#brucie wayne. the act. is closer to who tony is all the time

[finemeal]

“Iron Man and Batman are parallels to each other” broke

“Spider-Man and Batman are parallels to each other” woke

In this essay I will—

[firebrands]

a catalog of non-definitive acts | steve/tony

Steve Rogers/Tony Stark (mention of Bruce Wayne/Tony Stark), mature, 3.5k, jealousy at the gala or: panic, at the disco | previous ||  on ao3 

Tony adjusts his tie for the third time that night as he waits for Steve in the living room. Steve had drawn the short straw to accompany Tony to a charity gala—this time, for upgrading a hospital.

Tony hasn’t spoken to him much since he’d snuck out of the clinic and developed a new design for a jet. He tries not to read into the fact that Steve hasn’t tried to speak to him either. In any case, this song and dance isn’t anything new; they’ve been assigned to attend fancy dinners together, and tonight doesn’t strike Tony as anything different.

Except when the elevator doors open, Steve is standing inside wearing a deliciously cut suit, dark blue silk with black satin lapels. For a second, Tony is speechless, then he says: “Is that Ferragamo?”

Steve ducks his head. “Natasha helped,” he says, sounding sheepish.

“It looks good,” Tony says, trusting that he sounds offhand about it, trusting that his voice doesn’t betray the split second choice to say it not you. Steve holds the door open for Tony, and they settle into a calm silence as the elevator whizzes down to the building lobby. Happy’s waiting for them, a loan from Pepper that only ever happens for big galas like this one.

The silence continues in the Rolls, and for a brief moment Tony considers resting his hand on the seat, just to see what Steve would do. But it strikes him too much as a move meant for prom night, and they’re way past acting like teenagers. He wants to know where Steve went, why he didn’t come back, why he hasn’t sought out Tony since. He wants to know where he stands in all of this.

He wants to know if he means anything. If he could ever mean anything.

But he only has enough emotional bandwidth for about two hours at the gala tonight, and they have to present a united front. It’s no use getting into a discussion now, he tells himself. He won’t admit that he’s more afraid to find out the answers.

He and Steve stand side by side for photos at the entrance, then are hustled inside by an organizer. She tries to go through the main guests of the night (code for the largest potential donors), but Tony waves her away. It’s almost rude, that they don’t think he’d know. Steve, meanwhile, stays for the quick briefing, and Tony leaves them to begin mingling.

It’s from this brief act of hubris that Tony is greeted by the sight of guests crowding around a billionaire that is decidedly not him. Tony frowns, and then realization dawns on him.

“Brucie, baby,” he cries out, and the aforementioned billionaire turns to look at Tony, along with his gaggle of onlookers. Bruce looks immaculate, as always, and he pulls Tony into a tight hug.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” he mutters, his breath hot against Tony’s ear.

“But you let everyone call you Brucie,” Tony whines as he pulls away and gives Bruce a once over.

Bruce rolls his eyes fondly and begins to steer Tony away from the crowd and towards the bar. If Tony knows Bruce Wayne (and he does, biblically) he knows too that Bruce was just as aware of the cameras raised up to document their greeting and wanted a brief moment of privacy.

“So where’s your date?” Bruce asks as he makes eye contact with the bartender and throws up two fingers.

Tony shakes his head in response. “No date, just Captain America.”

Bruce barks out a laugh. “Then you should’ve had a grander entrance.”

Tony frowns, because he’s right—in another world, a topsy turvy absurd universe, they could’ve walked into the gala hand in hand. They’d smile for the cameras, and Steve would duck his head down to whisper in Tony’s ear about how he was looking forward to going home already, and Tony would laugh, and lean even closer and Steve would reward him with a small kiss, in front of everyone, and—

“Well, where’s your date, then?” Tony snaps.

Bruce shrugs, and for a wild moment Tony is distracted by how broad his shoulders are. “Maybe I came to New York to find a date,” he says, nonchalant. Then he angles his body closer towards Tony. “Maybe I came to see my old friend,” he purrs.

Tony makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Fuck you, Wayne.”

“That an offer I hear?” Bruce’s grin is sharp as a knife’s edge, and Tony is briefly transported to his earlier days, wild and exuberant, hand in hand with Bruce as they partied like the world was ending.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Could you at least let me go through the room and secure some donations before you proposition me?”

Bruce sighs, exasperated. “Fine. Find me if you want to talk.” He winks at Tony then saunters away, almost immediately swallowed up by a new crowd of hangers-on.

Tony steels himself, finishes his drink, and steps into the crowd. His gaze is drawn to Steve, already mid-conversation, eyebrows drawn together in an earnest expression as he undoubtedly discusses the importance of their cause.

As the night drones on, Tony finds himself drawn more and more back to Bruce, who’s rested his hand just above Tony’s elbow and plied him with little plates of food for the third time now. It’s nice, to be doted on, and to be doted on publicly to boot. Tony’s in the middle of discussing the recent merger when he feels Bruce stand beside him, hors d'oeuvres in hand.

Tony turns and smiles, accepts the plate without any comment, and lets Bruce take the lead; the oil heiress Tony was speaking to moments prior is enamored by Bruce, and is evidently overjoyed at having both billionaire bachelors at her attention.

He focuses on chewing his food, watching Bruce in the corner of his eye. Again, he finds himself considering this option: it would be complicated, surely, but every relationship that involved Tony was invariably so. It could be easy, too, though. Somehow. As Tony licks sauce off his fingers, he thinks, well—maybe. It’s been years since he and Bruce had really spent time together, and then Bruce had disappeared and reappeared and Tony had done the same.

Donation secured, Bruce excuses himself and Tony from the conversation. “Smoke breakCigarette?” he asks, and Tony nods. They head out to the balcony slowly, stopping every few steps to greet someone or other. As Tony’s about to cross the threshold of the room, he feels like he’s being watched—not a new feeling, or an unwelcome one, but intense enough to give Tony pause. He turns, doing a quick survey of the room. He catches sight of Steve, surprisingly only a few feet away from him. Steve’s looking at a painting, his neck craned up to examine the work.

Tony furrows his brow and finally follows Bruce out into the cold night. “I thought you quit smoking,” Tony says, walking up to Bruce, who’s resting his forearms against the railing of the balcony.

“I did,” Bruce answers, casting a glance over his shoulder to meet Tony’s eyes. He jerks his head forward, beckoning Tony closer. “What would you say if I said that I just wanted to get you out here alone?”

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’d say that we’re above using cheap lines like that,” he says, bumping Bruce’s shoulder with his as he too surveys the city. “It’s a nice night out.”

“It is,” Bruce answers. There’s a bit of wistfulness to his voice, and if Tony didn’t know him better, he’d leave the observation at that. But there’s something else, underneath it all, and ain’t that a kick in the head? He wonders if he’s telegraphing the same things to Bruce. If, after all these years, they still know each other.

Bruce turns to Tony, a soft smile forming on his lips as Tony mirrors his movement. “So?” he says, running his hand down the lapel of Tony’s jacket.

“So,” Tony repeats, taking a step forward.

“You’re sure you don’t have a date tonight?” Bruce asks, fingers ghosting over the thin fabric above the arc reactor in Tony’s chest.

Tony shakes his head. “No.”

Bruce leans closer, his breath sending tingles down Tony’s spine. “Because tall, blonde, and buff over there seems to think otherwise,” he whispers.

Tony looks up with a start and turns to where Bruce has cocked his head. True enough, there’s Steve, and Tony catches the exact moment when his expression shifts from irritation to surprise.

Steve’s gaze meets his, and it should be comical, the way he looks like a deer in the headlights as he registers Tony’s gaze, but Tony’s too perplexed by that look Steve was giving Bruce to laugh.

Bruce, however, chortles.

At this, Steve turns abruptly and makes his way back inside.

A strange feeling roils in Tony’s belly, and he takes a step forward, intent on following after Steve. He catches himself and looks back at Bruce.

“Go on,” Bruce says. “I don’t think I can take him in a fight, anyway.”

“What do you mean you—“ Tony stops as realization dawns on him. “You!”

“He’s been staring at you half the night,” Bruce says, “Figured you both needed a push in the right direction.”

“Bruce Wayne I am forty years old. I don’t need you meddling—” Tony begins, upset at the feeling of his face heating with embarrassment.

Bruce shushes him, rests his hand on Tony’s back and begins to push him toward the door. “Just go, Tony,” he says.

So Tony does.

Just as the door to the balcony is about to close, Bruce yells after him: “And if it doesn’t work out, you have my number!”

Tony rolls his eyes and walks past all the onlookers. If he didn’t know better he’d think Bruce wasn’t just teasing him. But he does know, even if only a little bit, that this is all an act. They’re both too old to be playing each other like this and meaning it.

Tony finds Steve standing by the bar, two empty glasses in front of him and his phone screen lighting up his face. He’s looking intently at whatever’s on his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.

“Nothing’s gonna happen if you don’t move your fingers,” Tony says, waggling his eyebrows a little as Steve looks up at him.

Steve smiles, or tries to: his eyebrows raise and his lips are tight as they curl up.

They stare at each other for a moment, and then Steve clears his throat. “Well. I’m going to go get a glass of water,” he says.

Tony nods pointedly at the glass in Steve’s hand, still half-full.

Steve’s smile tightens (and Tony didn’t think that would be possible), but then Tony’s gaze is drawn back to Steve’s hand when he hears a strange crunching sound. The next thing he knows, the glass is in fragments on the floor, the water pooled around it making everything glimmer.

“Oh,” Steve says, very softly, and then once again leaves Tony.

Tony turns to the onlookers, sheepish smile on his face, before he makes his own exit.

  The lobby of the hotel is mercifully empty at this hour, and Tony situates himself a few seats away from the exit. There are a few paps still around, sure, but he knows them and they know him and there isn’t really anything newsworthy anymore about Tony Stark hunkering down in a hotel lobby. Still, there’s the cursory stolen shot. Tony doesn’t even flip them off this time.

He’s typing out his message to Happy about swinging ‘round when he hears familiar laughter—

And there’s Bruce Wayne, his arm around the waist of what Tony the oil heiress he was speaking to earlier. At this, the photographers take notice and stand, crowding around them for what’ll inevitably be another tired headline about who Bruce is bringing home.

Still, Bruce manages to catch Tony’s eye, and Tony knows—he knows how it goes. There’s a look Bruce gives him that won’t telegraph the same emotion in photos, a small turn down his lips: What happened?

Tony sighs, shrugs, and turns back to his phone. Happy’s ETA is in two minutes, and his phone buzzes again with a message from Bruce: Ok so maybe i can take him. U need me to? A small smile forms on Tony’s lips, affection warming him up from the inside.

Nah. can fight my own battles now. I am iron man, u know

Bruce replies almost immediately, which makes Tony feel a little guilty for the woman ostensibly sharing the back seat with Bruce.

You’ll always be Tony to me.

Tony’s about to let his sentimentality get the best of him when he feels a presence by his side. He glances over and sees Steve, hands in his pockets, looking at the decor of the lobby like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Annoyance surges inside Tony so quickly that he suddenly has half a mind to ask Bruce to swing back and pick him up, maybe the three of them can have fun and Steve can go fuck himself—but, as if on cue, Happy arrives.

Tony closes his eyes and counts to ten. He’s never had to do this before, hold himself back, keep quiet, but he knows he has to this time. When Tony finally opens his eyes he’s marginally calmer, but the feeling evaporates at the sight of Steve holding the door open for him.

“I can do it myself,” he snaps, and for a second he and Steve share a shocked silence at his tone. Then Tony gets inside the car and slams the door shut, and turns to look out the window once Steve settles in beside him.

They’re quiet in the car, something jangly playing on the radio as they move through traffic. Tony focuses his attention on every single shop sign they pass.

He startles when he feels Steve’s hand on his knee, and Tony turns as Steve reaches out to clasp Tony’s hand in his. He hadn’t noticed that Steve had put the privacy screen up, and he lets out a breath he’d sucked in when he’s looked to check—and isn’t it absolutely insane that now he’s the one worried about who’ll see?

Tony’s thoughts snap back to Steve when he tightens his grip on Tony’s hand, as if asking for his attention. He looks up at Steve, who looks at him so earnestly it makes Tony want to scream, makes him want to tear out his hair, because he looks so fond.

Steve smiles, small and shy, then bites his lip, and Tony watches all of these emotions cross Steve’s face hungrily, the feeling informed by a strange fear that tomorrow he might not be allowed to do this. Maybe that’s it—he’s afraid of losing whatever tenuous hold he has on Steve, is afraid of Steve tiring of him, the way everyone has. The way they always will.

Steve stops chewing on his lip and it’s pretty and pink now, so Tony can’t help but stare. The shy smile returns to Steve’s lips, and he tugs at Tony’s hand, pulling him closer.

Tony follows, and lets out a small sigh when Steve finally kisses him.

Steve deepens the kiss almost immediately, hand sliding up Tony’s thigh then gripping his hip, and next thing Tony knows he’s on Steve’s lap, grinding down on him, and god he’s never been so thankful to have top of the line as his standard, because this car’s got to have some kind of noise cancelling feature or something and then Steve grinds up against him, their cocks sliding together through their pants, and Tony thinks, half-hysterically, is a car really top of the line if there’s no lube compartment?

Tony’s so busy kissing Steve that he doesn’t register the car slowing down, but apparently Steve does, because all of the sudden he’s deposited back to his side of the seat, tie only a little askew.

Steve’s in the middle of tucking his shirt back into his pants when Happy knocks on the screen, sounding a bit tentative when he says, “you alright back there boss?”

“All good,” Tony croaks, throwing another cursory glance back at Steve, who pulls angrily at his bowtie and stuffs it into his pocket as he exits the car. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s a frown that starts in his eyebrows and ends at the pinch of his lips.

Ask anyone and he’d probably just told Tony off; they’d probably just shouted at each other in the back of the car.

“Thanks, Happy,” Tony says, waving as he walks backward towards the elevator. It’s a good thing his pants are dark, and Steve keeps his head down as they walk toward the elevator.

They’re so silent, Tony fights back the urge to whistle as they wait for the elevator.

Once they’re inside the elevator, though, all bets are off; Steve pushes him flush against the wall and kisses him hungrily, again, as if no time had passed between them.

Tony’s about to shove his hand down Steve’s pants when the door dings open. Steve straightens up, and Tony’s about to kiss him again, keep things going into his penthouse, except—it’s not his penthouse.

It’s Steve’s floor.

Tony’s stomach sinks with understanding, and he tries valiantly not to slouch into himself. How could this be happening? Why was Steve doing this? No one had seen them, and no one would know if Steve spent a few more hours with him in the penthouse; god knows they’ve done it before.

Steve leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Tony’s cheek. “Good night, Tony,” he says, and there’s a strange, sad look in his eye that makes Tony grab Steve’s hand.

Steve looks down at Tony’s fist. He doesn’t say anything. So Tony lets go, swallows down all his questions as he lets the doors slide shut, gaze never leaving the sight of Steve’s retreating back.