Chapter Text
Almost despite himself, Bruce had come to love the insane little shop that stole twenty hours of his life a week. Twenty hours where he should have been researching, grading papers or God forbid, sleeping. He had chosen Furious Teas because the owner didn’t care if he came in looking like death warmed over and had the customer service skills of an annoyed badger. The shop always smelled good and for the most part the customers were a quiet sort. No one came to a tea shop for a raucous night. He worked the closing shift from seven to midnight which on the weekdays was usually peaceful. Usually.
“Why did you bring me here?” Someone snapped as the door opened to a string of sitar music, “Is it because you hate me, Pep? It was the Smith Incident, wasn’t it? I told you, I have no idea where that monkey came from.”
Bruce stuffed his notebook back into his bag with a sigh.
“How may I help you?” He asked as blandly as he could.
“Hi,” a thin stretch of a girl with a massive fall of strawberry blond hair smiled wearily at him, “I haven’t seen you before. I’m kind of a regular.”
“Are you?” he said vaguely. He never heard her answer.
“I can’t possibly get the right amount of stimulation from tea of all things!” A young man jostled up next to the girl and Bruce’s heart stuttered in his chest. He’d spent the last two years working hard not to get worked up about anything and his libido had been a sad victim to the cause. All of a sudden it flared back to life with a physical want so intense his mouth flooded with saliva.
“The right tea is a better stimulant than three cups of espresso,” he said on automatic pilot.
“That’s what I’ve been telling him, “ the girl beamed at him, “Steve makes me this great thing in the morning, the Dark Angel.”
"Sounds delicious,” the unfairly hot guy drawled, “I’d rather lick paint.”
“Wait.” Something clicked in Bruce’s lust addled mind, “you’re Pepper?”
“That’s me!” She smiled, “How’d you know?”
Because Steve thought she was everything good in the world poured into one body. Steve had invented the blend he served her and sketched her on napkins on afternoon break. Scrawny, shy Steve, who would never in a thousand years tell her.
“Lucky guess,” he gestured vaguely at a table, “I’ll make you a pot to split with your friend.”
“I refuse to drink anything called Angel,” her friend whined.
“Let me guess,” Bruce sighed, “you like one of those terrible five shot espresso things that leave you shaking, right?”
“I like something that has a chance in hell of keeping me awake, yeah,” the guy flashed a dangerous smile.
“If I make it, you won’t sleep for twenty-four hours,” Bruce turned his back on them, “now sit down or get out.”
He didn’t hear the door chime, so he assumed they’d stayed. Smiling grimly, he set aside a small pot for Pepper. She didn’t deserve to be punished for her friend’s attitude. Then he carefully brewed a carefully chosen combination of black teas that usually got him through finals. It made Steve’s ‘Black Tar’ look like a gentle herbal concoction. He mellowed it with a teaspoon of honey, taking the edge off. By the time he’d gone through the whole brewing ritual, he’d regained himself. He poured the two cups and set them at their table with the check. Pepper smiled at him while the guy glared at him suspiciously.
“On the house,” he said curtly, then turned back to the counter.
He turned his attention firmly to his notebook, not paying the least attention to the rise and fall of their voices. Numbers soothed him, drew him deep in and gave him the luxury of forgetting not only his anger, but the rest of the world. He noted the strain of the sitars as someone left about a half hour later and figured they’d seen themselves out.
“Sleeping on the job?” The question startled him and he dropped his notebook, notes flying. Pepper’s friend watched him on raised eyebrow and a sly smile. Then he plucked one of the loose sheets of paper off the counter top, “Woah. This is some nasty stuff.”
“It’s confidential,” Bruce snatched the paper back and piled the rest of the loose sheets back into his notebook.
“I’ll say, that model would put a huge dent in half a major city.”
“Who are you?” His cursed himself for getting sloppy. No one at the shop usually asked much beyond what he was getting his degree in. Then their eyes glazed over.
“You don’t know?” The guy laughed, “Where have you been?”
“Working,” he swallowed, “why?”
“I’m Tony Stark.”
“Good for you,” Bruce shoved his notebook back in his bag.
“You really have no idea who I am?”
“Shockingly, I don't care either. Was there something you wanted?”
“What? Oh, yeah. I wanted a refill,” Tony produced the empty cup and set it down on the counter, “Pepper cruelly abandoned me here to walk back on my own and I’ll need something to sustain me.”
“Thought you didn’t want my sticks and leaves?”
“Look, if I don’t get this model down on paper then the free world is going to be denied one hell of a new engine.”
“If you drink a second one of those you might not sleep for a week.”
“I’ll live with the consequences.”
Tony said nothing else as Bruce made his tea and took his money. Instead, he looked at Bruce like he might try to dissect him. It made the hair on the back of Bruce’s neck rise. He let out a shuddering sigh of relief when Tony took his cup and intense gaze away, walking back out into the night alone. Though maybe relief was the wrong word. A strange, quicksilver part of him wanted to chase after the rude, gorgeous stranger. But Bruce didn't do things like that. Didn't act on impulse. Didn't let himself lose control. Instead he wiped down the counter top and counted down the minutes to closing.