Chapter Text
"And how much tequila was there?"
Tony rolls just his head toward the far-too-bright doorway, studying the blurry angry man in front of him. He squints, considering. Bruce refuses to come into focus, even when he closes one eye.
"At least two bottles, judging by the hangover. And a worm. You know, someday we should try to get the Other Guy drunk."
Blurry Bruce's blurry eyebrows go up. Tony almost wishes he could parse the rest of the expression. See how much it's like Pepper's when she's building up a head of steam and where it's different. Maybe...
"Yes," Bruce says, and the sarcasm breaks his thought, caroming around Tony's head like...something he can't come up with at the moment, "because a drunken Hulk would be such a good idea."
"You're assuming we can get him drunk," Tony points out. He's regained enough motor control to fumble for the glass of water he left on the nightstand. "And, for that matter, that he'd be a mean drunk."
Bruce snorts. Tony mentally concedes the point while shifting carefully so he can get water to his parched system without lifting his head too much. He grimaces at the bitter taste, remembers crushing up two painkillers before falling face-first into his blissfully cool pillows. Wonders how many children's aspirin he'd have to crush up to get the effects without the nasty taste.
Looks back up at Bruce, who's starting to come into focus, unfortunately. Different from Pepper, more pinched around the mouth than the eyes, and Pepper tends to hold her arms rigid at her sides with her hands balled up into fists. Bruce's are folded across his chest; Tony wonders if he's subconsciously putting up a wall between them or holding his other half back.
Bruce draws in a breath, but Tony's always quicker to speak.
"Whatever you're thinking," he says, turning his head away, "Pepper, JARVIS, and Rhodey have all probably said. So why don't you go compare notes with them and come back if you've got a compelling argument."
He actually hears Bruce lick his lips before he pushes off the door frame.
"You're an ass," he says. Tony can see him in his mind's eye, shoulders rigid, as he pivots to walk away.
"Not compelling," he calls, determined to have the last word despite the throbbing in his head -- which is only made worse when he startles because the mattress sinks under the weight of a second body.
"Shut up and finish sleeping it off," Bruce growls; Tony can feel the warmth of his thigh pressed against Tony's shoulder. Feels him shift to pull his phone out of his pocket and the jostle of his elbow, fingers tapping softly on the keys.
Still not a compelling argument, he thinks, pressing his face into his pillow and shutting his eyes. But closer.