Chapter 5
It’s eleven thirty-three in the morning, but the blinds are still drawn tightly shut over the bedroom window, and as such, Bruce is still curled in the puff of blankets that cover their bed, trapped deep in the exhausted sort of sleep that always keeps him under for as long as it can.
He looks impossibly peaceful in his warm nest, features complimented under the dusting of the filtered, shadowed streams of sunlight that manage to sneak their way in. Adjusting the neck of his blazer, Tony can’t really take his eyes off of him.
Yesterday … hadn’t been great. It had taken over an hour to convince Bruce to just crack open the door enough for Tony to be sure he’d been alright, forty-seven minutes more (he’d counted, he always counts) to coax him into letting him inside. Bruce had been completely naked, shivering with the bitterness of Brooklyn’s January air – the bathroom light had been on, the mirror immediately visible, but Tony hadn’t made hypocritical accusations. Just wrapped the other man in the bed’s comforter and then in his arms – hours more had been spent calming the voices in Bruce’s head enough just to get him to sleep.
Today won’t be a bad day, as neither will tomorrow, or the next few days after. He’ll have an episode of his own before Bruce has another. He’ll wake up okay, and while they won’t pretend that yesterday hadn’t happened, it won’t have any effect on today. That doesn’t make it any easier to step away. It’s hard, having Bruce and understanding how fragile they are together, how easily they can break apart.
But if he doesn’t leave now, he’ll miss his meeting, and if he misses the meeting, he’ll miss the chance.
“Watch him, JARVIS, will you?” He calls just loudly enough to be heard. In response, the lamp on the bedside table flickers on and then off, the AI obviously in on the operation of Not Waking Bruce Up. It makes him smile.
He walks out backwards, mindful of the tennis shoes beside the dresser, of the books spread haphazardly on the floor by the door, of the catch in the carpet just before the hallway, and when he closes the door, he doesn’t let it latch.
Which isn’t necessary. He can shut it, if he wants to. Today won’t be a bad day. Bruce will be fine.
But still.
Just in case.
The diner is small, a hole in the wall, nothing that attracts attention. It’s obvious just from the outside that it keeps in business strictly due to loyal, old regulars, possibly with the added benefit of a lost, hungry tourist, desperate for a meal. The sign above the door says Diner, for fuck’s sake.
Tony walks in to an atmosphere of authentic cigarette smoke and soft jazz music playing from an honest-to-God jukebox in the corner, tiled flooring that has gone yellow and gray with age, walls of slightly-peeling green wallpaper that are littered with old WWII propaganda and black-and-white pictures ranging from returning soldiers to abandoned concentration camps to the aftershocks of Pearl Harbor and what a second glance shows to be both Hiroshima and Nagasaki. A few frames hold crumpled up enlistment forms, a few more have fading handwritten letters behind their glass with ink that looks like it had been, at one point, splattered. A depressing setting out of place with the music that radiates pleasantly from the machine.
“Cozy, right?” Comes a cheerful call from the bar.
His eyes dart toward it. A man, thin and blonde and pale and shorter than him, straddles a black stool, elbows resting against the counter as he eyes Tony up.
“They’ve got another one in LA that’s all Vietnam, and one in … Indiana, I think, that’s centered on Native Americans and what happened to them,” the guy continues with a lazy grin. “The ones for slavery and for the aftermath of 9/11, got cited and closed down. They’re appealing. I’m Steve, and I’m guessing with the light in your chest that you’re Tony.” He twists the chair back toward the bar without waiting for a response, and the older waitress behind it smiles warmly. “My friend’s here, Helen. We’re going to take the booth in the back, if that’s alright.”
“It’s fine, honey,” the woman responds, waving the guy off. “Go on. Signal me when you want coffee.”
“Yes ma’am,” is the laughed answer, and then the blonde is hopping from the barstool, feet moving lightly as he heads toward the back, pausing only long enough to turn and arch an eyebrow at Tony. “Coming?”
This is such a stupid idea, what the hell had he been thinking –
Tony follows.
“You’re seriously Steve?” He asks dubiously as they reach the back booth with its red table and black seats. He scrunches his nose at the ashtray in the center, ready to be used and half-filled with cigarette butts. “Not a narc or anything? Natasha’s Steve?”
The blonde chuckles, sliding into one side and sweeping the ashtray against the wall in one fluid movement, gesturing for Tony to join him. “Good thing I’m not a narc, or you’d be out already, huh? And if we’re going with possessive titles, I prefer Natasha and Bucky’s Steve, but if it’s just for identification’s sake, then yes, I’m Natasha’s Steve. Rogers. Steve Rogers.”
He doesn’t hold out his hand. Tony can only assume that Natasha had warned him ahead of time of his dislike of being touched.
“Just Tony,” he answers, finally sitting down. The seat squeaks under him, awkward. “I thought you’d be taller.”
“Nat talks me up,” Steve shrugs off. Blue eyes trace around him. “I thought you’d be coming with someone else.”
Tony tenses instantly, casting a quick, anxious glance to the clock on the wall. It’s only been half an hour. Bruce will still be sleeping, safe in their dumpy little house in their shady part of the city, unaware of where Tony is, free of that concern.
“Hey.” He flinches as Steve’s hand hits the table, not touching his, but close enough that he can feel the momentary shock of it. His head jerks back to the other man, and Steve’s smile is gone, replaced with a genuinely apologetic look. “I’m sorry. It’s safe to talk here, we’re fine. I didn’t mean to freak you out, Tony. I honestly did think he’d be coming-.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here,” he cuts in quickly. The look turns startled, maybe a little suspicious. “He worries. I was going to tell him after I knew it was legit. Is it?” His eyes narrow right back into the doubtful ones. “Can you really do it?”
“Depends on why you’re asking,” Steve shoots back, leaning away. His hand, thankfully, goes with him. “What do you need it for? Scared of a little social stigma, being with him? Don’t like being talked about? I don’t do this for just anyone that comes knocking on my door. You didn’t bring him, so I’m gonna ask, and you’re going to be straight with me. Are you doing this for yourself, Tony?”
“No, I’m doing this for him,” Tony sneers, because fuck Steve Rogers. “This will do a lot for him. People will stop looking at him funny, stop judging him. They won’t have a reason to ostracize him. He won’t be afraid to get a job because of what happened the last time someone found out. He won’t be so doubting of himself. He’ll be happy.” No more bad days.
“So you think giving you both matching Soul Symbols will make him happy? Just like that?”
“No, not just like that.” He hadn’t come here for a shrink – he didn’t have time for this. “I know some artificial Symbol isn’t going to form any sort of bond between us, isn’t going to work as if the universe has realized it made a mistake on that night in December thirty-two years ago, isn’t going to erase all of the shit he went through because of it. I know it won’t make us real soulmates. But it’ll help. It’ll keep him from, from… fuck, from standing in front of the mirror-.”
“And reminding himself that he really is as worthless and unneeded by the world as he feels? That he has no right to want anything else because the universe said he doesn’t deserve it?” Steve finishes quietly. Surprised, Tony stops talking – the blonde no longer looks suspicious, just … sad. “Will stop thinking about how there are some countries out there that euthanize children who are born unmarked? Stop thinking that he should have been born in one of them, instead of here, so he would have been, too?”
Tony has heard those same words in first person verbatim. “How’d-.”
Steve unzips his jacket.
Pale, thin skin shines under the give of the blue fabric, but the off-beat joke on the tip of Tony’s tongue about going commando dies at the sight of the Symbol that blooms in the center of Steve’s chest. A red star, large and glimmering, the side arm of it broken from the hole of a bullet, the end of which is the only piece visible. As Tony watches, the shades of the colors change in rhythm with Steve’s heartbeat, the Symbol as alive as its bearer. It’s gorgeous to look. He’s almost forgotten how damned beautiful Symbols are.
“Nat has this Symbol right above her hip, about half this size but otherwise exact,” the shorter man says softly, looking down at it. “Bucky has it too, curving around his left shoulder, only slightly smaller than mine.”
“You were lucky to find them both,” Tony offers softly, and he means it sincerely. A lot of tri-soulmates take a long time to come together, most assuming they’re only part of a pair.
“I wasn’t born with mine.”
He freezes. Steve looks back up, and smiles again.
“I was born empty,” he reveals quietly, fingers touching his Symbol. “They tied it to me being born so sick, to a childhood of being sick, and so I was more pitied than hated because of not having a Symbol. But I would still look in the mirror sometimes, wondering why fate had hated me enough not to give me a soulmate, thinking how I wasn’t good enough for anyone anyway. I always had Bucky, you know, as a friend. And I grew to love him, but I never said anything, because of his Symbol – I wanted him to find his soulmate. Natasha, as it turns out. They found each other, and that should’ve been it. For our friendship, and for me probably.” He rubs the star and laughs. “Nat wouldn’t let me disappear, though. And neither would Buck. They just kinda latched on, and days of being forced to stay turned into weeks of growing happy to hang out turned into months of … well … falling in love with them as a pair and as individuals. And luckily for me, the feeling was mutual.
But I wanted to really belong to them, as much as I could. I didn’t want anything to take them away from me. So … I came up with this.” Tony follows his fingers over the Symbol. “I’m an artist by trade, you know. Went to school for it, and by fact and not ego, I’m good at it. I like capturing things perfectly. I got some help with the ink from a friend over in Iceland, whose brother was interested in the idea. I was the first test subject of an unknown ink.”
“First successful test subject,” Tony breathes, because goddamn, it looks so real that he’s almost overcome enough to touch it.
“Yeah. I-yeah. It was successful. Is.” Slowly, Steve zips up the jacket, the covering blocking the Symbol from Tony’s eyes. He blinks rapidly. “You’re not wrong, technically, that it’s artificial – I put the Symbol there, as opposed to God or the universe or whatever you believe is responsible for them. But every morning I wake up with the people I chose, who chose me, who want to share a Symbol with me. We’re not together just because it’s supposed to be. It’s still real. And it’ll be real for you and him, too, if it’s what you both want.”
“How would you … do it, with us?” He cringes at the wording. “I mean, how – Natasha and … Bucky had Symbols for you to make. Theoretically, you would use mine, except- I mean you can’t- It’s not-.”
“Natasha told me,” Steve interjects delicately. Hell, this is nothing about Steve Rogers that doesn’t want to make Tony flinch, is there? Instinctively, his arm folds across his chest, blocking the reactor. The man looks upset – with himself, for bringing it up? With the acknowledgement that it exists at all? “I know. I’m sorry, again. She thought if I knew it would help me want to meet with you, help you out-.”
“And did it?” It’s worth it, then. The scarring on his chest, where his own Symbol used to be until he’d gotten his hands on a knife; the ghosts of Tiberius’ gentle touches and vicious anger; he’d been hated, so fucking hated-.
“Yes.”
Tony looks up at him. “You’re okay with someone wanting to be with someone else who isn’t their soulmate?” He asks wryly. “Who disfigured themselves just to separate themselves from said soulmate? Really?”
“I’m okay with someone leaving a lover who hurts them,” the blonde says, firm. “Soulmate or not. I don’t condone abuse in any situation. And I definitely support being with someone who loves you. Let me ask you something, Tony – can you let him touch you, when other people can’t?”
He swallows, because touching is Bruce’s favorite activity. Not always sexual – taps on the shoulder, rubbing his back; he’s particularly fond of dragging his fingers through Tony’s hair and around his beard. He loves every single one. “Yeah. I can.”
“Then I’m okay with you. As for how I’m going to do it … I’ve already started.”
“Um …” He feels distinctly un-tattoo’ed. “What-.”
Steve’s fingers rap against the table. “We don’t get to pick our Symbols. They’re picked for us. But by Someone, or if you want, something, which knows who were are. So I … mimic that. If you both want this, I choose the Symbol.”
““What if we don’t like it?” The other man shrugs.
“A lot of people don’t like their Symbols. Natasha and Bucky don’t like ours. It’s not about liking them. It’s about being connected by them. You get too wrapped up in trying to find something that perfectly represents you, and you end up tearing yourselves down reaching for perfection. If I do it, there’s no problem. It’s not like I’m going to pick a random design. I’ll talk with you, get to know you, form some idea of who you are. And I’ll also need to talk to him-.”
“Bruce.” It feels okay, now, to tell Steve; in fact, Tony feels guilty for not having done it before. “His name is Bruce. He uh, he had a bad day yesterday. Really bad. I was planning on telling him this morning, because try though I really fucking do, I can’t actually lie to him. But I just, didn’t want to wake him. So that’s where he is. Bruce. He’s sleeping in our bed.”
Steve’s eyes are understanding, kind, warm. “I also need to talk with Bruce.”
Tony laughs, then.
It’s not a laugh of amusement, or of ridicule – he doesn’t mean to laugh at all, actually. But it slips out of his mouth in a mixture of barking and choking, tastes like the relief he’d felt when Bruce had taken him up on the rushed offer of a date, seventeen months ago. Sharp. “This is illegal, you know that? Prison-time illegal.” Not that he cares.
Steve shrugs, smile wide as he sits all the way back, signaling to Helen the waitress. “It’s never not worth it. Coffee?”
It’s one twenty-seven in the afternoon when he slips back into their bedroom in their stupid little house that sits in the middle of a notoriously unsafe part of Brooklyn.
JARVIS flickers the lights in silent greeting.
Tony used to have a mansion. He used to have money. He used to have fame and security and a job that hadn’t sometimes brought possibly-stolen vehicles into his garage. He used to lock himself in the bathroom sometimes, stare at his chest, and wonder why his soulmate had hated him when soulmates are supposed to be the ones to for sure love you.
Now, he has Bruce in his bed, buried under blankets, safe and warm.
Like a snake, Tony slithers in beside his lover, grins at the sleepy noise of approval he receives in response, feels unbidden warmth at the way Bruce turns himself within the blankets to face him.
“Y’went somewhere.” It’s not a mumbled accusation. Eyes darker than his own, muddled with sleep, blink at him curiously. “Smoke. Coffee. Y’kay?” A hand peeks out from the blankets, reaches out to butt against his cheek.
“As okay as you are, buddy,” he assures, buries his face into the blankets as soft noises of humor erupt from them. It’s not actually funny, but they’ve learned to laugh at themselves. “I’ll tell you when you’re more awake. There’s a huge box of fresh donuts in the kitchen after you’re done sleeping. Maybe a pie in the fridge, I don’t know.”
“Lil’more sleep,” comes the agreement, shifting a bit – Tony lifts his head to meet the inquisitive look. “Pie?”
He’s still smiling. “Apple pie, even. Pie fairy, you think? Not the best incentive to lock the door at night, is it?” The smile it earns him is tired and adorable. Later, it’ll be sarcastic, reluctant, small. Right now it’s unfiltered, and it’s … it’s great.
“Fuckin’ love you,” Bruce murmurs, hand sliding from his face to go around the back of his neck. “P’fairy.”
He’s held.