WHO: hulkkeysmash and gamma_bitch WHERE: The most festive lab on the planet. WHEN: Foreward dated to Christmas Eve WARNINGS: Adorableness SUMMARY: Betty gives Bruce his Christmas present! FORMAT: Quicklog!
[ he yelps, dropping his pen as he's forcibly pulled from his train of thought. He'd gotten into his work, hunkered down with a thoroughly chewed #2 pencil and a stack of yellow legal pads. Bruce is always working on something, but today he has more of a problem than usual. It's big, it's fruity, and apparently it's eating people. This is problematic, to say the least.
This is why he'd forgotten about dinner with Betty---or that it's Christmas Eve at all. Fumbling to push his glasses up, he cracks an expression of contrition. ]
[She rolls her eyes at him, unbuttoning her coat and tossing it over a free chair, straightening out her very cute and very expensive dress with a snort.]
God if you can forget it's fucking Christmas, Bruce, I won't get my hopes up on my birthday.
[She sighs and drops onto a stool next to him, crossing her legs daintily, hands on her knees. She relaxes a little, seeming to brush off her irritation with a resigned sort of expression.]
What's outranking me this year? The rampaging fruitcakes or something else?
[ he scrubs his fingers through his hair; it's unwashed, sticking up at weird angles. It'd be bedhead, but he hasn't slept. Not for a while. Guilt rushes up the back of his throat, sour and sick. He's disappointed Betty---again. He's surprised that she came to see him at all; she used to just send him a very curt email listing his crimes against her in numerical order.
But she's here, in a---a very short little dress. It hits just above mid-thigh, barely a dress, really. Bruce swallows dryly ]
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This is why he'd forgotten about dinner with Betty---or that it's Christmas Eve at all. Fumbling to push his glasses up, he cracks an expression of contrition. ]
Be---? Oh. Oh. Oh, Betty, I'm so sorry.
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God if you can forget it's fucking Christmas, Bruce, I won't get my hopes up on my birthday.
[She sighs and drops onto a stool next to him, crossing her legs daintily, hands on her knees. She relaxes a little, seeming to brush off her irritation with a resigned sort of expression.]
What's outranking me this year? The rampaging fruitcakes or something else?
Reply
But she's here, in a---a very short little dress. It hits just above mid-thigh, barely a dress, really. Bruce swallows dryly ]
The fruitcake is my fault.
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[She strode over and tussled his hair a little, sighing in irritation]
I had a present for you to open you know.
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