Chapter 7
There were autobiographies written by famous authors that said they had been introduced to their best stories through their dreams. Interviews where they would each say, in their own words, that their muse had walked through the fog of their sleep and stood in front of them, fully formed and waiting. Dreams where their muse – their character – would begin to spill out their stories in perfect detail, from start to finish, in the setting of that story’s world. They had chosen, every author said. The story had chosen them to tell the world.
It was a nice sentiment.
At thirty-four, Bruce had never had that dream.
Ten years of college, one PhD in English, four run-out jobs, and well over a million words, and he had nothing to show for any of his work outside of interspersed publications in literary magazines that hardly paid enough for a week’s of light groceries, let alone that did anything for his name. He’d been cocky as a youth, sure of his talent – the glee he’d obtained from the praise of his teachers and the high marks on his college papers had been smug. Of course he was good. Of course he was. The best. He’d be a best-selling author before he’d hit thirty. His books would be read by all ages, adored by everyone enlightened enough to understand his thoughts, adapted into movies that would turn over millions. For thirty seconds he’d be the next Stephen King, and then he’d overthrow him.
Now, Bruce was just … empty.
Spread out on the unvacuumed floor of his studio apartment, black-ink pen perched precariously in the dip of his lips, he stared at the popcorn balls littering his ceiling, half-heartedly counting every crease in paint that each of them made. His head hurt, a low ache pulsing under his left ear down to his neck and back up; his glasses were too heavy on his face, cold from the air conditioner instead of heated from his skin; the internet bill was splayed over the top of the kitchen table like a freshly-skinned kill, covering the unopened electric bill; his laptop rested on the coffee table, Firefox minimized to hide yet another message from his cousin, his word processor responsibly alive, opened full screen, and blank; the deadline was in four hours, and the document was blank.
It didn’t really matter. The magazine had made it clear they weren’t relying on the piece. He’d either turn it in on time, have his story printed in a tiny column toward the end of the pages that no one would read, or he wouldn’t, and his story wouldn’t exist at all for no one to read, anyway.
“I,” he said aloud to the ceiling, dragging the word as the pen tipped from his lips and to the floor. There were no tears of frustration, no screams of annoyance muffled into pillows. Frankly, he was long past that. “Am not good at this.”
He closed his eyes. Tried not to think of Jennifer’s concerned twenty-third message of “We’re worried. You’re hardly doing anything, Bruce. Mom thinks you should see a doctor for depression.”
Not where he’d imagined his life at all.
What would it be like to only be able to experience life through a body-suit of iron? his mind suddenly asked, random and faint.
With a groan, Bruce rolled over, mashing the pen and his face into the carpet as he grumbled back, “It would suck.”
Like life did now.
The machine at Red-Eye Cure broke down three hours before his shift was supposed to start, and so he went in.
“We should just get a new one,” Clint muttered as Bruce walked in through the back door. Co-owner of the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, the blonde looked even more tired than Bruce felt, the scowl on his face as he glared at the silver coffee maker only enunciating the bags under his eyes. In spite of himself, Bruce couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight.
“Natasha likes this one,” he reminded softly, gently pushing the shorter man away. Clint groused at the manhandling, but obediently moved out of the way for Bruce’s hands to soothe across the cool metal siding of it. “Go use the backup before you get a line of grouchy customers. I’ll fix it.”
“And I’ll clock you in.” Clint agreed, already backing up to the other machine and the patiently waiting customer. “You can grab a few extra hours. Nat’ll kill us both she catches you doing free labor again, anyway.”
Bruce snorted, already popping the top off of the machine.
The insides were unnaturally cool, almost feeling dead beneath the gentle prodding of his fingers as he searched for the problem. It was an old machine, not originally built from scratch but all-but now, haphazard in its balance and questionable in its ability to sustain its life. If stories were to be believed, Natasha’s father had built it during her childhood, and she’d brought it to the shop upon on his death. So despite its tendency to constantly break down, and Clint’s endless mistrust and dislike of its existence, it certainly wasn’t going anywhere.
“What’s wrong with you today, huh?” He questioned it softly, reaching further as he stretched to kick the stool close enough to step on. “It’s coffee time. You love coffee time.”
“I can hear you,” Clint sang as Bruce stepped up to get a good look inside. “Coffee machine whisperer.” The customer chuckled as they were handed their coffee and left.
He ignored them both, peering inside. The cross of tubing and gears looked as lifeless as the thing felt.
Needs a heart, his mind supplied helpfully as he poked lightly at the tubes again.
The fuck?
Blue’s a good color for a heart. Bright. Futuristic. Hopeful? This bucket of bolts could use some hope. Hopeful heart. Oh, poetic.
Bruce shook his head, stepping down from the stepstool. As he did, the gleaming silver of the machine seemed to shift gold and red in a trick of the light, a thump of color.
Like a heartbeat! Came the cheerful addition.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growled to himself, bewildered. The machine was silver again.
“No, Bruce, see, we want it to talk.” Clint approached again, wiping his hands on a dishtowel with a smirk. He tilted his head. “Figure it out? It’s, uh, not actually dead, is it?”
Bruce shook his head again, remnants of the strange thoughts dying away to the presence of his manager. “I couldn’t find – Clint.” His eyes fell to the floor, and with the next move he scooped up the machine’s power cord, heavy in his hand and decidedly not in the outlet. “Really?”
Clint snatched it up. “Sorry. I mopped. I forgot. I’m seriously sorry, man. I – do you want to take a break? Chill until your shift starts?” The blonde was flushing, fumbling with the cord as he plugged it in – the machine immediately began to hum. “The bookstore’s open. I can call you? Or, hell, you have enough time to go back home for a bit if you want.”
It wouldn’t need plugged in with a supercharged blue heart of futuristic hope.
Something curious pulled inside of Bruce’s gut.
“Actually.” His gaze swept over the near-empty café, falling to the booth in the back, so secluded that it was hardly sat at. “I’ll … hang out here, I think. Natasha gonna mind if I steal some paper from the printer?”
Clint raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but shrugged. “Mind? You? That’s funny. Knock yourself out. Yell when you want some coffee.”
Energy.
“Clock me out,” he said absently, already moving to grab the paper.
“Um, no?”
Twelve sheets of printer paper sat on the kitchen table, bills pushed to the floor to make room for them to spread out. Twelve sheets, covered front-to-back in blue lettering of his handwriting, a pollution of random sentences and detailed thoughts of iron body armor of red and gold and electronic hearts and a future that needed a kickstart. What would it be like to only experience the world from inside of an iron suit?
Why would anyone only be able to experience the world through an iron suit?
Bruce scrubbed his fingers through his hair. His shift had seemed longer than usual, with the papers tucked into his locker.
Why would the iron suit be red and gold? Ostentatious over-kill?
Harsh. It wasn’t my idea.
“Then whose was it?” He asked aloud without thinking. “Your mother’s?”
There was no response, but somehow Bruce already knew that answer was ‘no’. Whoever was inside of the iron suit didn’t have a mother – no mother would allow their child to suffer a life outside of physical sensation.
No physical sensation-
He snatched a pen up from the floor and made a note in the corner of one of the pages – isn’t touched skin-to-skin. It had to be lonely. The person in the suit wasn’t alone, per say – there were people on the planet, impossible to avoid being around. But the person couldn’t be touched, couldn’t be held, probably had no idea what a genuine hug from another person felt like. A sort of solitary confinement, a lack of any sort of intimacy; it could turn a person mad-
Bruce froze.
“What the fuck am I doing?” He breathed, staring down at the notes. Any more writing, and he’d need more paper. More paper. This was long. This was just twelve pages of notes – ideas, imagined scenarios, details of a suit that worked like life-support, sketched schematics of a blue electric heart that had components similar to Red-Eye’s coffee machine. He didn’t do this. He did … small pieces. Tiny writing. Two-thousand words and under, and this … this was so much more than that.
He dropped the pen, automatically swallowing a sickening numbness of knowledge. This was long; novel-long. A series of novels long.
I can’t write a book. Holy shit. I can’t even write a drabble of words for a magazine. I’m bad at this, I cannot. Write. A book.
What the fuck do you think you’re even doing, Banner?
He jerked away from the table, chair scrapping across the abandoned bills.
It was only seven at night, but he was going to bed.
Bruce didn’t dream of suits of iron flying through skies over solar-powered buildings and rolling fields of green. He didn’t see happy people of the future all grinning and laughing and driving flying cars or shooting through tunnels from one location to another miraculously without accidents. He liked Meet the Robinsons as much as the next person, but that realism didn’t exist in his mind.
The images of his nightmare weren’t clear-cut. There were more flashes of red than gold. There were beams of light accompanied by high-pitched whines that sounded reluctant and sad, like the cries of children in an active warzone who needed to scream more than they needed to stay hidden. A lot of it was dark, with only the sensation of some claustrophobic fear attempting to suffocate him. He couldn’t feel the cold, but he knew it wasn’t warm. There was no sun in the sky. And there hadn’t been for a long while.
When he woke up, he didn’t shoot up from the bed, gasping for breath and desperate for reassurance. Regular nightmares had long since stolen that reaction, worn it down to the bone and left it exposed. No, he woke up on a steady exhale, blinking to the moon’s softly illuminated darkness, stretched on the pull-out bed with the sheets of paper a dozen feet away.
Damn.
He indulged in thirty-minute, steaming hot showers once a month, budgeted it in to keep the anxiety of it from eating at his stomach. Even then, it still nibbled.
The water cascaded across his skin in rivers shifted by the old scars on his back, just shy of scalding but enough to cause a slightly unpleasant burn. He relished the sensation, ducked his head beneath the spray again and again just to soak through it.
I mean, I knew you were hot, but … fuck.
Bruce jolted so hard he almost slipped on the tile.
Naked, you are like, superhot. Ten out of ten, would fucking bang … is that redundant? Fucking bang? Would fuck? Or is that overusing fuck?
“The fuck?” Bruce choked out, whipping around. There was no one else in the shower.
Well, if it wasn’t being overused before, maybe it is now. We should go ten minutes without saying fuck. Okay. I would bang you. Hard. So fuc-damn hard. And endless. You look like you could get laid. I would very much be willing to help you get laid. My method would be my cock.
He threw open the shower curtain. But again, there was no one there.
Superhot, but clearly not super-smart.
“Who the hell-.”
That’s insulting. You dream about a guy and you don’t even recognize his voice? I’ve never even done that.
Dream…?
Oh.
Oh, shit.
The story.
Uh, yeah. The story. The one on your kitchen table that you haven’t touched in like, twelve hours, despite all those thoughts running rampant through your enormous and scarily creative brain. Again with the insults.
“I’m … talking to myself,” he mumbled, absently reaching for the handle to twist off the water flow. “More than usual. I’m talking with myself.” His aunt would have a field day. He wondered if it was a sign of depression.
Like I said. Bruce didn’t hear the sigh so much as he felt it, as if it were inside his own chest. Not so much the super-smart. Depression? Must be a morning thing. Fuck it. And fuck the no-fuck thing, I don’t think I can do that when talking to you like this. Like I seriously cannot communicate with you without saying fuck. Come over here.
He took a breath, shivering under a gust of cold air against his dripping skin. In for a penny – “Come … where?”
Ha. All over me. Nono! I’m just kidding. Shit. Sorry. Come to the mirror. You don’t have to c- fine, grab a towel, but come to the mirror. I’ll show you ‘talking to yourself’, I mean, geezus, you’d think you’d never done this before. Oops. Clear it off.
“Done what?” Bruce muttered, confused and cold and feeling ridiculous as he did what the voice in his head snarked at him to do (a notch in the ‘insane’ column, totally. If he did this for a few more weeks, no matter what becomes of it, he’d get a plea deal).
Um, write?
He swept his fingers over the fogged mirror, clearing away the distortion to a crystal-clear image of himself.
Standing half-covered in gleaming red and gold armor, half a futuristic-blue light on his chest, a mask with an intimidating face shielding half of his own.
Iron Man. He knew it, just like that. Iron Man.
Yeah. Iron Man.
So. Sorry I didn’t appear in a dream, or whatever. I didn’t really take etiquette classes.
Bruce kept his hands steady as he held the porcelain cup of coffee under the machine, watching the liquid carefully dot the foam.
Not so sorry for seeing you naked, though. As I said. Ten out of ten.
“Inappropriate,” he growled lowly, cautiously setting the cup on the waiting tray before reaching for another. Red-Eye was growing busy – even Natasha, usually safe in her office to keep from frightening customers, was manning the floor.
Remember what I said about etiquette classes? I meant never. I’ve never taken them. For anything.
That much was obvious. A crass man in a suit of iron that … flew. Bruce was certain, somehow, that it flew. Had it flown in the nightmare?
Yes, it flies. Also. Okay, that was not a nightmare.
“It really was,” he hissed, adding the next cup to the tray and nudging it toward Clint, who was eying him oddly. Too loud, maybe.
It wasn’t … meant to be.
Iron Man’s tone changed. Less vulgar, less teasing. Almost … hurt. The deep wounded hurt that Bruce was all-too familiar with.
Clint relayed another order, and Bruce’s hand reached for a large styrofoam cup instead, sliding it expertly under the nozzle of the machine.
The world’s a vulnerable place. He saw images he’d seen on the news on nights he couldn’t sleep – wars across the globe, innocent people dying the hands of greedy men with no compassion and too many guns. No. First world countries with no human understanding and too much power, choosing who could live and who could die based on equations. Worse. The sky above a large city, ripping itself open, monsters from the most indescribable horrors pouring out, destroying everything in their path, people slaughtered without regard to crimes or life.
He dropped a lid onto the coffee, handing it off to the waiting customer without actually looking, mind caught up in the visuals of a war he’d never seen.
I see a suit of armor around the world. Protecting it. Shielding it from the outside.
There had been no sun in his nightmare. No way to breathe.
“Sounds cold,” he responded softly. Iron Man snorted, sounding more bitter than condescending.
I’ve seen colder. The Earth needs protecting. Even if it doesn’t want it.
“Bruce?” Clint was waving a hand in front of him. “I need a large Chocolate Premium Rush, extra chips with two shots of cherry. To go.”
Bruce grabbed another styrofoam cup as the woman behind the counter beamed happily, unaware.
“Yeah.”
“So you’re a villain, then.”
Back at home; the laptop was still harboring an open Facebook page, and Jennifer was growing a little more desperate, as if it had been months instead of a week that he’d last spoken with her. The bills were still on the floor – he should probably look at them, undoubtedly their due date was fast approaching. But, as his pen tapped the paper on the table, new sheets stolen (with permission, she always knew) from Natasha’s printer, he found that all he could think about was making more notations. Building more of an impossible world and the man who wanted to surround it in suffocating iron.
Technically, it would be a titanium alloy, not iron. Like the suit. Titanium alloy, not iron.
“Why call yourself Iron Man, then?” Bruce mused, flipping the page to get more space. There would be a woman at a café, like the one from Red-Eye. Her son would hate Iron Man. Why?
Again, not my idea. Though I went along with it. Good theme song.
“Villains need good theme songs.” Villains also needed heroes, as a foil. Bruce wasn’t really prepared for another character. He wasn’t really prepared for this character.
I don’t know if ‘villain’ is the right word, really. I want to make the world a better place.
“Ironically, so did Adolf Hitler. Didn’t really work for him, either.”
… Thanks.
Instant self-hatred, only some of which was actually his, flooded Bruce’s body. The pen slipped from his fingers in retribution.
“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Ridiculous, talking to something that didn’t really exist. But Bruce could feel the tendrils of Iron Man’s despondency through his own veins. He felt … low. Wrong. “I didn’t mean it like that, I was making analogies. I’m … not exactly good with talking to people.”
You’re fine. It sounded anything but. Maybe I am the villain. I mean, the world already has Captain America. They don’t exactly need another hero. And I’m not exactly the, you know, hero type.
“You know about Captain America?” The revelation made Bruce pause. He didn’t own any of the popular comic books, money as tight as it was, but he’d read through them at the bookstore around the corner from Red-Eye. They were amazing, the Captain was phenomenal, and if he had the money he’d buy the entire series. “How?”
… Is that really a wall you want to break right now?
The implication of fictional characters conversing with each other in a world outside of their pages immediately made Bruce’s head spin. “On second thought…”
Exactly, so hey. Let’s get back to me. So I’m a villain. Learn something new about yourself every day. Why am I a villain?
“I- what?” He blinked rapidly at Iron Man’s subject change.
Why am I a villain? I mean, not why do you think I’m a villain, but why am I actually one? What do I do that makes me a bad guy?
“I-.”
I mean, obviously I say ‘fuck’ a lot. And talk about fucking a lot, though in my defense, anyone who sees you naked would do the same. But really, I know another good guy who does those things, so … not that. Of course it’s not that. Do I kill someone? I try not to kill people, you know, outside of the ones who actually deserve it. And by ‘deserve’ I mean ‘people who would go on killing other people if they were allowed to live’ or ‘who would otherwise destroy all hope of peace and life on the planet’. Those people I kill. But … anyone would do that, right? Like if someone was holding a gun to a little kid, you’d kill the person with the gun, right? That’s what people would do.
Bruce was at a loss. Because his gut instinct to the scenario was to say yes, I would do that, only … he’d look for another way first. He’d kill the person with the gun if he had to, but if there was another way…
He wasn’t sure that Iron Man would consider that option.
“God, this is such a bad idea,” he moaned, dropping his head on the paper with a heavy impact that made his teeth vibrate.
You okay there, Brucie-bear? And completely contradictory to his character, Iron Man sounded concerned again.
“I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I’m not this kind of writer. Hell, I’m not really any kind of writer. You should check out my work – it’s all nonsense, whimsical nothings that don’t mean anything. People dismiss them before they even read them; they’re forgotten.” He groaned in frustration. “I’m forgotten. They’re shoved in the back of magazines, okay? That’s what I write. Not … novel-length stories of a series of books about a complex man in a suit of iron-.”
Titanium alloy.
“-whatever. The point is I can’t write this story. I don’t have the skills, the talent to do it any justice. You’re … damn it, Iron Man, you’re amazing, alright? You’re obviously a complex person, and all I’m doing is pulling off a layer of you and running with it. There’s so much to your world, I can’t. I just … fuck.”
Like the time before, Bruce shoved away from the table, a swell of pressure surging to the base of his neck; self-loathing of his own.
Bruce, no. Hey, wait.
“I’m honestly just not good enough to write this for you. Someone else will have to.”
The nightmare this time was different.
There was still the feeling of not being able to breathe. But there was nothing enclosing him.
Instead, it was almost like he was floating in the middle of the ocean, underneath the surface but not on the sands below. Surrounded by nothing but held under by something else. And there was pain, so much pain, right in the center of his chest. An empty, hard pain with a chill that froze his fingers, burned his throat – hotter than his showers. There was no one around; the loneliness was different. Final. He felt cheated instead of liberated. I thought I’d feel liberated when it was time to die.
Also unlike last time, when Bruce woke up, it was with a panicked shout as he shot up, hands scrambling to his chest, trying to push into a hole that didn’t exist.
“It’s still there.”
Iron Man, still wrapped in his armor, sat at the foot of the bed, helmet turned toward him, white eyes glowing. Red metallic fingers tapped softly against the glowing light in the middle of his chest.
“Blue futuristic heart of hope,” he said, robotic voice dry. “Runs on energy. Some people mistakenly refer to it as a battery. Neat, huh?”
Bruce sucked in a breath, and then another, and then another.
“Calm down, buddy. Just a dream.”
“Nightmare.”
“Details.”
“That … that was you. I dream-had a nightmare, about you. I … was you?” The pain had been so sharp, but so dull. Floating. “Dying?”
“Hole in the chest. I can’t remember if I was shot or if I’d gotten blown up or … there may have been a missile. I’m not sure. It’s not something I’d recommend going through.”
“And yet you just put me through it.” His breathing was beginning to slow. Iron Man, continuing to watch him with eyes that couldn’t blink, was still there. His own eyes began to grow sluggish, the terror of the nightmare disappearing back into his need for sleep. “I’m … dreaming. You’re sitting there. Really there. By yourself.”
Iron Man chuckled. “Dreaming. Sure. If you need to call it that.”
He did need to call it that.
“I just … wanted to tell you. What I said before … I meant it. Killing someone to stop them from hurting others. I … I would’ve killed your father.”
He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think of that at all.
“Go back to sleep, Banner. I promise. No more nightmares.”
He woke up to Iron Man sitting at his table, staring at the notes, still completely separate from him.
But Bruce knew that this time he was actually awake.
“I think you’re trying to freak me out,” he said wryly, feeling no small amount of satisfaction as the robotic man jumped. Good. Nightmare-giving bastard. “Are you solid right now?”
“Consider me a … ghostly manifestation, if it helps,” Iron Man offered slightly, not looking up from the papers. “I mean, I’m not a ghost, and I’ve never technically existed, at least not in the human way, so it’s not correct, but if it helps you spaz a little less …” Red and gold shoulders shrugged. “I told you I didn’t take etiquette classes.”
“What, Captain America didn’t give you any pointers?” Bruce reached for the fridge, squinting at the calendar help to the freezer-top as he did. Damn. It was his day off.
“We don’t exactly get along. Besides, he was a born-story. He’s not exactly the go-to guy for answers.”
Despite himself, Bruce’s head tilted toward the character. “Born story?”
“It means the writer … what’s his name, G. Rogers? That guy. He was born with Captain America already living inside of him. Cap didn’t choose him. He’s … I guess you could say they’re essentially each other. In a way. Or maybe they were just lucky and found each other in Rogers’ mom’s womb. Hell if I know the mechanics of it. It’s complicated.”
“Sounds it.” Ignoring the implications (again), Bruce dug through the fridge. The milk was spoiled. Those eggs were undoubtedly bad. Maybe if he showed up for work anyway, Natasha would let him eat something in exchange for cleaning or something. “What are you doing, anyway? You already know the story.”
“It’s just … different, seeing it like this.” Fingers traced over the pages with a reverence that made Bruce swallow. “I … fuck, this day and age, I never thought I’d be handwritten.” He sounded awed.
And Bruce immediately felt guilty.
“You know how they say a story chooses its writer?” Iron Man asked, still not looking up.
Bruce swallowed again. “Yeah.”
“I chose you because you heard me.” It was whispered, hesitant, as if saying it too loud would bring something bad. “I asked you what it would be like to experience life through a suit of iron, and you answered me. No one … no one had even acknowledged that I’d spoken before. Sometimes I’d shout it in a writer’s ear, sometimes I’d screams obscenities, just to see if I could get a reaction, but there wouldn’t even be a twitch. No one heard me. And when I saw you, this cute, quiet little writer with all of these gorgeous words who just wanted something to attach them to, I thought to myself ‘why the hell not?’ So I asked you, expecting nothing, and you answered me.”
How many times had he thought to himself that he wanted a story? How many times had he bemoaned that he had never had one of the infamous dreams, never met his muse, never had an idea that could span outside of a magazine, that he could live in, breathe through? How many times had he wrapped himself in the loneliness of being a writer without a purpose, without a voice to guide his fucking pen?
(I would have killed your father)
How many times had Iron Man wanted the exact same for himself; a writer to help him breathe?
You’re shit, Banner, he told himself. You’re selfish, useless. You’re absolute shit.
Bruce reached over, yanked out a chair, tearing a bill in half as it skidded across the floor. He sat in it without care, snatching away the pen by the armored hand.
Iron Man’s head lifted slowly, the mask’s eyes blank. But Bruce could feel him waiting as if he were still stuck inside of him, right in the center of his chest, where his heart still was and Iron Man’s wasn’t.
(I would have killed your father)
“I’m an ass who doesn’t deserve to tell your story,” he said remorsefully. Swallowed desperately for the third time. “But I would be … hell, fucking honored, if you’d tell it to me now. I hear you. I want to listen.”
There was a pause, the faceplate of the armor gleaming as Iron Man regarded him.
“… Just forgive me if it fucking sucks,” he added quietly, unable to help himself.
The head titled.
And then Iron Man reached over, a hesitatingly slow movement, and gently patted his hand. The fingers went right through him; he felt the warmth anyway.
“Okay. But we have to go ten minutes without saying ‘fuck’, because we really do use it too much. And don’t use many in your writing. What if this gets turned into a movie? Automatic R-fucking rating. And not even for the good kind of fucking.”
Bit by bit, the story was pulled out, some of it rushed with exuberance, some of it reluctant, sluggish. A lot of it was painful, so much of Iron Man’s existence lost to a questionable darkness.
Bruce listened to the words, sucked in the tone of voice, looked up to see the shift in shoulders, the duck of his chin – he could the hurt, every ounce of it, every time it was brought up. It was like drowning in the ocean, trapped in space. The emptiness on par with the worst he had ever felt in his own life, and he scratched every word of it onto the paper. He broke Bruce’s heart.
The world thought Iron Man was a villain because Iron Man couldn’t save it, even though he wanted to. Even though he kept trying.
He didn’t know how to.
They hadn’t reached the end – they would probably never reach the end – when Iron Man went quiet, long enough for Bruce to realize it was an intentional pause and look up.
“Who do you think I am, under the mask?” He questioned, as if he were wondering it himself instead of seeking a real answer. “It’s a big suit of armor. Take it away, and what am I? Who is the person underneath this?”
They would never reach the end.
“I know you like it as it is, but I have to type it up if you want people to actually read it.”
“Why can’t they just read your words and type it up themselves?”
“These are notes. There are details I have to add and take out and move around that are scribbled in the margins. See? I have to type it up. Anyone else will fuck it up.”
“You said fuck.”
“It’s been longer than ten minutes. A lot longer. Seriously, move-.”
“What’s wrong with just having it replicated as-is? I like the notes on the side. And the little squigglies through some of the words. It’s cute.”
“Cute doesn’t get published.”
“Um, yes it does. I’ve seen it.”
“I fucking swear. You’re not even real, how are you blocking the computer screen?”
“I am multi-talented. Oh, add that! I forgot. Did I tell you about the time I fought off Doom while spinning a hula-hoop of fire around my waist? Fire-resistant armor is your friend. We’re going to do more books, right? I forgot a lot of stuff. But this story is awesome. So I was chilling in the Tower, minding my own business-.”
“And I want to hear it, I honest-to-God do, but I need to write this one first.”
Two Years Later
“So Natasha’s worried you’re going to quit.”
Bruce grinned at the forced nonchalance in Clint’s voice as he swirled a small porcelain cup of Mint Nightmare, five shots of dark chocolate, two shots espresso, quadruple the whipped cream. The customer was nuts. He’d add sprinkles to the cream.
“Natasha’s worried?” He teased. “Or you are?”
“… Someone needs to be around to fix the machine when it goes nuts.”
“I don’t know.” He spun the whipped cream in a circle as it fell, imitating a swirl of ice cream for the hell of it. “It’s been four months since we’ve had a plug mishap. I think you might actually have it down.” Carefully, he shook a helping a chocolate sprinkles around the mountain he’d made. This thing was a disaster. Sweet-tooth overload. Customers. Fucking nuts.
“Bruce.”
“Clint. It’s not like I became JK Rowling over night or anything. My book didn’t make me any immediate millions or thrust me into a fame that would justify quitting a job. Calm down. I’m not quitting.”
“Natasha’s rereading it,” Clint pointed out, though his pout had died at the reassurance. Again. “She’s recommending it to everyone. People come in here reading it. You can’t tell me you didn’t see the display at the bookstore.”
Fighting down his blush, Bruce carefully put the fragile concoction in Clint’s outstretched hand, grinning again as his manager yelped in surprise.
“Table two, pretty sure. I think her name’s Skye. Don’t spill it. She looks like she could kill.”
The blonde grumbled, walking away, and under his breath, Bruce laughed, turning back to the machine. Break in the customers meant it was time to wipe it down.
“Behave,” he chided it gently, smoothing a rag across its coffee-splattered front. The metal beneath gleamed, preening in a way he imagined the Iron Man did when being cleaned. Knowing it was beautiful.
The Iron Man hadn’t made him a millionaire with its publication, no, but it had brought a piece of calm into his life that he hadn’t known he was looking for. Four-hundred and seventy-two pages of Iron Man’s twisted, dark story, bound in crimson hardcover with Bruce Banner engraved along the spines in gold – his copy sat on the bedside table in his slightly-upgraded apartment (an actual bedroom) because the publication had come with a contract. The world, it seemed, was apparently hungry for an anti-hero. The novel was fourth on the Bestseller list. His aunt had stopped suggesting he was suffering depression. Jennifer messaged him constantly about her progress through the gory, almost-hopeless book.
He enjoyed running his fingers over his name, across the flawless pages; laughed when he could Iron Man in the back of his mind, comfortable in his own permanent residence as Bruce’s muse, grumbling over the lack of his “adorable” side notes. To get back, Iron Man would mention his interactions with Captain America, bring up how well they were getting along lately, allude to some new player in the field he enjoyed hanging out with. Bruce would stop teasing him, then, because characters. Fictional characters. Existing together in a place where they could talk without their writers. He did not. Want. To think. About it.
“Bruce.”
He jumped, startled, as Natasha materialized at his elbow, reflexively scowling at her which only made the redhead smile. His book was tucked beneath her arm.
“There’s a man who wants to speak with you,” she informed him, lifting an eyebrow slyly. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Says he’s a fan and a … colleague. Not bad looking, either. He’s at the other counter. Go. I’ll clean.” And she snagged the rag immediately, hip checking him away from the machine without giving him a chance to protest.
“Thanks,” he responded, deadpan. Natasha just laughed, waving him off with a threatening snap of the rag. Experience had taught him to move.
The guy at the end of the counter had his head bowed over a copy of The Iron Man, opened in the middle, apparently his own copy and not one Natasha had shoved at him, assuming it wasn’t just for show in meeting the author.
“Good part?” Bruce pressed casually as he stopped in front of him, testing. The man didn’t look up, just hummed in response.
“Trick question, the whole book is ‘the good part’. I’m actually reading this for, like, the fifth time, trying to see if what I’m looking for is there. So far it’s not. I’m still looking.”
Bruce cocked his head, apprehension buzzing low in his belly. “What are you looking for?”
“More. Obviously.” The man looked up then, wide brown eyes buzzing with energy locking instantly with his. “Are you Bruce Banner?”
“…Yes?” The smile that erupted was beaming.
“Fantastic!” A hand shot forward, sticking out expectantly. “Huge fan. I am honestly in-fucking-love with this book. You’re writing more, right? Of course you are, why am I asking, I can see it. You’ve got a series contract, don’t you? Same. I’m Tony Stark, by the way. Wow, rude of me, should’ve said that earlier.”
Tony Stark? “Tony Stark, writer of The Incredible Hulk, Tony Stark? That Tony Stark?” Bruce demanded, stretching out his own hand. The smile grew impossibly wider.
“The only Tony Stark I know who’s written a novel called The Incredible Hulk, fifth on the Bestseller list right behind … you, as it were.” Amusement sparkled wildly in the intently focused eyes. “Can you take a break? I want to talk about this book. You have to talk to me about this book. I’m being killed by written word in every chapter. Please tell me you can take a break and talk me off the edge from this.”
“He can take a break!” Natasha and Clint chorused from separate sides of the café. Stark’s eyebrows raised, smile triumphant.
“I can take a break,” he repeated uselessly, flushing as he stepped around the counter. The other man whistled lowly when he did.
“Damn, you’re hot,” Stark breathed. “Like … superhot. Was not expecting.”
Bruce flushed. In the back of his mind, attention caught, Iron Man chimed in.
Oh my God. He likes the book and thinks you’re hot. Bonus that he is also hot. Everyone is hot. Ten out of ten. Go for it, big guy. Approval fucking granted.