A gift ficlet for FerioWind on DA. Brony love.
Tony decided he'd never tell. He didn't see why he ought to. He wasn't lying. He was just withholding some unimportant information, and sure, if Bruce asked, he'd tell him. He guessed. Maybe.
And Christ, it wasn't the same as cheating. Regardless of Bruce's determination to distinguish himself from the Other Guy, the Other Guy was still a part of him, a part of his mind, part of his body. And Tony loved every part of Bruce's body. He'd said so. Provided some pretty ample and enthusiastic proof, even. And every time Bruce seemed to doubt it, even a little, Tony made a very thorough point of repeating himself.
Alone in his office or in the workshop, when Bruce wasn't around and Tony was tired or fed up or skittish, he had to confess to himself in a quiet corner of his mind that it was a little messed up. Even if either of the two halves of Bruce's brilliant, wonderful mind were awake at the time, Tony couldn't think of what he'd do … of what he could do.
It had started to happen a month after Bruce began sleeping in Tony's bed. They'd been unofficially together (bonking) for a couple of weeks, and then Tony had moved Bruce's things (his duffel bag) into his room without saying anything, and his room had become Bruce's room, just like that. It honestly had not occurred to Tony, at least not any more than usual, that the Big Guy would take it as permission to move in as well.
He'd woken up at two in the morning, and lain there for ten minutes wondering whether he wanted to get up to get a drink or go to the loo, before realizing that the arm around his waist was covering his chest as well as his waist. In the dark, he couldn't see the skin colour, but sheer size indicated enough. The sound of breathing was different, and after he noticed it, Tony realized it was going right over his head rather than tickling his shoulder like usual. The warmth that covered his back was the warm of bare skin, firmer, broader, and as he slowly, slowly rolled onto his back and looked up, over the massive curves of bare muscle that made up the Hulk's shoulder, his chest, his neck, Tony felt his heart stop.
Was it because he was so beautiful, or so terrifying? Tony didn't even know. He was leaning in the direction of "beautiful". He had never seen the Hulk so motionless before. Still as death. He – it – the Hulk, was asleep.
Maybe he told himself so in the morning to make himself feel like a big man again. But honestly, he never remembered feeling scared. He trusted Bruce. He trusted the Big Guy. Even with his broad forehead wrinkled and lined and harsh as it looked when he was awake, barely illuminated in the soft light of Tony's arc reactor. Anger incarnate, awake or asleep. Tony lay on his back, staring up at the shadowy and imposing phenomenon that still loosely cradled his torso in its massive arm, other tucked beneath its head, breathing slow and steady. Something in him wanted to snuggle up and press an open-mouthed kiss to the stone hard skin of the Hulk's chest, to know what that felt like, tasted like, but he forced himself to refrain. Self-control didn't come easily to him. He lay there in exquisite torment until Bruce became Bruce again, a slow and even transformation. At first Tony wanted to tell Bruce, to ask him if that had happened before, but as Bruce groaned softly and pressed his face into the pillow, Tony realized how much that would put at risk. Bruce's greatest fear was that the Hulk would prove itself to be a real monster, that he would destroy something Bruce never wanted to destroy. How would that sound? Hey, baby, your evil twin clocked in last night while we were sleeping. It's okay, we only cuddled.
So he decided not to tell. He thanked the Gods that Bruce slept naked, so there would be no shredded pajamas to give it away. He decided to let it be a secret. Between him, and the Other Guy.