Cookie Dough
pairing: bruce x reader
word count: around 2k
summary: bruce finally comes home to you
warnings: fluff
masterlist
Before, even when Bruce was just a doctor, you’d sometimes wake up in the middle of the night because of the breeze coming through your open windows. It would waft the curtains out into your room, the slightest sound shifting you awake. You’d lie for a bit, held tight in Bruce’s arms, and then eventually, you’d crave cookies. Soft and warm chocolate chip cookies straight from the oven.
You’d never wake Bruce up, slipping from beneath his arms silently until he was curled around nothing. You’d creep across the floorboards, around the bed and through the door into the living-kitchen area. Then you’d get to work, sleepily pulling out ingredients from the cupboards to make the cookies.
Despite thinking you were quiet, you’d always make some noise that woke Bruce up. It was usually the clanging of the baking tray on the kitchen counter or the tearing of greaseproof paper. It stirred him and he’d reached to pull you closer only to find you missing from the bed. Then he’d hear the soft sounds of movement from the kitchen, the quiet music playing over the radio on the stove, and he’d smile.
He’d lay for a little while, staring at the ceiling with his eyes fixed on nothing in particular, just imagining you moving across the apartment floor, head probably nodding along to the music. Eventually, he’d clamber out of bed, pulling on a t-shirt only occasionally before joining you in the kitchen.
“Baking again, love?” You’d snap your head up at his words, freezing your movements.
“Did I wake you?” You always asked when you saw him in the doorway, a ball of cookie dough held in your flour-stained hands. Bruce would always shake his head and lie.
“No, it was the wind.”
-
Bruce had gone now. It would’ve been easier if he’d told you. If he’d said he’d had enough of your life together. That he wanted more. That he didn’t love you anymore. It would have hurt you and it would’ve been hard. But there was no doubt in your mind that it would have been easier than this at least.
It would’ve been easier than not knowing why. It would’ve been easier than not knowing where. It would’ve been easier than not knowing when he was coming back. If he was coming back.
There was no easing into it either. One night he had his arms around you as you carefully lifted cookies from the baking sheet onto the cooling rack at 3am, and then the next night you were alone, left with an apologetic message from Tony and an ache in your heart.
Now when the wind rustled your curtains and roused you from sleep, you opened your eyes and always expected to feel the familiar warmth of his body behind you. You never did, just the cold wind, and you climbed out of the bed leaving no one behind.
At first, your baking sessions stayed the same. You still tiptoed around the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake the non-existent Bruce you constanly hoped would materialise in the doorway – like he’d never gone.
But then a year passed by and you’d walk with your heels on the floor, measuring ingredients with a clatter of equipment and not caring about the loud banging of the baking tray against the counter. The soft music from the radio was replaced with loud, guitar heavy music blasted from your iPhone speakers. Instead of making coffee or tea to drink with your cookies, you poured wine into glasses, watching the cookie dough in the oven bloom into cookies.
One thing that never changed was the amount. You made the same perfectly round batch of a dozen cookies. You put them on the same cracked plate Bruce’s cousin had bought you when you first moved in together, the print on it a classical floral pattern surrounding a beautifully calligraphed “fuck my diet”. But twelve was always too many. You got through three, chewing them in between sips and then gulps of wine.
But there was always nine left over.
You’d sit there staring at the cookies, finger circling the rim of your almost empty glass of wine, before you stood, draining the glass, and making your way back to the bedroom.
In the morning before work, you washed the wine glass in the sink and you’d take the cookies into the office, transferring them from the “fuck” plate to a Tupperware box.
-
When the wind stirred you awake this morning, you squeezed your eyes shut, trying desperately to quash the need to continue this routine that only brought you pain. But your feet compelled you out of the bed towards the kitchen.
You poured the wine first, leaning against the counter as you stared at the cupboards before you.
Why not make brownies? Quiche? A fucking Crème Brulee?
You took out flour, baking soda, butter, sugar, vanilla, eggs and chocolate chips and got to work.
-
Bruce had asked about you right away. Tony had diverted from answering that question, urging him to get medical tests, demanding answers to his space-related question.
“Alright, Tony, space is a giant shit show that basically makes no sense,” Bruce snapped, head in his hands. Tony hushed, watching the eyes of his friend turn green for a second only to settle again in desperation. “Tell me. How is Y/N?”
Tony hesitated, twirling his phone between his fingers. He sighed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand across his stubble.
“She took it hard. You just disappeared with no warning,” Tony noticed Bruce take a sharp inhale of breath as he began to panic. “I tried to keep in touch. I tried to help. But… it hurt her a lot and you… I didn’t know where you were. I couldn’t give her the answers she wanted.”
The silence hung over them like a darkness, filling the room with a cold that could not be fixed with central heating. Bruce chewed his lip, feeling the guilt tear is soul apart at the thought of hurting you. The Hulk hurt too, yearning for the time when you fixed his heart rather than wounded it.
“I should go see her. Tell her I’m okay.” Bruce didn’t meet Tony’s eyes. “Did she-“
“-she never moved.” Tony answered before he could even ask and Bruce looked up at him again. “She never moved.” He repeated. But he was saying something else and Bruce knew it. You never lost hope.
-
The music was so loud that you didn’t hear the key in the lock turning. You were focused on mixing the dough into the right consistency, spoon reverberating off the glass bowl loudly now that you didn’t have to worry about waking anyone. When it was done, you let the spoon drop from your hands, reaching for the wine glass the song faded into a new one.
It was in this slip into silence that you heard the footstep on the floorboard. You whirled your head around, facing the noise. In shock, your fingers loosened from the wine glass and it fell to the floor with a smash. Bruce winced at the sound, stepping forward only for you to step back, stumbling slightly away.
“Y-you..I…” You tried but nothing worked, you shook your head, sure it was the longing. Sure it was a dream. A Hallucination. Anything but reality. But Bruce remained before you, eyebrows drawn together in a look of despair and lips parted in an attempt to find the words himself.
“I’m back.”
You froze, both staring each other down as your breathing quickened, chest rising up and down rapidly. Bruce raised his hands as if he were approaching a wild animal.
“Y/N,” he tried to sooth but you lost it, stepping forward. Bruce stepped forward too, quickly kicking the glass away from your path so you didn’t cut your bare feet.
“How dare you,” you screamed, picking up the dough from the bowl. “How fucking dare you,” you threw a piece at him, peeling off chunks of dough and throwing them at his hair. You tossed the dough aside, Bruce sighing in relief until you stepped right into his face.
“You left-“ you hit him on the chest, pushing him backwards slightly so his hands reached out to rest on your arms. “-me here alone. You-you didn’t even tell me, I waited… all this fucking time and you… you…” you let out a sob of frustration, balling your fists into his t-shirt and resting your forehead on his shoulder.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he soothed in your ear, hands moving up and down your arms to try and comfort you. “I got lost but I’m back now. I’m back home.”
Bruce let you cry into his shirt for a while, his own eyes welling with tears at the feeling of being with you again. Your fingers clenched and unclenched around the fabric, making sure this was tangible and real. You made sure you could smell him, the familiar smell of the Bruce that had left you. You felt his heartbeat beneath his clothes, the rhythm as recognisable to you as your own. He was home.
“Where were you?” You whispered, pulling back to look at him again. Bruce smiled sadly, raising a hand to your cheek to brush hair away from your face.
“Not now, love. Later. I’ll explain everything later.”
You chewed your lip, half of you wanting to make him tell you everything and the other half not wanting to do anything to push him away again. You decided to wait, letting out a jagged breath as you shook your head in disbelief. When you looked at him again, you let out a breathy giggle, fingers reaching up to his hair.
Bruce watched your face as you tugged at his hair, moving your fingers away and holding something before him. A small ball of cookie dough that had stuck. Bruce smiled, hands moving from your arms to your waist.
“Baking again, love?” His voice was smooth and warm, just the way he’d always speak to you in the morning. You sighed, eyes fluttering closed as you clung to him again.
“Cookies,” You stepped away and turned, Bruce’s hands leaving your waist for only a second before they returned to your hips, walking behind you until you reached the bowl. His arms wrapped around your waist, head resting on your shoulder as you balled the cookie dough into cookie shapes, placing them neatly on the tray as Bruce occasionally dipped his finger in the mixture and brought it to your lips.
Once you had twelve perfectly round cookies on the tray, you pulled out of Bruce’s arm and slid them into the oven. Bruce watched, mesmerised by the way you’d slipped back into your normal routine. He ran his finger in the bowl, picking up some excess cookie dough just as you turned back to him. He raised is finger to your lips and you smiled, biting his finger playfully before you ate the cookie dough from it.
Bruce smiled, pulling you into a hug that had the two of you knocked out of breath. You tightened your arms around him, squeezing him for what felt like hours. Finally, his grip loosened and your loosened your own in response, only enough to give the two of you space to look at eachother.
“I don’t want to let you go again,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his. Bruce grinned, nudging his nose against yours as his breath fanned your face. His lips brushed against yours and you melted into him, like a warm chocolate chip cookie straight from the oven.
“I’m not leaving you again, love. Never again.”