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Cuddlefic #2, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gryphonrhi.
Title: Shoulder to Shoulder
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Pepper, Betty, Bruce, Tony. Pepper & Betty, Pepper/Tony, Bruce/Betty
Summary: After Bruce and Betty are reunited post-Avengers, Pepper sits Betty down for a drink and a shoulder to lean on
Wordcount: 552
Warnings/Notes: Exhaustion, h/c, the costs of waiting
Disclaimer: Not mine
gryphonrhi.Title: Shoulder to Shoulder
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Pepper, Betty, Bruce, Tony. Pepper & Betty, Pepper/Tony, Bruce/Betty
Summary: After Bruce and Betty are reunited post-Avengers, Pepper sits Betty down for a drink and a shoulder to lean on
Wordcount: 552
Warnings/Notes: Exhaustion, h/c, the costs of waiting
Disclaimer: Not mine
Shoulder to Shoulder
Pepper caught Tony's eyes briefly, as he dithered in the hallway looking between her on the one hand, and the woman behind her, and Bruce's retreating form on the other. She shook her head, nodding after Bruce, and smiled, just a little, at the dumb relief in Tony's eyes. That part, he could do.
It had been a ... somewhat fraught reunion, all things considered. Tony wasn't the best at those, not even his own. But taking a buddy out to blow shit up until the panic went away. Yeah, he could do that.
And in the meantime, Pepper turned back into the penthouse, closing the door carefully behind her, and met the tired, damp eyes of one Dr Betty Ross.
"Drink?" she asked, a little ruefully, a little knowingly, reaching up to brush her hair off her face and smile for the other woman.
"Please," Betty said, dropping tiredly into the sofa, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "It's not ... I mean. I shouldn't need it. But."
"I know," Pepper said, softly. Deciding to skip fancy, for the moment, and raid Tony's personal stash. Betty blinked awake again when Pepper nudged her knee, and smiled with exhausted brilliance up at her. Or possibly at the glass, Pepper wasn't sure, but wouldn't blame her either way. "At some point, they will actually figure out how much the waiting, and the not-knowing, takes out of us."
Betty's smile went crooked. Tired, as she reached up to take the glass. "He couldn't contact me," she said, softly. "Not and trust that my father wouldn't use it. I know that. But ... a year is a long time, not to know he's alive, you know?"
Pepper blinked. Took a careful drink to hide her swallow, the flashed memory of three months of pain. She knocked back her drink, so carefully, and dropped down beside the other woman. Resting shoulder to shoulder, her own smile as crooked, and as tired.
"They don't mean it," she said, soft and rough. "It's not their fault, and they try." She smiled, more than a little watery. "They try really hard."
Betty leaned sideways, resting her head against Pepper's shoulder. Pepper didn't object. The opposite, really, resting her own head on top of Betty's. Two familiar strangers, nursing an old, familiar grief.
"It took five years for me to stop waiting the first time," Betty confided, softly. "And then he came back, and I remembered everything, and he almost died for me. And there was a year, and I tried, I really tried, but ... I don't remember how to stop waiting, anymore. I don't want to." She smiled, soft and strange. "That doesn't mean it's easy. Or that I should make it easy, either."
Pepper laughed, a small little hiccup, and raised her empty glass to chink companionably against Betty's. "No," she agreed, her shoulder warm and heavy. "No, we shouldn't ever make it easy." She smiled, soft and serene. "They can meet the challenge. That much, we can trust them for."
She sat there, for some twenty minutes, while Betty drifted off into an exhausted nap against her, and somewhere floors below them, Tony orchestrated explosions enough to distract a friend from pain, and remind him of hope instead.
Yes. They could, she could, always trust them for that.
Pepper caught Tony's eyes briefly, as he dithered in the hallway looking between her on the one hand, and the woman behind her, and Bruce's retreating form on the other. She shook her head, nodding after Bruce, and smiled, just a little, at the dumb relief in Tony's eyes. That part, he could do.
It had been a ... somewhat fraught reunion, all things considered. Tony wasn't the best at those, not even his own. But taking a buddy out to blow shit up until the panic went away. Yeah, he could do that.
And in the meantime, Pepper turned back into the penthouse, closing the door carefully behind her, and met the tired, damp eyes of one Dr Betty Ross.
"Drink?" she asked, a little ruefully, a little knowingly, reaching up to brush her hair off her face and smile for the other woman.
"Please," Betty said, dropping tiredly into the sofa, leaning her head back and closing her eyes. "It's not ... I mean. I shouldn't need it. But."
"I know," Pepper said, softly. Deciding to skip fancy, for the moment, and raid Tony's personal stash. Betty blinked awake again when Pepper nudged her knee, and smiled with exhausted brilliance up at her. Or possibly at the glass, Pepper wasn't sure, but wouldn't blame her either way. "At some point, they will actually figure out how much the waiting, and the not-knowing, takes out of us."
Betty's smile went crooked. Tired, as she reached up to take the glass. "He couldn't contact me," she said, softly. "Not and trust that my father wouldn't use it. I know that. But ... a year is a long time, not to know he's alive, you know?"
Pepper blinked. Took a careful drink to hide her swallow, the flashed memory of three months of pain. She knocked back her drink, so carefully, and dropped down beside the other woman. Resting shoulder to shoulder, her own smile as crooked, and as tired.
"They don't mean it," she said, soft and rough. "It's not their fault, and they try." She smiled, more than a little watery. "They try really hard."
Betty leaned sideways, resting her head against Pepper's shoulder. Pepper didn't object. The opposite, really, resting her own head on top of Betty's. Two familiar strangers, nursing an old, familiar grief.
"It took five years for me to stop waiting the first time," Betty confided, softly. "And then he came back, and I remembered everything, and he almost died for me. And there was a year, and I tried, I really tried, but ... I don't remember how to stop waiting, anymore. I don't want to." She smiled, soft and strange. "That doesn't mean it's easy. Or that I should make it easy, either."
Pepper laughed, a small little hiccup, and raised her empty glass to chink companionably against Betty's. "No," she agreed, her shoulder warm and heavy. "No, we shouldn't ever make it easy." She smiled, soft and serene. "They can meet the challenge. That much, we can trust them for."
She sat there, for some twenty minutes, while Betty drifted off into an exhausted nap against her, and somewhere floors below them, Tony orchestrated explosions enough to distract a friend from pain, and remind him of hope instead.
Yes. They could, she could, always trust them for that.
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