The town had a grand total of three Pokestops, and only one of them was easily accessible to Bruce; his limited means keeping him from going much further from his neighborhood. There was apparently some Civil War plaque outside of the local coffee shop, only a 5 minute bike ride from his house. It wasn’t his favorite spot, but everyday over the summer Bruce would go to the cafe, order a green tea, and read while he waited for the Pokestop to keep resetting. Sometimes, people would put out lures, and Bruce would sit there for hours. Other days, he would go for a walk after he finished his tea and hunt Pokemon with his newly gathered Pokeballs.
Today, however, he entered the shop to find someone sitting on his favorite couch by the window. No, not sitting, lounging. The boy couldn’t have been older than Bruce, but he looked like he owned the world. He wore ripped jeans, a black leather jacket, and if Bruce wasn’t mistaken, that was a Rolex around his wrist. Ray-Bans sat atop tousled dark brown hair and a single gold hoop hung in his left ear lobe. Somewhere in the back of Bruce’s mind, he imagined the boy with a cigarette hanging languidly from his mouth and singing something decidedly from “Grease” –the original version, not that sin of a sequel. Somehow he knew this wasn’t too far off.
At first, Bruce was a little thrown off by the boy, but supposed in that resigned sort of way he was partial to that this was bound to happen eventually. He was beginning to scan the cafe for another table when he heard a throat clear. His eyes snapped back to the boy.
“You’re late.” The boy was looking at Bruce with a smug grin.
The couch thief’s smile widened at Bruce’s stutter, and anger pulsed briefly under his skin before he pushed it away.
“Every day,” the boy said, the glint in his eye telling Bruce that he enjoyed this, “at exactly 2pm, you come into the shop, order a tea, and open Pokemon Go. Not that I blame you, it’s the only decent Pokestop in this town. It is now 2:34. I decided that today I would say hello, so it was very inconsiderate of you to keep me waiting. I’m Tony.”
Tony stuck his hand out—abrupt and inconsiderate of personal bubbles—and Bruce shook it, not knowing why he felt compelled. "Bruce Banner. Do I... know you from school?”
“I doubt it. Unless you also go to MIT.” Blasé like it was an everyday thing.
“Oh, sorry, you didn’t look old enough-”
“I’m 16,” Tony interrupted lazily. “Yes, I know it’s abnormal. Yes, I’m a goddamn genius, but it looks like you are, too, from that doctorate-level physics textbook you’re holding.”
There was a pause during which Bruce didn’t quite know how to react.
Tony glanced at his iPhone, his grin hanging but a blush telling a different story. “There’s a Pikachu nearby– are you coming?”
Tony stood and pulled his messenger bag over his shoulder.
Bruce gaped. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I know it’s no long walk on the beach, but I guarantee you, after a long walk Pokemon hunting with Tony Stark, you’ll be begging me to buy you dinner.” He winked and handed Bruce a cardboard cup. “For now, let’s start with a green tea.”
With that, he was out the door and—Lord help him—Bruce was compelled to follow. He had a feeling that his summer routine was forever altered.