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Toni can't really complain about her sex life these days.
Truth be told, she can't complain about many aspects of her life in general, but in particular, her sex life is phenomenally satisfying. It might, on occasion, delve into the territory of too satisfying, because for a guy with such a mild mannered demeanor, Bruce fucks like a wild, desperate animal, and his libido is inexhaustible. Toni's more than a match for his lust and energy, to the point where Bruce once remarked in a post-coital snuggle of rebooting brain cells and cooling, sticky skin that he suspected she'd had her blood changed entirely out for some unstable concoction of workshop coffee, Red Bull and nanite reactor-bots.
It still makes her cackle like a funhouse carnie to think of his alarmed, terrified expression when she perked up and said that sounded like a really good fucking idea.
But for all the thoroughly exhausting and astonishingly flexible sex she enjoys daily, bare minimum, she finds it’s the rarer, slower, tender times she truly treasures, when his hands caress light and firm, his thrusts into her are unhurried and steady, and his lips are soft and gentle over her skin. There’s something transcendent about them, how he worships her with a thorough devotion that steals her breath and overwhelms her with humility and awe that, in these moments at the very least, Toni is Bruce’s goddess and his lovemaking his most eloquent prayer in her veneration.
She’s a genius and speaks six languages fluently, but she can never find the words to describe the sensation of being cradled and cherished and treasured by him.
She should be running as fast as she can, because it’s been eight months and this is right around the time she usually gets antsy and skittish, bored and looking to move on but unwilling to be the one who has to say the hurtful, awful words. This is around the time she should be anticipating a dissonant duality of guilt and relief when her partner finally gets fed up with her being unavailable, disappearing into workshops and flying across the world at the drop of a hat, and walks out in a huff.
All of what she has with Bruce is different. It has been since the moment they met. Bruce rarely gets angry or upset about anything she does or chooses to spend her time doing, just gives her that warm, eye-sparkling lopsided smile and affably agrees to meet her later, or bring her lunch, or lines up his experiments with hers, just to accommodate the schedule she wants to keep.
She’s still half sure Bruce isn’t a human being at all, but a unicorn that trotted out of the blue into her life.
(She wouldn’t mind if Big Green trotted out of the blue from time to time, but she’s content to wait for him to emerge on his own. Mostly, anyway.)
No one’s more shocked than her, except maybe Rhodey, Pepper and JARVIS, when Bruce’s amiable flexibility with her schedule starts influencing her to be just as accommodating and considerate in return. Which means that when Bruce asks her to celebrate their some-month anniversary on Christmas Eve, she doesn’t scoff and dismiss the “micro-milestones” the way she normally would. She just blinks, and accepts with a smile that’s disgustingly bashful.
He takes her to Blue Diamond, an upscale restaurant trendy since long before its signage had been hung, and she’s not sure how he managed to get reservations, because the place has been open for two months and she’s not even sure she could get reservations for the holiday season. It’s no Stark Tower, but she loves it the second she steps into the private dining room Bruce booked, because it towers above the skyline at an acceptable level, and every dividing wall, including the ceiling and floor, is made of two-way glass.
“Wow,” is the most clever thing she can think to say, and it eases out of her mouth in an awestruck breath. She turns to Bruce, who's watching her with a funny little smile, full of soft affection and warmth, and impulsively leans up to kiss him.
His arms slide snug around her, holding her close and secure, a hand cradling the back of her head carefully, to not ruin her updo. Her intent had been a quick, happy peck, but he doesn't seem to be in any kind of a rush as he leisurely licks into her mouth until she's panting lightly and digging nails into the back of his neck.
“I take it you like the restaurant,” he says, husky and low, when she needs to breathe badly enough that she breaks away to gulp air.
“I like the company at the restaurant,” she says, equally husky, and can't resist kissing him again, getting her semi-quick peck in after all. “But yes, Bruciebear. It's phenomenal. I'm not even going to ask how you managed to book the place. The mystery is such a turn on.”
His faint, lopsided smile is her favorite kind, and he smooths his palms over her back, lets them rest just above the curve of her ass. “I wanted to take you somewhere you hadn't been, somewhere special. You deserve the best of everything, and I like making sure you get it.”
Her vision swims and shimmers, and she inhales a shaky breath. She's never going to get used to him, she thinks, reaching behind him to the table set up for them and using the cloth napkin to dab at them. There are a dozen things she can say to that, from the snarky to the lightly sarcastic to the deeply emotional. None of them are adequate. “I love you,” she says instead, heartfelt and quiet. “I really love you, Bruce.”
It's not the first time she's said it, far from it. But it might be the first time she’s said it with such feeling. The first time she's said it without being curled naked and satiated and sleepy in his arms. She sees it register in his eyes, the stupefied blink, the slow dawn of comprehension spreading across his face. Feels it in the way his hands tremble when they slide back up to frame her face. Feels it in the absolutely reverent way he kisses her again, deep and hard and almost painfully intimate.
“I love you too,” he murmurs against her lips, pulls her tighter, buries his face in her shoulder and lets out a shuddering sigh that drains every drop of characteristic tension from his body. “And so does the other guy.”
She threads her fingers through his thick curls and holds him against her with a barely-audible sigh of contentment. “I know you do,” she says softly. “I don't deserve you or him in my life, but I'm so grateful I have you both.”
When he straightens, he's smiling wide and happy. “We're the lucky ones,” he says as he brushes his knuckles down her cheek. “We could spend the rest of our lives proving it.”
Her breath catches in a sharp inhale, and the pieces start slotting together, neat and perfect, in her head. The classy restaurant, the seclusion of a private dining room. The special holiday. “Bruce..?”
His eyes are sparkling, but he just grins and runs his hand down her cheek again. “I'm hungry,” he says, and offers her his arm. “You?”
Hesitantly, she slides her arm through his, and isn't sure if the flutter of anticipation sending her heart rate through the roof is telling her to fight or flee. “I could eat,” she says, starts at how normal she sounds. “Is there a menu available or is it something trendy and haute cuisine like pantomime?”
oOoOoOo
Dinner is amazing, and her savoring of the meal frequently interrupts their light conversation about their experiments, since it makes her close her eyes and groan with pleasure with every bite. Toni needs to get the name of the chef, if only to try and tempt them to the gourmet kitchen in the SI staff cafeteria. She's sure she can more than match whatever their salary here could be. The wait staff too, who only intrude on their alone time to deliver food and clear the plates; she needs to tempt them over as well.
“I'll give you this, honey,” she says, lingering over her second glass of wine to let her stuffed chicken breast settle a little before deciding on dessert. “You really know how to pick a place I love. I kinda want to buy the place now. Or at least steal the chef.”
For some reason, Bruce is amused as he grins over his wine glass at her. He drains the last of his wine and sets the glass back down on the table. “Glad you liked it,” he says, then places his napkin over his plate and stands.
She eyes him over the rim of her glass, the flutter erupting anew in her belly as he comes around to her side of the table. Her hand shakes slightly as she sets her glass on the table, enough to make the base chime softly when it rattles against the surface. She clears her throat and looks up at him, reminding herself to breathe.
She's surprised beyond description that she has no intention of trying to run. That should scare her, but it seems that, no matter what happens, she's all in.
She takes his hand when he holds it out, lets him draw her out of her chair and up into his arms. Whether it's an unseen cue he gives or just really good advanced planning, soft music begins playing and the lights dim, and she laughs quietly as he spins her into dancing.
“If I didn't know any better,” she says, sliding her hand up into the proper position on his shoulder, “I'd accuse you of trying to woo me.”
“Is it that obvious?” he asks with a wry smile. “I thought I was being subtle.”
“In fairness,” she replies, “I am a genius.”
“You are,” he agrees, and over his shoulder, she sees wait staff clearing their table of dinner's remnants, laying out small covered trays in their place settings, filling coffee cups. “When did you figure it out?”
“Somewhere around the time you said you two could spend the rest of your lives proving things to me.” She frowns and pauses in her slow shuffle of feet, because he doesn't look wry or sheepish or anything else she'd associate with her figuring it out before he could say anything. “What?”
He just grins again, kisses her slow and sweet, and links his fingers through hers. “I ordered dessert,” is all he says. “Got room for the best mousse you've ever tasted?”
She arches an eyebrow at him, but lets him lead her back to the table, sitting just as the staff are disappearing through the door again. “And you know this is the best mousse because…?”
In response, he lifts the silver dome from in front of her with a flourish, and she stares down at the stemmed dessert cup filled with rich, thick chocolate mousse, and her heart is hammering in her throat because she just knows she's going to see a ring laid carefully on the whipped folds.
But it's not a ring.
It's a key.
She blinks, tilts her head, stares at it in utter confusion. “Huh.”
“Expecting something else?” Damn, the smugness really shouldn't be a turn on, but he says it so playfully and smokily, it breaks through some of the utter bafflement and she shoots him her best smouldering look.
“What's it for?” she asks, and gingerly reaches out to pick up the key from her dessert, sucking the chocolate off it (and maybe thrilling at the sudden intense gaze Bruce gives her mouth as she pulls the key back from her lips). “It's not a locker key, and you live in the penthouse with me so you're not asking me to move in because that's already happened, and it's not a car key either, so—”
“I think there's an envelope under the bowl,” Bruce says helpfully, and sips his coffee with his eyes dancing.
She gives him another flat look, but sure enough, there's an envelope, thin and white, tucked under the glass base of the bowl that she mistook for a napkin. “Why do I suddenly have this sensation of dread in the pit of my stomach?”
“Can't be the food,” Bruce says innocently. “Chef Rodriguez has a sterling reputation. Never a single case of food poisoning on her watch.”
She freezes halfway through lifting the tucked-in flap out. “Gina Rodriguez?” Her voice has gone up a full octave, and squeaks at the end. “Okay. Forget the mystery, Banner. I want to know how you managed to get a private room on Christmas Eve at a place so new and upscale half the Manhattan elite is still on the waiting list, that also happens to employ my favorite chef who, last I knew, was still at L’Oiseaux in Paris.”
“Just open the damn envelope, Toni,” Bruce says with a chuckle.
She eyes him and finishes lifting the flap, the pulls out the slim document inside and unfolds it. When she reads it, her confusion only deepens. “This is proof of ownership for Blue Diamond,” she says slowly, “that has your name on it. Bruce, why does Blue Diamond's proof of ownership certificate have your name on it?”
“Might be because I own it.”
It takes her a few minutes to realize he's laughing at her, bright and happy and pleased. Mostly because she's staring dumbly at him, trying to process the words that just came out of his mouth. “How? I mean, no offence, honeybunch, but this…” she stares down at the paper again for a second, then back up at him. “Jesus, Bruce, a restaurant license in Manhattan…”
“I had some money squirreled away,” he says, reaches out to take her hand and threads his fingers through hers. “I learned to do that while I was on the run. Never had a reason to spend any of it.”
She clears her throat because there’s a goddamn lump in it, choking her. “So why now?”
“I told you,” he says. “I like making sure you get the best of everything. And I need a source of income to do that.” He smiles again. “Pepper helped a lot. When the money I saved wasn’t enough to do what I wanted to do, she cut through a lot of red tape and helped me set up as a supplier for these.”
He’s a fucking magician, because she’s looking straight at him, didn’t even see him move, but now he’s got a small, black jewelry box in his hand, and goddamn him, she can’t breathe again, and her free hand covers her mouth. She’s not sure if the shimmering in her eyes is from tears welling up again, or from the light glimmering off the facets of the pale, arc-reactor blue diamond set into a band she’d bet her repulsors is gold-titanium alloy.
“Oh god,” she whispers, and raises her eyes to meet his.
“The key,” he says, and his smile is gone now, and he just looks nervous as all hell, “is for this dining room, reserved for the owner. The ring…” He stops, swallows, clears his throat. “The ring is…” He breaks off and clears his throat again. “I can do this,” he mutters, closes his eyes and massages his forehead. “I can do this.”
It makes her feel a little less anxious to know he's feeling it too. She squeezes his hand gently. “You know I'm a sure thing, right?”
He shakes his head and gives her a faint smile. “It doesn't matter,” he says. “I'm not going to assume that. I don't want to take any part of you for granted.”
She swallows down another lump of emotion that lurches into her throat. “Do you need a minute?”
“I can do this,” he says, takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “This ring… shit.”
She's not alarmed that his skin is starting to go green. She never is. The Hulk would never hurt her, and that's something that rational fact tells her is patently false, but the perfect faith she has in them both always wins that mental war. But she knows it's going to upset them both if Big Green makes a surprise appearance, so however much she regrets doing it, she immediately reaches for a slight change of topic. “It’s synthetic, right? The diamond? Lab-grown? It's gorgeous. How'd you get the color to infuse that flawlessly?”
He shoots her a grateful look, and sighs in relief. “Experimentation,” he says. “Introducing boron to the process at the right time changes the color. I made a few different shades of blue before I got the color right.” He grimaces faintly then. “I think Pepper plans on opening a new division of your company. Sorry about that.”
Toni waves a hand in dismissal. “Never mind that. This must have taken forever to do. How long have you been planning this?”
He looks abashed and a little embarrassed. “Since your birthday,” he admits, like he's confessing to murder.
And Toni blinks, because her mind has instantly crunched the numbers. “Two weeks after we got together? Are you serious?”
“I know,” he says, low and rubs the back of his head. “It’s way too fast. Way too soon. Should I..?” He hesitates, glances up at her, reaches for the box with his free hand. “It's too soon.”
She sighs, shakes her head, smiles softly at him. “Shut up, Bruce. I didn't run screaming for the hills when the ring box popped out, so you should take that as a positive sign.” She leaves her hand in his, but sets her elbows on the table and leans towards him. “You wanna break it down scientifically? Cos I've put a lot of thought into it. It's how my mind works. How yours does too, if I recall my Glowstick-of-Destiny-inspired Helicarrier speeches correctly. You fit into my life like we're carbon atoms. Strongest bonds in the world, carbon. I mean, I don't use them in the suit, but that's for different reasons. For pure chemical intensity, you can't beat carbon. And that's how I see us.” She taps the box with one scarlet fingernail. “There's a reason diamonds are the most valuable stone on the planet.”
“Not exactly true,” he murmurs, and she gives him a withering look.
“Play along, for the sake of our theoretical marriage,” she says.
One eyebrow goes up. “Theoretical?*
“I see a ring, but haven't heard a question,” she replies primly. “So yes. Theory, until evidence suggests otherwise. Theory, until there's a proposal.That's how science works.”
He gives her the amused-slash-exasperated eyebrow, after propping his chin on a closed hand. “You seem to be doing all the talking,” he says. “I thought I was supposed to do the proposing here. I had a cheesy speech prepared and everything.”
She sweeps a hand at him, smirks her patented Stark smirk. “Go on and do it then. I don't wanna steal your cheese or your thunder, Jolly Green.”
Despite herself, despite everything, the butterflies erupt anew when he blows a deep, fortifying breath and moves from his chair to go to a knee beside her, box in hand. “This ring,” he says firmly, “represents the key to my heart. I made it for you, with no other thought in mind but to spend the rest of my life with you. If you'll do me the honor of becoming my wife. So.” Another noisy, sighing breath, and an adorable nervous smile. “Will you marry me, Toni?”
She's sliding out of her chair with no conscious memory of deciding to move, and she joins him on her knees on the floor. “That wasn't nearly as cheesy as you led me to believe, Banner,” she chokes, wipes tears from her cheeks, and leans in to kiss him, lingering and soft. “Of course I'll marry you. We're carbon atoms. I've been all in since the Other Guy caught me when I fell out of the sky.”
He slides the ring on her finger with a dazed, happy whuff of pure relief, and kisses her with a desperate ferocity that has her head swimming in moments. She moans into his mouth, clings to his shoulders, and falls slowly backwards as he lowers them to the floor, never breaking from her lips until her back hits the cool glass.
“We haven't had dessert,” she says, and it's possibly the stupidest thing that has ever come out of her mouth. She had no idea why she said it.
“I'm want to eat you for dessert,” he says with the kind of grin that lights fire in her veins, and she muffles a moan when he hauls her skirt up. “That okay with you?”
She settles her left hand in his hair as he kisses his way down her body, peeling down her dress as he goes. “Oh,” she says, dazzled by the glitter of the light off the diamond again, “I'm a hundred percent all in.”