gut. Bruce has got both hands pressed over his face, and Tony can't get clear signals from Bruce's body language. "Bruce? You gotta use your words."

"Mmph," Bruce manages, and then wraps a leg around Tony, pulling him in. "Give me a minute."

Tony relaxes again and grins a bit. "I'll take that as a compliment...?"

"I'm not feeding your ego," Bruce grumbles, muffled.

Tony lets himself feel a little smug, rubbing his hands lightly over Bruce's thighs. Bruce should really appreciate the amount of control it takes Tony to not put his mouth on Bruce's cock. As it is, he has to swallow saliva before saying, "Why do you smell like an airplane?"

Bruce finally drops his hands and gets up on his elbows to look at him incredulously. "What?"

"Sorry. Just curious." Tony shrugs. "What, you didn't expect me to babble in bed?"

"Probably because I came straight here from one," Bruce answers as he sits up and drops a foil packet into Tony's waiting hand.

Tony's already got the corner in his mouth, rips it open and tosses the foil away before saying, "Didn't you stop in to see Alfred?"

"No. I called him to check in, and find out where you were, and then just-straight here."

Tony feels something twist in him as he glances up, a fight between the part that wants to interpret this as something important, and the part that knows from past experience that this is probably much more significant to Tony than it is to Bruce. Bruce is watching him with a rapt attention that sends heat through him, settling at the base of his spine, making his skin prickle and his mind hum, like he's deep inside a complicated equation that's finally beginning to unfold, variables clicking into place. It makes Tony want to show off a little.

"Hold on, babe," he says. "You're going to like this."

He gets the foil open and slips the condom over his tongue and gets a firm grip on Bruce's cock and swallows it down, slipping the condom down as he goes. He feels Bruce breathe deep and go tense, and Tony remembers this, how quiet Bruce was.

Latex rubs against his tongue, different from skin. It makes Tony regret the need, but only briefly because the stretch of his lips and the weight of Bruce on his tongue is perfect, makes Tony want to shiver and touch himself, but he keeps one hand wrapped around the base of Bruce's cock and the other clenched on in his lap because he wants this to last as long as possible. He takes as much of Bruce in as he can and chokes a little when Bruce's hips hitch forward. Bruce makes an apologetic sound. His touch is gentle in Tony's hair and that shakes something apart in Tony's heart, crumbles some last wall.

Tony touches his knee, it's okay, and then they find their rhythm, Bruce's hips canting in controlled little thrusts, and Tony greedy for more, taking in Bruce's entire length down to the root as much as he can, his hands braced on Bruce's thighs. His mouth is filled almost too full, but he loves the burn of it, the smell of Bruce, the heat, the way it fills him up and turns off the part of his brain that always thinks too much.

Then Bruce's hand tightens in his hair and Tony is no longer in his mother's mansion, no longer in Gotham at all. He's back in a too-hot room an ocean away, rope around his wrists and throat.

It's only a moment, and then he's back. Bruce has let him go, hands up like he wants to reach for Tony but he isn't sure if he should, his eyes are wide with worry, and Tony's still on his knees but he's pulled away, out from between Bruce's legs. His heart is pounding in his head and he's fighting to get his breath even and through the fading terror he's so angry. Because it's been going so well and he'd let his guard down and he doesn't want to feel like this anymore.

"Tony," Bruce says.

"Wait," Tony snaps, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth, and then tries to gentle his voice almost immediately. "Sorry sorry, just...give me a second."

"You've got nothing to apologize for," Bruce says, and other people have said the same thing, but there's something in Bruce's voice, a weight and darkness to it, that says he would rearrange the world with sheer willpower and fists if it could make Tony feel better, that calms Tony down.

Tony scrubs hands over his face and says, "Keep talking."

"I wish I'd been there. I wish I'd been able to-"

"Not about that," Tony says, hastily.

There's a pause, and then, "A lot of rain, for this time of year."

Tony drops his hands and glares at Bruce who looks, admittedly, a bit sheepish. "Really?"

"I'm not...particularly good with words."

"Nooo," Tony says, and then continues to say it as he crawls back over to Bruce and settles between his legs again. "You? Not good with words?"

Bruce smiles at him, relieved but still holding himself carefully, as non-threatening as possible. "Better?"

"Yeah, I think so. Problem is that it's always 'better' until it isn't."

"How can I help?"

"Kiss me?" Tony catches Bruce's wrists and lifts Bruce's hands toward his face, and Bruce doesn't need more prompting than that, cradling Tony's head and kissing like he can mend the cracks in Tony's heart with soft lips and slick tongue and long fingers that hold Tony like he's precious.

It's too much. Tony can't handle it; has to deflect with humor, has to break away and make a little face and say, "Okay we're getting tested as soon as possible and then neither of us are having sex with anyone else until we can do this again without latex breath."

"You have plans to have sex with other people?"

There's an undercurrent to the question that makes Tony look Bruce in the eyes, and raise eyebrows at the possessiveness he sees there.

It makes his mouth go dry. It feels like a punch to the gut, a blow to the last defensive structures he has. He has to swallow before saying, "Er, no? Not, like, officially or anything. But I didn't think this was going to be an exclusive thing..." Bruce's mouth thins into a hard line, and he looks away, and Tony might be rusty but he thinks he can interpret that brand of Bruce-silence. "But...it...can be? If you want it to-"

"Yes," Bruce says, with enough emphasis to surprise them both.

Tony feels his heart sort of melt into a little pile of warm goo, and his smile is probably completely embarrassing, but he doesn't care, as he says, "Okay, babe," and kisses the line of Bruce's mouth until it relaxes again, until he kisses back, hands sliding around Tony's back to pull him closer. "Okay, I've got you."

Bruce's hands slide over his back, tracing faint scars, the legacy of Howard's temper and skill with a belt, and there's something in Bruce's eyes that says he'd like to hide Tony away where no one else can touch him. Tony wants to let him. That's the part that should be particularly alarming.

"And I've got you," Bruce says an a low rumble that Tony can feel through his lips, down to his gut. His cock twitches with interest.

"Fuck me," Tony says, because if he doesn't, he might say something foolish. There's a part of him that feels like he's folding paper stars again, hoping that his father is wrong, that forever is something that people can hold on to.

"We don't have to-" Bruce sucks in a sharp breath as Tony takes hold of his cock.

He squeezes, just enough that he's sure he has Bruce's attention as he enunciates. "I want to."

Bruce doesn't need any more prompting, pulling Tony into a hard kiss and then onto the bed. It's messy and a little clumsy, and probably would have worked out better if either one of them had been willing to let go or stop kissing for a moment, but when they're finished, Bruce executes a final roll that leaves Tony straddling his waist as Bruce sprawls out beneath him, his cock rubbing against Tony's ass, and Tony's hands braced on Bruce's ridiculous abs.

"Yeah?" Tony has to ask, a little dazed.

"If it works for you."

And it...does. This way, Tony can retain enough control to, hopefully, not set off any more unfortunate incidents. Bruce's solution is a good one, and that he thought of it makes Tony want to squirm and look away from Bruce's searching gaze.

Instead, Tony straightens his shoulders and says, "Yeah."

Bruce nods. "Good." Then his expression turns a little wry. "Because I don't think I can hold out much longer."

"Yeah, me either." Tony grins and holds out his hand with an imperious flick. "Lube me."

What he meant was for Bruce to hand him the tube that's lurking somewhere in the sheets, but instead, Bruce catches his outstretched hand and pulls him forward a little so that his other hand, slick and warm and when did he have the opportunity to do that-part his cheeks and rub against the pucker of muscle. Tony makes a keening sound and falls forward, catching himself with a forearm against Bruce's chest, head dropping to press against Bruce's heartbeat.

"Tony?"

"Don't stop."

Permission received, Bruce opens him up in his focused, thorough way, refusing to be rushed, no matter how much Tony swears at him, voice hoarse and breathless. Tony can only gasp for breath and buck a little frantically, writhing and demanding more, wanting the burn of it, the roughness of knuckles, and faint scrape of nails. His cock hitches against Bruce's stomach, the soft-bristle buzz of hair a maddening texture that Tony rubs into desperately. It's not enough, and it's too much, and after only a few minutes, Tony has to grab Bruce's wrist.

"Okay," Tony pants. "That's enough."

Bruce practically pouts at him, and Tony has to laugh, delight and lust bright in his chest as he leans forward to press kisses to the line between Bruce's eyebrows, to his cheek and then to his mouth.

"Next time, babe," Tony promises against his lips. "We'll do it your way next time. You've got me; I'm not going anywhere. But right now I want you in me before I start getting gray hairs, okay?"

Tony flexes around Bruce's fingers for emphasis, and Bruce's eyes dilate. When he pulls out it drags a shudder from Tony, who has to bite his lip and focus on the pain to keep from coming immediately. He reaches behind him and grasps Bruce's cock, and he's too impatient to ease into it. Bruce gives a soft grunt as Tony drops his weight.

Pain zings through him. Tony chases it, breathes and makes himself relax, feels his mind whiting out when pain shifts over to pleasure, the heat and stretch of Bruce filling him. It's so good, it's perfect. Tony wants more. Bruce's hands are on his hips, thumbs pressing hard on the hollows of his hips, and that's good, too. Tony hopes he gets bruises, hopes Bruce leaves marks on him, hopes he isn't babbling that out loud.

The rhythm they find is frantic, but it works, or at least Tony's too far gone to care. Every time Bruce thrusts up it's electric, heat and sparks, like atoms splitting in Tony's brain. Bruce is watching him like it's trying to take Tony apart with this eyes alone, his hair a mess, sweat a sheen over his whole body and he's gorgeous, in a way that takes Tony's remaining breath away.

He isn't going to last long. He knows it. Takes his own cock in hand when he feels himself getting close, and then Bruce closes his hand around Tony's, palm hot against his skin, and that's pretty much it. The combined pull and heat from their hands and orgasm hits Tony hard, yelling and shuddering into it. Bruce slows as Tony collapses forward, catching himself with a hand next to Bruce's head.

Bruce looks up at him, eyes luminous, and something smug behind that, an expression Tony has to kiss away. Bruce's hands skim up Tony's sides until Tony murmurs, "Come on, babe." And Bruce's arms lock around him, one hand splayed on Tony's shoulderblades and the other on the back of his head, muffling Tony's cries with his mouth as he thrusts up, hard, once, twice, and then Tony feels it as Bruce comes, pulses that shake both of them apart, leave them panting and boneless on the bed.

Tony's head is propped on Bruce's chest, listening to the thud of his heart slowly return to a more sedate pace. Bruce's touch follows the line of Tony's arm until he finds Tony's hand and twines their fingers together.  For a moment, Tony lets himself be still, lets the quiet of the house sink into his skin, lets himself believe that he can hold on to this moment forever, and that it will always be like this between Bruce and himself.

Eventually, Tony pulls away and gets them cleaned up with a corner of sheet because he honestly doesn't know where any towels are in this house, tossing the spent condom into a trashbin that looks like it might be plated in platinum, before settling next to Bruce again.

"So, one down. What, like, twenty to go?" Tony scans the bed, trying to make a count of the condoms they have left. "I am so so glad for teenage refractory periods."

Bruce laughs. It's quiet, but genuine. The rush of pleasure Tony gets hearing it is probably all kinds of pathetic, but he can't help but smile back, dopey with warm feelings, as Bruce pulls him back in for another kiss.

Tony is nineteen, a little sticky, and a lot satisfied, pressing greedily into Bruce's kiss and rubbing against him shamelessly, the first time he thinks I love you. He doesn't say it out loud, so he doesn't really get a reply, except he can feel Bruce's heart through through his own chest, a sound that fills all the dark spaces with the beat of home home home.