Title: close your eyes
Fandom: Marvel/Avengers
Rating: Teen
Length: 582
Content notes: Contains brief references to Tony's panic attacks being triggered. Implied mild kink.
Author notes: For fan-flashworks for the prompt Kindness.
Summary: Steve/Bruce. Steve isn't sure what they have together, but he doesn't want it to end. Longing.



Steve liked watching Bruce with the rest of the team. He liked watching him talk to Tony (well, Bruce mostly listened). Tony always seemed calmer with Bruce around, like he wasn’t trying to prove anything. Starks didn’t show their softer side easily, Steve knew, and Bruce was one of the few people that could calm Tony down during a panic attack and then actually get Tony to talk about what triggered him after.

Natasha, of course, didn’t want a therapist, and only a fool would try to play that role with her. Instead, Bruce and Natasha had gradually worn down each other’s defenses, mostly through smartass comments, and dark humor that even Clint winced at.

Clint had convinced Bruce to play his racecar driving videogame, and it was always fun to watch Clint jump up and down screaming while Bruce sat, calmly smiling.

Thor wasn’t usually around, but when he was, Bruce liked teaching him to cook. Thor enjoyed learning the cuisines of Earth, and enjoyed the apron and chef hat even more.

Steve and Bruce didn’t hang out much cooking or gaming or even chatting. Steve figured they didn’t have much in common. Steve was no genius like Tony, not endlessly entertaining like Clint or Thor, not mysterious and clever like Natasha. Aside from Avengers business and their team members, they wouldn’t have much to talk about.

When they did spend time together, though, a lot of talking wasn’t necessary.

Soft light. Bruce didn’t like it completely dark.

Bruce would always start by peeling off Steve’s clothes, a sly smile and greedy eyes on Bruce’s face.

Then hands, soft on Steve’s skin. Steve would pull at Bruce’s clothing then, always careful, never making a sudden move.

They would go slow. Sometimes Bruce would still, would meditate through the moment, and Steve would try to stay perfectly motionless until Bruce started to move again.

Sometimes Bruce finished, sometimes he decided not to. (Steve always, always finished).

After, they would lie in bed for a long time. Steve would be the only one breathing hard. They would be pressed tightly against each other, make no move to separate for a long while.

They never talked. Steve wasn’t sure if the silence were awkward or comfortable, but he clung to it, the peace of it, the sense that the warmth of Bruce’s body was still, as if it would last forever, as if all of this were forever.

It started as a favor. Steve had offered.

What better way for Bruce to test his self control than with someone who would survive Bruce transforming?

Steve had offered to do his friend a kindness. Bruce had kindly said yes.

Months later, Steve wondered if it was still a favor, still an arrangement among friends. It worried him, but he clung to those moments, the easy falling into bliss, the sweetness and sweat as they lay together after.

Someday Steve would ask.

Once he figured out what Bruce’s answer would be, Steve would ask.

Until then, he would savor the feel of Bruce’s lips on his body, making him arch with anticipation, and the soft linger of Bruce’s hand on his hair, stroking it softly. Bruce’s steady even breaths like a lullaby, seducing Steve into sleep, deep sleep, restful, like he hasn’t had since the ice, like he hasn’t had since even before that. Bruce’s arms encompassing him, pinning him down, gentle but immovable.

It felt permanent.

So permanent, that maybe Steve didn’t need to ask.