Chapter Text
It’s raining: that soft, warm rain that moves people off the beach and into Hulk’s Surf Shack to have a drink and a snack while they wait it out. It rains a lot in Pupukea, actually – about three times as much as it does in Honolulu, thirty-seven miles away. But the staff at Hulk’s are quick to reassure the tourists that the gentle rain showers are fleeting and the sun will be back out in a short time.
Bruce likes to tell his customers that short of a hurricane, there’s just no such thing as bad weather in Hawaii. He loves the rain, and not just because it’s good for business. He loves the feel of it on his skin, the rich smell of it, the way it smooths the edges of everything as though the world exists in soft focus for a while. One of his very favorite things to do is to surf in the rain. In fact, he’s tempted to toss off his shirt and grab one of his boards right now.
He mostly wears board shorts and swim trunks when he works if the surf report’s promising, so he can take off whenever he sees a good set of waves. After all, he’s Bruce “the Hulk” Banner, former elite professional surfer. What’s the point of being the boss and working literally on the former Banzai Beach if he can’t go out whenever the Pipeline’s crankin’?
Except that, at this moment, he’s deep in conversation with his close friend Natasha Romanoff.
She’s sipping at her usual, a Pitaya Thruster. They’re a delicious mix of pitaya (dragonfruit), carrot juice, mango, pineapple, banana, coconut, and lime, and Natasha swears there is no smoothie anywhere that compares. Still, every single time he hears someone order one, Bruce regrets letting Tony Stark talk him into the name. He’d let Stark convince him that people would recognize that “thruster” is a surfing term, and Bruce fully acknowledges that the mistake was his own. He and Tony have been friends since they were in their teens, so it’s not like it’s news to Bruce that letting Stark convince you of anything inevitably leads to disaster. He should’ve known he’d regret the name.
They happen to be talking about that very thing, in fact.
“Am I really going to have to hear this complaint again?” Natasha sighs. “Sex sells, Bruce. No one cares that the modern style of three-finned shortboard is called a thruster. In fact, if they did know, they’d find that fact boring and pedantic, like I do. They’d prefer to think this smoothie is named after sex.”
“Like you do?” Bruce grins, in a hopeless attempt to embarrass Natasha. Another thing he should know better than to do.
Without expression, she nods. “Yes.”
“Why does everything have to be reduced to the lowest common denominator?” Bruce sighs.
He says it under his breath, but Natasha hears him.
“Don’t be an intellectual snob, Bruce. Not everyone has a supergenius IQ, like you do. Normal people like things simple.”
“I like things simple.”
“No, you don’t. Normal people relax with a steamy novel or a magazine. You relax with a quantum physics textbook.”
“Quantum physics is interesting.”
“Normal people make paper airplanes. You designed a supersonic jet capable of near-Earth orbit.”
“I was on an aeronautical engineering kick!”
“Bruce, normal people don’t get on aeronautical engineering kicks. That’s my point. I’m not dragging you for being a genius. I’m just saying, give us mere mortals a break.”
“Whatever. You want anything to eat?”
“Yeah, I’m hungry. What’s Clint doing for lunch today?”
“He just pulled out a kalua pig.”
“Ooh. Done. However he serves it, I’ll like it.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Bruce has been standing across the Snack Bar from Natasha. Now he makes his way toward the kitchen, which is Clint Barton’s domain. Bruce moves quickly, but his stride is casual, like everything about him. There is just the slightest limp to his walk, the result of the catastrophic wipeout on this very beach that ended his professional surfing career.
Natasha sees Bruce approach the kitchen at the center of the Surf Shack and call out to Clint. All around, the staff is hustling while the rain continues to fall outside. She grins as she takes another sip of her smoothie, wondering for the millionth time what she and Clint Barton are to each other.
For just a moment, she lets herself sink back into the memory of the first time she’d watched Clint put together his imu , the traditional sand pit with sea salt, banana leaves and koa wood he uses to cook his kalua pork. She’d been fascinated with his unique combination of lazy chill, childlike enjoyment of his work, and autocratic exactitude about the way he prepared food. Natasha had been attracted to Clint from the beginning – anyone would be – but she’d never meant to have feelings for him.
Hulk’s Surf Shack is a big place. It has to be, with the amount of business it gets. It’s separated into two parts: a Snack Bar on the side closest to the water, and a sit-down restaurant on the other. Owing to the upward slope of the beach, the restaurant side is a few steps up from the Snack Bar, which allows the restaurant customers a clear view of the beach and the waves, right over the heads of the Snack Bar patrons.
Bruce and Clint brainstormed the concept for the building. Then Bruce designed it and drew up all the plans, because no one told him he shouldn’t know how. It wasn’t until afterward that Bruce learned it was unusual to be able to intuitively understand the necessary architecture, electrical and mechanical engineering. The County of Honolulu did require them to have the plans approved by licensed experts, but the only problem they’d had was convincing the experts that Bruce himself had drafted them.
The building is open-air, for the most part. It does have outer walls, but they’re movable and they’re almost always retracted, like they are now. Only one corner of the building has solid walls. That corner houses the restrooms and offices, as well as utility spaces like the walk-in cooler and freezer. The large roof overhang keeps rain from getting in, as long as there’s just a nice beach breeze like there is now. It also provides ample shade when the sun’s out.
The kitchen is located in the center of the building, surrounded by four-foot half-walls. Some of the shelving in the kitchen rises to the ceiling, but even the shelving is open-wire to preserve the breeze and the view as much as possible. The openness allows the guests to watch the kitchen staff preparing their meals, and lets the mouthwatering aromas of Clint’s masterpieces waft out on the breeze to tempt beachgoers. It also gives the staff the ability to glimpse the ocean as they work.
Because Hulk’s is so open, Natasha hears Clint bark something at a white-clad cook and sees him take a plate from the cook’s hands. Her grin becomes a smile as she sees Clint exit the kitchen area and come toward her, smiling just as broadly as she is.
“Twelve-hour slow roasted kalua pulled pork with cabbage over brown rice. Guava barbecue sauce and takuan,” he announces as he sets the dish before her.
Natasha takes a moment to just appreciate the perfectly-presented meal. “Did you make the takuan?”
“Nah. Got it at the Costco down the street.”
She tries to give him a dirty look, but neither of them is fooled. They know one another too well. “You could’ve just said yes. Fuck you,” she mutters and crunches into one of the yellow half-moons of daikon radish that, not surprisingly, he’s pickled perfectly.
“Working. But I could take a break. My car’s got a back seat.”
Natasha doesn’t even bother to respond, just takes her first forkful of pulled pork and cabbage. Clint’s face is a careful mask, but she can plainly see him craving her good opinion of his work.
“Eh,” she grunts with a shrug, and Clint beams happily. He knows she’s teasing. This is a dance they’ve done a thousand times, and it never fails to enchant him. He’s a fucking fool for her and he knows it, no matter how hard they both try to pretend otherwise.
“I missed you,” he comments as she eats. “You were gone too long this time. If I thought you’d agree, I really would take you to the back seat of my car.”
“I know, but it couldn’t be helped. Tough client.”
“Everything worked out okay, though?”
As expected, she slides out of answering and changes the subject. “I’m good at what I do. Which, by the way, so are you. Because seriously, this might be your best kalua pork yet. There’s something…”
“Cinnamon.”
“No way.”
“Way,” comes Bruce’s voice from behind Clint, and suddenly they’re both standing on the other side of the counter from Natasha.
“How can you be a successful chef when you tell everyone your secret ingredients?” Natasha asks between appreciative bites. It’s actually a taunt of sorts, and Clint responds as expected.
“Who says I want to be a successful chef?” he replies, his nose crinkling in distaste.
Although he actually is a classically trained chef, Clint bristles at the title. He’s living his dream doing exactly what he does. Clint wants no more fame or fortune than he already has. He has no pretensions or ambitions beyond just living this good life, making delicious food for people who enjoy it. Like Bruce and Natasha, Clint’s been through some things in his life, and his experiences have left their mark. These days, he focuses on things he values: living in the best place on Earth, spending time with those he loves, and indulging his talent for creating interesting, tasty dishes.
Between Bruce’s status as a surf legend and Clint’s widely-acclaimed food, Hulk’s Surf Shack is by far the most popular beachside eatery on the North Shore of Oahu. The food and service in the sit-down restaurant are surprisingly upscale, even though the decor is unfussy and people are welcome in their swimsuits and beach cover-ups. At night, when the servers cover the tables with crisp, white tablecloths and decorate them with candles and crystal, the customers just naturally dress more formally - although “formal” has a very relaxed meaning in Hawaii. Most of the women wear colorful dresses or tops, and the men Aloha shirts and slacks.
Bruce grins at Natasha, inclining his head toward Clint. “He tells everyone everything. The polar opposite of you.”
Bruce is semi-serious. He really has no idea where Natasha’s been for the last month, nor does he know what her job is. He doesn’t even think Clint knows. Not really. Bruce has given up trying to find out, and after all the time they’ve been friends, his curiosity has been banked into a low-level smolder tucked somewhere far in the back of his mind. It doesn’t matter. He takes his friends as he finds them, just as he wants them to take him. They’re trustworthy and good people, and that’s enough for him.
“I tell you lots of things,” Natasha retorts. “Ooh. For example, I saw Tony. He says the Banzai Pro’s starting on the sixteenth.”
“Really?” Bruce’s eyes go wide and his normally placid face becomes animated. “So early? That’s great!”
The three begin to chatter excitedly about the Stark Banzai Pro, the annual surfing competition which is the first of the year in the world-renowned surfing mecca of Oahu’s North Shore. Like all surfing competitions, it’s scheduled over several days. It takes three days to complete, but it’s scheduled within a larger time window so that the actual event can occur when the best possible wave conditions present themselves. To have those conditions occur early in the time period is ideal.
The Banzai Pro is the first of three events that make up the Stark Pipeline Classic. Traffic gets hideous in Pupukea during competitions, with the Kamehameha Highway all but gridlocked, but Bruce doesn’t mind. He can hike down to the beach from his house, which sits on a low cliff above the Surf Shack. He also loves having the surfing world come to him. It’s a chance to check out new competitors, see what the established surfers have been working on, and get to hang out with friends from around the world.
This first event is called the Stark Banzai Pro for two reasons. First, because what is now Ehukai Beach was once called Banzai Beach, and is home to the world famous surf break called the Banzai Pipeline. The Pipeline, or just the Pipe, is famous for the size, shape, power, and perfection of its waves. They can be heartbreakingly beautiful twenty-five to thirty-foot massive barrels that explode onto a craggy, shallow coral reef. Best of all, the break is very close to shore, which makes Ehukai Beach the perfect place for spectators to catch the action.
The second reason the competition is called the Stark Banzai Pro is, of course, that Stark Industries is its major sponsor. At any time, the North Shore is saturated with the Stark logo on everything from clothing to surfboards to snorkels to wax. Tourists love to pick up T-shirts and bumper stickers at the Stark flagship store here in Pupukea, just across the Kamehameha highway from the Surf Shack. But for Bruce’s friend Tony Stark, the heart of Stark Industries is the surfboards he designs and sells. Sure, Tony likes to work on his state-of-the-art scuba equipment and other designs. But Tony’s true love is surfboards, and his are unanimously agreed to be the best.
With the number of Stark products – all bearing that ubiquitous logo – it’s inescapable on the North Shore at any time. But with Stark Industries sponsoring the competition, sometimes Bruce thinks Tony might have branded the entire island of Oahu. He’d hate it if Tony wasn’t such a good friend. As it is, Bruce gives Tony plenty of grief for all the Stark logos around Ehukai Beach at this time of year.
“How long have you guys owned Hulk’s now?” Natasha asks.
The question is not as simple as it seems. Natasha has never forgotten anything in her life. There’s nothing in her face, or her voice, but Bruce knows immediately that she’s fishing.
He thinks he knows what’s on her mind, though, because it’s been on his, too. Not that he’s been dwelling on it, exactly, because that’s not who he is. But it is a milestone of sorts, he supposes. This will be the tenth competition season since Bruce’s accident.
“We opened eight years ago next month,” he answers nonchalantly. He waves at a group of tourists who have finished lunch and are heading out into the last dwindling sprinkles of the rain squall, autographed postcards in hand. When they get home, they’ll be telling their friends how they met surf legend Bruce Banner. You know, the one who was at the very peak of his career, the tip-top of the surfing world, when he wiped out and tore up his knee. They’ll say that he’s forty-five now, with some grey in those trademark unruly dark curls, but he looks great and was just the nicest guy…
Clint shakes his head. “I cannot believe I’ve put up with being your partner for eight years. I’m probably on the shortlist for sainthood.”
Bruce grins and shakes his head as he turns to the hostess who has stepped up to ask him a question.
When Bruce turns back around, Clint and Natasha are talking about the observation platforms being constructed in the competition area on the beach. They’re tall scaffolds rising from the sand that allow the judges, TV cameramen and photographers an unobstructed view of the surfers as they take their runs. Most of them are topped with colorful canopies bearing the logos of companies that make surf equipment and clothing. The judges’ platform is two stories tall, topped by a canvas roof with this year’s competition art that, unsurprisingly, prominently features the Stark Industries logo.
“I love this year’s art,” Clint is saying. “The colors are great.”
“You know Steve Rogers did it, right?” Natasha tells him. “The surfer in the picture is Bucky.”
Clint points his finger toward his open mouth and makes a gagging sound.
“What?” Bruce asks. “You don’t like Steve and Bucky?”
“Oh, puh-leese,” Clint cries, rolling his eyes theatrically. “They’re good enough surfers, but the whole triumph-over-adversity, fairy tale romance thing kind of gets on my nerves. Gimme a conceited Brazilian with an attitude problem or a moody Samoan who makes a big show of praying to the waves or whatever. I like things messy.”
Bruce laughs. “So that’s why you like Loki.”
“Exactly,” Clint confirms. “Gotta get back to work. The boss is an asshole.” With a wink at Natasha, he turns to head back to the kitchen.
Natasha takes her time finishing her lunch and Bruce keeps her company. They chat about the surfers expected to show up for the upcoming competition, but Bruce keeps finding that the conversation has somehow veered toward the subject of his accident. Finally, he’s had enough.
“It doesn’t seem like a whole year since Prince Nkosi died,” Natasha sighs, and Bruce sets his coffee mug down on the weathered white wood of the counter.
“Natasha, if you want to ask me something, just ask. Quit dancing around and spit it out.”
Arching a perfectly-shaped eyebrow, Natasha widens her eyes in an infuriating mockery of innocence. “A guy died at this competition last year, Bruce. It had an effect on me. That’s all I’m saying. I wasn’t talking about you at all.”
“I don’t believe you, but if that’s true, then I apologize. Nkosi’s death was horrible, I’ll give you that.”
“Ugh. How would you like to have been on that dive team?”
All Bruce can do is shudder in response. South African surfer Prince Nkosi, twenty-four and very promising, had wiped out in an early heat of the Stark Banzai Pro last year. He had not come back up from under the towering wave that engulfed him. When it finally became apparent that the worst had happened, divers had been dispatched to search for his body and had located him stuck under an overhanging ledge of the coral reef that gives the waves of the Pipe their shape. He had a serious, but not fatal, head injury and water in his lungs. The final determination was that Nkosi must have been tumbled by the wave and, disoriented, pushed for the surface without looking up. He’d hit his head on the reef overhang and been knocked unconscious, unable to save himself. He wasn’t the first surfer the Pipeline had killed that way.
For a moment, Bruce and Natasha simply look down, reliving the horror of that day. Then Natasha looks up into Bruce’s face. “You know, just because you didn’t die, doesn’t mean your accident wasn’t terrible.”
“I knew that was what you were getting at,” Bruce says, giving her as much of a grin as he’s able in the moment, to reassure her that she isn’t out of line. “I’m fine, Nat. Yes, I know it’s the ten-year anniversary, but I’m fine. Everything ends, pro surfing careers earlier than most, and some end a lot worse than mine did.”
He puts his hand over hers where it rests on the counter. “I’m okay. Thanks for asking.”
“It would be perfectly understandable if you weren’t. If you resented all these kids, like Rogers and Barnes, coming in here with their youth and their fans and their sponsorships, mobs of press following them everywhere just in case they drop a good sound bite.”
“I hated all that anyway, Nat. You know that. I just wanted to surf. And yeah. Maybe the accident meant I couldn’t do it professionally after that, but I was almost thirty-five, anyway. That’s old for a surfer.”
“So they say.”
Bruce narrows his eyes at her, daring her to say what’s on her mind. “What?”
“I want you to be happy, Bruce. That’s all. I’m just checking in. I mean, is this what you want? Are you happy?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Bruce gives a genuine laugh at that. “It’s way too early in the day to get all existential, and we haven’t even been drinking. I live in the most beautiful place in the world, where I get to surf the best waves on the planet whenever I want. I don’t get paid for it anymore, but by now I wouldn’t be, anyway. So instead, I own my own business where I get paid to hang out at the beach. If that isn’t happiness, I don’t know what is.”
Bruce flicks a bar towel playfully at Natasha and takes the plate she’s pushed away now that she’s finished eating. He’s still laughing softly as he makes his way to the kitchen.
Natasha squints at his back as she watches him go. Bruce’s last sentence may be more true than he realizes, she thinks. He fits perfectly into the Hawaiian lifestyle: casual, laid-back, without the buttoned-up, driven ethos of the mainland. But she wonders. Is Bruce truly happy? He’s always so quick to pronounce himself satisfied with everything. But is he? Really?
He’s told her that he stayed in Pupukea after his accident primarily because he had nowhere else to go. He had no family and no roots anywhere, and while he’d been surfing professionally, he’d spent all the time he could on the North Shore. There’s no better surfing anywhere, and he had wanted to learn everything he could about the Pipe. He’d wanted to know it better than anyone else. So Pupukea had been as close as Bruce had to a home.
He met Clint Barton by chance shortly before his accident, and they’d bonded pretty much instantly. That meeting changed both their lives. Clint had always dreamed of owning a surfside restaurant at the Banzai Pipeline, but he couldn’t get a permit. The North Shore is nowhere near as commercially developed as the areas of the island closer to Honolulu, and no one was willing to allow a business right on Ehukai Beach next to all the oceanfront showplace homes.
That is, until the person asking for a permit was Bruce Banner. Everyone knew who Bruce was, and he’d spent so much time on the North Shore that most of the locals had at least seen him around. They thought of him as theirs, and they were proud of him. So when he became America’s Wounded Sweetheart and needed a job, the city fathers of Pupukea had been more than happy to grant Bruce a permit, and Hulk’s Surf Shack was born.
Unlike Clint, Bruce had never even thought about owning a restaurant, but he had to do something , and he couldn’t think of anything else. Clint had been saving to start his own restaurant, and Bruce had the insurance payout from his accident, so they pooled what they had and borrowed the rest. With the nest egg he’d managed to save from his winnings, Bruce bought a house overlooking the beach, and became a restauranteur.
Which doesn’t add up to Bruce living his dream. At least, not to Natasha. He’s content, sure. But Bruce is always content, and to her, that just doesn’t seem good enough.
Natasha utterly rejects the idea that a person needs a romantic partner to be happy. At the same time, she wishes Bruce had someone to love him, and to love. He has everything to offer, including an abundance of affection for those he cares about. And he’s certainly good looking. His trademark unruly hair is almost black, beginning to be sprinkled with grey that really works for him. His dark brown eyes are what Natasha thinks people call soulful, full of a depth and intensity that bely the otherwise little-boy quality of his handsome face. His trim, five-foot-eight build is graced with just the right amount of defined muscle developed over a lifetime of surfing.
So Natasha’s friend Bruce Banner is a successful business owner with plenty of friends, good-looking and athletic, living in paradise. He certainly has the right ingredients. And yet, at this moment, it occurs to her that it’s entirely possible that Bruce doesn’t know what happiness is.
* * *
The next day, traffic on the Kamehameha highway becomes even more impossible as people begin to arrive in Pupukea for the competition. The surfers themselves make up only a small fraction of them; there are also spectators, judges, media, and representatives from all the surf gear companies. Business at Hulk’s begins to approach the full-scale frenzy that accompanies all the surfing competitions held along the North Shore every winter.
Bruce is busy enough with his day job, but there are always the inevitable reporters looking for an interview with Surf Legend™ Bruce Banner and asking his opinions on the current competitors. This year, a few have tumbled onto the fact that it’s the ten year anniversary of his injury and the resulting demise of his career, and are looking to do a story from that perspective. Only one makes the mistake of calling it a “Where Are They Now” piece.
Before Bruce can stop the restaurant’s manager, M’Baku, the unfortunate blogger finds himself face-down in the sand outside the Snack Bar.
“Sorry, Boss,” M’Baku shrugs, “but that’s disrespectful.”
“You hire and train all the staff here, brah,” Bruce chides gently, trying to fight a grin. “Now they’re gonna think that’s appropriate behavior.”
M’Baku gives him a slightly bemused, somewhat disapproving frown. “It is.”
With that, the giant Wakandan wades back into the crowd of servers, bussers, and guests making up the controlled chaos of the Surf Shack’s morning rush.
Bruce’s attention is suddenly drawn by a loud, booming laugh from behind him. He turns back toward the long counter fronting the Snack Bar to see a tightly-packed crowd of people who are obviously reporters. Bruce can spot the press a mile off, but in this case, they’re making it easy by jostling each other to get closer so they can snap photographs and shout questions at the man in the center of the scrum. The man is head and shoulders taller than any of them. His gleaming blond head of thick, tousled, shoulder-length hair seems stereotypically California surfer dude, although he’s not actually American. He’s Australian, from the Gold Coast.
Thor Odinson, the God of Surfing. Or so the media like to call him.
Although he recognizes him easily, Bruce doesn’t actually know him. Thor is only thirty-two, and wasn’t on the elite pro circuit yet when Bruce was competing. For whatever reason, their paths just haven’t crossed when Thor’s been on the North Shore for competitions. Sometimes it’s hard for Bruce to remember whether he’s met a pro surfer personally or just knows them from watching competitions. Not Thor Odinson. If Bruce had met him before, he wouldn’t be standing here now feeling like he’s just had the barrel of a gnarly drainer collapse on him out of nowhere to spin and whirl him around with no possibility of controlling where it takes him and no sense of direction, including up or down.
Gorgeous seems like a weak word for Thor, but it’s the only one that comes to Bruce in the moment. Besides being tall, Thor is ripped. He doesn’t just have the fit, athletic build of a professional surfer, he has an added element of muscularity that, to Bruce, is breathtakingly beautiful. Photos and video don’t do justice to the total effect of all that lean muscle and grace. In person, he is almost mesmerizing. As if his body weren’t stunning enough, he also has luminous, ice-blue eyes in an extraordinarily handsome face that somehow seems always to look amused, no matter what his expression.
Bruce can hear every word Thor’s saying – his voice is as big as he is – and Bruce can somehow feel Thor’s accent. He’s smiling patiently as he answers questions Bruce can’t quite hear, all the while making his way across the beach toward Hulk’s.
It’s only when Thor looks down at a reporter shouting to be heard over the throng that Bruce realizes his chest is starting to burn and the edges of his vision are going dark. He feels like there’s a vacuum in his lungs. He actually has to exhale just a bit to convince his body to inhale, something he realizes he hasn’t done since first catching sight of Thor Odinson.
Oh, shit. Oh, holy flyin’ balls of entirely unexpected, really inconvenient shit.
The whole time it takes Thor and the shifting, elbowing pack of press around him to reach the Surf Shack, Bruce just stands, completely aware that he’s helplessly staring. Unfortunately, he’s also completely unaware that he’s blocking the walkway between the Snack Bar and the long counter behind it, with its snack displays, smoothie and shave ice machines, and built-in cooler full of cold drinks. The place is jumping, with customers three-deep along the Snack Bar, and the servers are scurrying past one another in the narrow space holding cups and bowls heaped with frozen treats.
It’s only a matter of time.
Sure enough, one of the newer servers turns around too quickly with an uncovered smoothie (a mondo-size, because of course it is) and catches sight of Thor and his entourage. It’s just distracting enough that he misjudges his steps, catches his foot on Bruce’s, and loses his balance. The bright purple mondo acai and pineapple smoothie flies straight up in the air.
It lands, upside-down, on Bruce, instantly creating a permanent tie-dye-meets-modern-art stain all over his previously bright white Aloha shirt.
“Parker, what the hell? ” M’Baku shouts from across the restaurant, and all movement and sound instantly stop. Even the noise of the waves seems to be muted in this moment as Bruce stands, sodden and dripping, still with his eyes locked on Thor.
Except now, like everyone else within a half-mile radius, Thor is looking directly back at Bruce. Their eyes meet and Bruce sees Thor blink and miss a beat. Well, who wouldn’t? Bruce is wearing an entire purple frozen beverage, of which huge, cold drops are hanging like ornaments from the ends of his hair and sliding from his chin to plop onto his chest.
The moment goes on for what seems to Bruce like five minutes. Maybe ten. But then, as instantly as it stopped, the raucous noise and frenzied movement of the busy restaurant resume, the waves return to their previous roar, and the spell is broken. M’Baku strides powerfully across the restaurant, launching into a furious harangue in rapid-fire Xhosa. Bruce catches only the words “Peter Parker” and “ impundu esisiyatha .” While he can’t disagree with calling Parker a stupid asshole, he decides that he should probably ask M’Baku not to shout obscenities across the restaurant in any language.
When M’Baku reaches Bruce, he steps in front of him so that he blocks his view of Thor, bringing Bruce fully back into the present. M’Baku takes a quick look at the quantity and hue of the smoothie Bruce is wearing and pronounces, “Hopeless. Go back to your office and change.”
It’s only then that Bruce realizes he’s shivering a bit and starting to feel sticky. The hot sting of shame begins somewhere around his hairline and oozes down over him as it dawns on him that Thor Odinson just witnessed that whole mess. Bruce has to force himself not to run on his way to the safety of his office, where he can cringe in private.
* * *
“Well, I thought it was cute,” Clint chuckles. He’s trying to make it sound like a defense of Bruce, but it’s a taunt and Bruce knows it.
“I will literally bake you in one of your sand ovens,” he growls through gritted teeth. “That was one of my favorite shirts.”
Which only makes Clint and Natasha laugh louder. They’re relaxing on the expansive lanai of Bruce’s house, enjoying a mid-day break before Bruce and Clint have to return to the Surf Shack for the dinner rush. That is, Natasha and Clint are enjoying it. Bruce, on the other hand, has been spending the entire time getting roasted by his best friends about having a crush on Thor.
“You realize I have never spoken a word to the man. Not one. I don’t know how I’m supposed to have a crush—”
“I’m sorry to be the one to diagnose you, Banner, but you’re a fan . You don’t have to have spoken to him to have a crush.”
“Natasha—”
“And there’s no cure, either,” Clint piles on. “Besides, you need to just own it, because your little bit of street theater is all over the internet. The YouTube video is amazing. It captures the moment when your soul actually leaves your body as you see Thor.”
“All right, that’s it. You’re fired. Now get out of my house so I can Google hitmen and have that Parker kid murdered.”
It’s hard to understand Natasha because she can’t stop laughing as she tells him, “Number one, you can’t fire your partner. You have to dissolve the partnership in court, like a divorce. And number two, Peter Parker is a sweet boy whose undeserved death won’t stop #EYEFUCKOFTHECENTURY from trending. They’re calling you two ‘Bandinson.’ I normally hate those name mash-ups, but that one isn’t so bad.”
Bruce groans in pain as he downs half of his beer in one gulp.
* * *
That night, Thor Odinson comes back to the Surf Shack. He’s there to have dinner with a number of executives from one of his sponsors. They’re a surfwear company that is one of Tony Stark’s fiercest competitors, although Tony downplays the threat they present to his market share. Thor’s radiant in one of their body-hugging shirts that matches the color of his eyes, and Bruce has to drag his eyes off of him.
Bruce has met a couple of these executives before, so they exchange waves, but thankfully they don’t call him over to their table. Normally, he would make a point of stopping by just to say hello, but he can’t seem to make himself do it tonight. Instead, he spends the entire time they’re in the restaurant visiting every other table and then working behind the bar.
He doesn’t have to ask himself why he’s avoiding Thor. He’s still mortified over the episode with the smoothie. Except that Bruce has already endured seemingly endless ribbing about it, and that didn’t bother him. Why does the idea that Thor saw his humiliation have him cowering behind the bar? Bruce doesn’t ask himself that question, either. Because the answer is simmering just beneath his consciousness, and it’s the reason he can’t seem to stop glancing over at Thor. It’s just his luck that, every time he does, Thor seems to be looking at him, too.
Bruce cannot get a break.
By the time Thor and his group leave the Surf Shack, Bruce is almost done restocking the bar. He sighs as he looks into the box of cardboard drink coasters he’s just opened.
This again.
Between the bar, Snack Bar, and restaurant, Hulk’s uses a lot of cardboard coasters. The ones M’Baku designed are bright green, with the Hulk’s Surf Shack logo on one side and a stylized drawing of Bruce surfing on the other. Not only are they necessary for all the drinks Hulk’s serves, but tourists love to keep them as souvenirs. The staff is happy to give them clean, unused ones to take home, because it’s great advertising. Besides, they’re dirt cheap, because the supplier prints them in-house.
Several weeks ago, M’Baku mentioned that their supplies of coasters were getting low, and ordered more. He’s been complaining that they haven’t arrived, and for the last few days, the staff has actually had to try to conserve them, because they’re close to running completely out. Every time someone from the supplier has made a delivery, M’Baku’s been on the delivery guy immediately, asking whether they’ve finally brought the coasters. There’s always some excuse why they haven’t. Bruce has called the supplier twice, because they’re about to enter the mad rush that comes with a surfing competition and they need those coasters, dammit.
Well, the coasters have arrived.
They’re purple instead of green, and the name of the Surf Shack is spelled “Huk’s.”