Bruce
Title: Mostly Mental
Author: finding_jay
Pairing: Extremely soft Tony Stark/Bruce Banner at the end
Rating: PG
Warnings: References to violence, menstruation
Summary: It's just in your head, he's told. That makes sense, seeing as his nerves are directly connected to his brain.
Notes: Written for avengers_tables Kink Table prompt 'sensation play'. I wanted to actually write something that wasn't porn for a change.
There were so many things Bruce hated about turning into the Other Guy he could fill dozens of research papers. What it all boiled down to, though, was the lack of control. There was the initial wave of anger that would hit him. The adrenaline would surge through his veins, and the Other Guy would wake inside. He would twist and agonise inside as the Other Guy would rise up from deep inside him, his skin aching as it grew to accommodate his swollen muscles. As his humanity dwindled, he'd feel his intellect, compassion, shyness disappearing, like water through his hands. But that wasn't the worst of it; no, the worst was coming back. People theorised it was seeing what destruction he had caused by letting his anger get away, and yes, that was part of it. Bruce would be the first to agree with that.
But there was another part to it. Whenever he woke up, dazed and thirsty and with a pounding headache, his nerves would still be firing at an overwrought pace, trying to work with a monstrosity that stood over seven and a half feet tall and tipped the scales at over a thousand pounds. His preferred method of coping was to just lay there, in whatever debris he was surrounded by, and wait it out. His perception of the world was enhanced tenfold; colours were brighter, smells richer, sounds almost painful in his ear. Despite his desire to be left alone, his teammates- and he had a tough time thinking of his fellow Avengers as that, seeing as he had spent so much time alone- were all anxious to ensure his safety, and would rush over to him with a pair of pants and a bottle of cold water. Bruce would struggle to pull the pants on, the fibres rough against his raw skin, and wince as the icy water touched his tongue. He would let them do this, though, as he couldn't quite yet figure out a way to tell them he knew all there was about them in that window of time when he was still half man, half monster.
The problem here wasn't just his overpowered sensory organs. Everything else was effected by it. He would feel sound down in his toes. Smells would make him dizzy, bright lights would send a shiver down his spine. Bruce always gave it his all to appear unaffected by the sensations around him, but later, when his nerves had slowed down, he would inevitably collapse in the nearest dark room. Sweat would bead on his forehead while his skin was clammy to touch. Writhing in silence, Bruce always counted the seconds until he was free from the confines of his overwrought body. Sometimes he would vomit, his stomach lurching and clenching as he heaved. Other times he would bury his face into a pillow, doing his best to block out all sight, sound and noise while his brain pounded with a migraine. The worst was when everything hit his dick, making it prickle and ache, the slightest sensory stimuli travelling through his body and landing squarely in his crotch. He would lock himself in his room, sweat and ache and thrash it out until his body was spent and he'd fall asleep.
*
For reasons beyond Bruce's understanding, Thor seemed to stick closest to him during battle. There was probably some Asgardian logic behind it- stick to the strongest warrior and achieve eternal life in Valhalla, and, to be fair, in terms of brute force the Other Guy was undoubtedly the strongest. Due to Thor's tendency to fight beside the Other Guy, he was often first on the scene when Bruce awoke, naked and sore. In some ways it was comforting to see the same familiar face each time, but Bruce wished Thor wasn't so loud. He could feel Thor's booming voice echo through his body. It vibrated deep in his chest, reverberate in his bones, trickle down his spine. Bruce would lay there, splayed over whatever debris he had been the cause of, and feel, rather than hear, Thor's words.
It was comforting to have Thor close by during the immediate aftermath. Bruce was invariably disorientated, it wasn't unusual for those moments to last upwards of ten minutes, depending on the length of his transformation. As their companionship grew, Thor became more inclined to lend Bruce his cape. He would wrap it around his middle like an oversized towel, and the material would make him shiver and twitch. Bruce would use Thor's voice was a lifeline, letting the deep timbre reverberate around his skull. Most of the time, though, Bruce was more inclined to just lay in whatever pit was formed around him, and let the sound of Thor's voice wash over him.
There was a musical quality to it. Tony had once asked Thor to read from his copy of Richard III. Bruce didn't have a great understanding of Shakespeare, and Thor had tripped over some of the words, but he said the phrases with a lyrical tone, following the iambic pentameter with such a natural quality, Bruce believed he was listening to a professional Shakespearean actor.
Now, though, he lay in a pile of rubble, every muscle aching, his head throbbing against his skull. He heard the crunch of Thor's boots, and felt it rumble up his legs. Bruce kept his eyes shut as the gentle click of the metal clasps as Thor removed his cape, the sound of the woolen fabric being shook out.
'Now is the winter of our discontent,' Thor quoted as he draped the fabric over him.
His voice shook through Bruce, but he kept his eyes shut, lights dazzling the back of his lids in time with the rhythm of Thor's voice. Bruce murmured quietly to let the Asgardian know he was awake, slumping forward to let Thor tuck the cape around his back.
'Made glorious summer by this sun of York.'
Thor heaved Bruce up in one smooth motion. His legs were like jelly, though (had he been shot at? He normally found he ached and trembled in areas he'd been attacked), and he fell into Thor's chest. His cheek pressed against the cold armour. He heard the beat of Thor's heart, breath in his lungs. His voice was deeper like this, and it ran straight through Bruce. He could hear Thor's words through his cheek, across his jaw and down his neck, all the way to the tips of his fingers and soles of his bare, torn feet.
'And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house,' Thor continued as he swung Bruce up and over his shoulder. Bruce pressed his cheek against Thor's back, the sound of his voice making the shift in his balance seem all but minimal. 'In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.'
Bruce shut his eyes and concentrated on the rumble in Thor's chest instead of the way he swayed as they walked, or the way his skin felt as though it were on fire. He could hear the scrape of fabric on fabric, the clatter of metal in Thor's armour.
'Dr Banner, what is York?'
'I don't know,' Bruce replied, and at that moment, he didn't.
*
The headache currently thumping steadily behind Bruce's eyes was threatening to turn into a migraine. He'd had enough over the years to know was happening. His head felt crowded, pressurised. The pain was leaking down his spine and he could feel it filling his bones. The Other Guy must have had a lot of fun today. His muscles were sore, a heavy weight akin to lead filling his hands and feet.
Light dazzled his eyelids, and he felt warm air against his skin. He was outside. There was grass underneath him, scratching at his skin. He finally managed to raise a hand, though it was still heavy, and he pressed it to his face. As he groaned, the sound grating to his pounding but brain but still worth it, the light dimmed. Peeling open a lid, he saw Clint's silhouette standing over him. The sunlight radiated around him, a blurry aura smudging his vision. Easing himself up, Bruce held out a hand. Clint took it and helped him up, bracing a hand on Bruce's bare shoulder. He drew a knee to his chest, more to ease Clint of an embarrassment than of any shame of immodesty. He'd accepted that part of his transformation a long time ago.
'How many people?' His words sounded abrasive in his ears.
Clint didn't reply. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he shifted to the side. The sun streaked out from behind him and Bruce hissed loudly and bowed his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he turned away and pressed his brow to his knee. Clint's shadow darkened over him, and he dared lift his head- he had moved to where he'd been earlier.
'Better?'
Bruce's response was somewhere between 'uh-huh' and 'ugh'. He sagged into his knee, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead, and shut his eyes. It was going to be a long uphill battle with the migraine, he knew that already. The world was spinning and shutting his eyes made it worse. Although the aura was uncomfortable, and it pounded in time with his aching head, it was better than feeling as though he was about to fall over at one moment. Groping in front of him, he found Clint's hand and tugged him down. He went down easily. At any other moment, it may have surprised Bruce, but with his growing migraine, he didn't have the mental capacity to muse on it. It was likely, though, he had been informed to just go along with whatever Bruce did post-transformation.
'The Widow will be here soon,' Clint said. 'She'll- '
'Shh.' Even the soft hush made Bruce curl up. He shut his eyes and teetered to the side. Opening them again, he fixed them on the centre of Clint's chest. 'Can you stop... moving?'
To be fair, Clint wasn't actually moving- he was sitting fairly still, actually- but in the fog of the throbbing headache, and the aura hovering around him, it seemed as though he was swaying from side to side. Reaching out a shaky arm, Bruce pressed his hand to the centre of Clint's chest. It helped, though minimally. Focusing on his hand, Bruce taking a shaky breath in and swallowed the bile that threatened to come exploding up.
'Your vest,' he slurred, tilting to the side as he spoke. 'It has... maroon.'
He could just see it, the vision in his right eye starting to flicker in and out of focus. He jumped when Clint touched his shoulder, and he groaned, trying to protest as he was forced, albeit gently, to the ground. The grass itched behind his back, and the sun penetrated his lids, causing his hands to come instructively up to cover his eyes. Clint was talking to him quietly ('okay, big fella, let's get you over'), and he was suddenly rolled onto his side. He faintly realised he was being put into a recovery position- arm out under his neck, a leg up. Bruce tried to thank Clint, but his tongue wouldn't work and it suddenly seemed all too hard.
There was a shift of light behind his eyelids, the sound of metal on metal, akin to a zip, and the rustle of fabric, when his vision was blacked out completely. Something was covering his eyes, and it fell across his head, to his ear. It smelt of leather and sweat, but it didn't compare to the uncomfortable brightness of the sun; Clint's vest, he realised dimly. Bruce just sighed and settled in, deciding he'd thank Clint later. For now, he just settled into the grass and waited for Natasha's arrival.
*
Although the battle was long over, and Bruce had shrunk down to his meagre five-foot-eight height, he was still running on high. He was shaking all over, fidgeting as he waited for the kettle to boil. He wasn't even thirsty, just desperate for a distraction, anything to focus on instead of the panic running through his veins. He had been working up on one of the levels of the Stark Tower, hyper-focused on his work, when he had been attacked from behind. He didn't remember much as he'd been tossed across the room, just a flash of black and grey, a long pink tongue and a row of sharp teeth. He had landed hard, and had just enough sense in his mind to feel that tell-tale wave surge through him. The window had crashed behind him, and Bruce hadn't even realised he'd been picked up and thrown again. By then it was too late, though. He had already started to transform, his rational, human mind locked away before he even fell three levels.
But he was still stuck on that memory, of those hands on his shoulders, that utter, human helplessness. Bruce wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a lover, either, but even as a much younger man, before the Other Guy had worked his way into his blood, he had avoided confrontation if at all possible, shying away the moment he sensed aggravation, aggression, annoyance. At least he managed to avoid it most of the time now, excusing himself when he felt his anger pique. But he hadn't had a choice, up in the workshop. It had been ripped from his hands, all ability to run leaving the moment the attacker had picked him up with ease and tossed him to the side like an overgrown rag doll.
'Dr Banner.'
Bruce lifted his head and looked over his shoulder. Natasha was standing in the doorway, looking neat and put together as she always did. Without a word, she crossed over to him. Bruce backed away, as he tended to do around her, letting her steal his position by the counter. She smelt of soap, of shampoo and talc, of blood.
'Sit down,' she said.
Bruce didn't even pretend to think it was a suggestion. It was an order, a directive, and he followed it, rubbing his nose. He ducked his head, kept his eyes low as he pulled a chair out and eased himself into it. The ends of Natasha's hair were still curled and damp from her shower, the hem of her neat, white shirt sticking to the small of her bed. Bruce averted his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. His nose was still twitching though, and he couldn't help but give her another quick, medical once-over. She wasn't injured, at least not from what he could see. She wasn't limping, or preferring another limb over another. He could see no sign of a bandage, of gauze. Any blood from her enemy- and Bruce still stumbled over that idea, that he would willingly let himself get drawn into battle, that people may be slain- would have been washed off in her shower.
It dawned on him then, and he felt the tips of his ears burn, his cheeks redden. It was like a shock wave to his already-fried system. He kept his chin to his chest as Natasha served him his tea. The sharp smell of ginger and lemongrass filled his nose, blocking the metallic scent that was otherwise there. He sipped it carefully, and he didn't even bother hiding his surprise when his tongue wasn't instantly burned.
'I added cold water.'
Bruce nodded. 'Thank you.'
'It's not your fault. You couldn't have known.'
He held the warm mug in his hands, concentrating on the smell of the tea instead of the warm, female scents radiating from Natasha. He hadn't been with anyone for so long, his celibacy admittedly not entirely his own choice. He kept his eyes low, lips to the mug, even though he wasn't drinking the tea, and tried to block out the twist in his gut, the longing ache within him. It wasn't until Natasha slipped from her chair and left the kitchen, as quiet and stealthy as a ghost, that Bruce realised his anxiety, his terror had left him. Maybe that had been the point.
*
Bruce was sick, and when Bruce was sick, the Other Guy got sick. And when the Other Guy got sick, whole blocks were destroyed. The team voted to allow Bruce leave, and he didn't argue, just gave a nod that disorientated him as he was severely congested and curled up on his SHIELD-assigned bed and did his best to sleep.
Really, he wasn't all that surprised when he was called out. Hill looked as reluctant as she ever did, and Bruce recognised that corner-mouth twitch she did whenever she was agonising over a decision. She explained that all their top agents were on the scene (along with a few that weren't quite up to it yet), even Fury was on the scene, and Bruce cut her off there and started to unbutton his shirt and put on the newest stretchy design Tony had given him to try out. Which was how the Other Guy wound up on Coney Island with part of the Wonder Wheel wrapped around his middle. Magneto was an ass sometimes. But the Other Guy didn't take illnesses too well, and by the time he was done, Deno's was destroyed, with most of its remains floating on the shore.
Thor carried him back as he was wont to do, and he collapsed in his bed in the Tower, nose feeling as raw as his knuckles. Rolling around on the bed, the blankets twisting around his legs, Bruce shut his eyes and desperately willed sleep to come. It was futile, though; his head ached and his sinuses were congested too bad. When there was a gentle knock on his door, Bruce gave a nasal call to enter. Steve entered, carrying a wash cloth, a box of pills and a glass of water. He left the door partially open, a sliver of yellow light cast on the carpet, and crossed quietly over to Bruce. He set the glass down on the bedside table, popped two pills and offered them. Bruce took them gratefully and sipped the water.
'Here- lean back,' Steve murmured quietly.
The wash cloth was warm on Bruce's feverish forehead. Steve sponged him quietly, his hands careful, gentle. He knew about Steve's sickly childhood, some stories that Steve himself shared, others he picked up from Tony's often barbed remarks in the workshop after the two had had a massive argument. Bruce never responded either way, as anything would just rile Tony up more. But he could feel Steve's expertise now, as he trickled the water down Bruce's forehead, cooling his hot flesh as he pressed it to his upper lip, the back of his neck. Folding the towel back into a rectangle, he lightly pushed Bruce back onto his pillow and rested the cloth on his forehead. Without a word he tucked him into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, smoothing out the duvet and pressing a calloused, firm hand on his shoulder.
'When you wake up, finish the water,' he said, keeping his voice quiet. 'The antihistamine will make you thirsty. I'll be back to check on you before dinner.'
Bruce was too groggy to verbalise, but he gave a groan in response. He was certain he heard a chuckle from Steve as he walked back to the door. Despite his fever, his aching muscles, the headache pounding away behind his eyes, Bruce couldn't blame him. It was probably a novelty, taking care of someone instead of the other way around.
*
It was around ten PM. Bruce was draped over his desk in the Stark Tower workshop, head to his laptop and somewhere between sleep and waking. He had been large and green and angry for more than four hours earlier that day. There wasn't a hard and fast rule about how long he was Hulked out for and how long he felt it afterwards, but generally the longer he was the Other Guy the harder he felt the effects once he'd changed back to his smaller form. After the debrief with Fury, Bruce, Tony and Thor had driven back to the Tower and Bruce had holed himself up in the workshop to finish the tests he'd been running before MODOK, as Tony put it, had so rudely interrupted him.
But his nerves were raw and he'd collapsed against his computer, exhausted. The position was uncomfortable, though, and his back ached. He heard the elevator doors open, and without even needing to look he heard Tony cross the room. A part of his mind told him to sit up and greet him but it seemed impossible. It was like a wall was blocking him from remembering how to lift his head. His hands were heavy, his eyelids made of lead. He managed to open them just as Tony dragged a stool over, the sound of its legs against the floor grating to his ears. Somehow he managed to pull away from the laptop, roll his neck, sharp spots of pain floating down his spine.
'Hey.' His voice was thick, groggy.
Bracing his hands on the desk, Bruce yawned, loud, growling. He pushed back but it was sluggish, slow, and each movement seemed to take too long. Turning to Tony, he gave a lopsided smile and leant into him. The kiss was lazy, with most of the effort coming from Tony. He tasted bitter and strong, like rum and lime. It ran through Bruce, the taste of alcohol buzzing through his fried nerves as though he could get drunk off the barest hint of it alone. Underneath the rum was a sweetness, of fruit and berries. Tony nipped at Bruce's lower lip, the sharp touch doing more to excite him than the graze of the goatee against his chin, the way Tony leaned forward and crowded him on the chair. Tony's tongue ran along his teeth, teased over the tip of Bruce's tongue, and slowly he woke up, started to respond with increased enthusiasm instead of the sluggish, drugged-out clumsiness he had been before. His mouth wandered, up Tony's jaw, grazing against the bristled hair, tasting the salt of skin.
Bruce followed as Tony pulled away, hands intertwined and chests pressed together. He could feel the thrum of reactor against his chest, even through the material of their shirts. Breaking the kiss, Bruce rested his forehead against Tony's, lips still brushing. The alcohol lingered on his tongue, biting, tangy.
'Come to bed,' Tony breathed against his mouth.
The corner of Bruce's lips twitched. 'But you never sleep.'
Tony laughed. It dragged through Bruce's nerves, through his veins and hit him deep in his belly.
'Duh.'
He let himself get pulled from his chair and dragged to the elevator, the whole while his lips leaving a trail of kisses across Tony's cheek, his ear, his neck. As they stepped into the elevator, he eased against the wall and flicked his tongue over his lips. He was tired, but he couldn't begrudge Tony about that, particularly not when Tony knew the best way to help him recover.
Author: finding_jay
Pairing: Extremely soft Tony Stark/Bruce Banner at the end
Rating: PG
Warnings: References to violence, menstruation
Summary: It's just in your head, he's told. That makes sense, seeing as his nerves are directly connected to his brain.
Notes: Written for avengers_tables Kink Table prompt 'sensation play'. I wanted to actually write something that wasn't porn for a change.
There were so many things Bruce hated about turning into the Other Guy he could fill dozens of research papers. What it all boiled down to, though, was the lack of control. There was the initial wave of anger that would hit him. The adrenaline would surge through his veins, and the Other Guy would wake inside. He would twist and agonise inside as the Other Guy would rise up from deep inside him, his skin aching as it grew to accommodate his swollen muscles. As his humanity dwindled, he'd feel his intellect, compassion, shyness disappearing, like water through his hands. But that wasn't the worst of it; no, the worst was coming back. People theorised it was seeing what destruction he had caused by letting his anger get away, and yes, that was part of it. Bruce would be the first to agree with that.
But there was another part to it. Whenever he woke up, dazed and thirsty and with a pounding headache, his nerves would still be firing at an overwrought pace, trying to work with a monstrosity that stood over seven and a half feet tall and tipped the scales at over a thousand pounds. His preferred method of coping was to just lay there, in whatever debris he was surrounded by, and wait it out. His perception of the world was enhanced tenfold; colours were brighter, smells richer, sounds almost painful in his ear. Despite his desire to be left alone, his teammates- and he had a tough time thinking of his fellow Avengers as that, seeing as he had spent so much time alone- were all anxious to ensure his safety, and would rush over to him with a pair of pants and a bottle of cold water. Bruce would struggle to pull the pants on, the fibres rough against his raw skin, and wince as the icy water touched his tongue. He would let them do this, though, as he couldn't quite yet figure out a way to tell them he knew all there was about them in that window of time when he was still half man, half monster.
The problem here wasn't just his overpowered sensory organs. Everything else was effected by it. He would feel sound down in his toes. Smells would make him dizzy, bright lights would send a shiver down his spine. Bruce always gave it his all to appear unaffected by the sensations around him, but later, when his nerves had slowed down, he would inevitably collapse in the nearest dark room. Sweat would bead on his forehead while his skin was clammy to touch. Writhing in silence, Bruce always counted the seconds until he was free from the confines of his overwrought body. Sometimes he would vomit, his stomach lurching and clenching as he heaved. Other times he would bury his face into a pillow, doing his best to block out all sight, sound and noise while his brain pounded with a migraine. The worst was when everything hit his dick, making it prickle and ache, the slightest sensory stimuli travelling through his body and landing squarely in his crotch. He would lock himself in his room, sweat and ache and thrash it out until his body was spent and he'd fall asleep.
*
For reasons beyond Bruce's understanding, Thor seemed to stick closest to him during battle. There was probably some Asgardian logic behind it- stick to the strongest warrior and achieve eternal life in Valhalla, and, to be fair, in terms of brute force the Other Guy was undoubtedly the strongest. Due to Thor's tendency to fight beside the Other Guy, he was often first on the scene when Bruce awoke, naked and sore. In some ways it was comforting to see the same familiar face each time, but Bruce wished Thor wasn't so loud. He could feel Thor's booming voice echo through his body. It vibrated deep in his chest, reverberate in his bones, trickle down his spine. Bruce would lay there, splayed over whatever debris he had been the cause of, and feel, rather than hear, Thor's words.
It was comforting to have Thor close by during the immediate aftermath. Bruce was invariably disorientated, it wasn't unusual for those moments to last upwards of ten minutes, depending on the length of his transformation. As their companionship grew, Thor became more inclined to lend Bruce his cape. He would wrap it around his middle like an oversized towel, and the material would make him shiver and twitch. Bruce would use Thor's voice was a lifeline, letting the deep timbre reverberate around his skull. Most of the time, though, Bruce was more inclined to just lay in whatever pit was formed around him, and let the sound of Thor's voice wash over him.
There was a musical quality to it. Tony had once asked Thor to read from his copy of Richard III. Bruce didn't have a great understanding of Shakespeare, and Thor had tripped over some of the words, but he said the phrases with a lyrical tone, following the iambic pentameter with such a natural quality, Bruce believed he was listening to a professional Shakespearean actor.
Now, though, he lay in a pile of rubble, every muscle aching, his head throbbing against his skull. He heard the crunch of Thor's boots, and felt it rumble up his legs. Bruce kept his eyes shut as the gentle click of the metal clasps as Thor removed his cape, the sound of the woolen fabric being shook out.
'Now is the winter of our discontent,' Thor quoted as he draped the fabric over him.
His voice shook through Bruce, but he kept his eyes shut, lights dazzling the back of his lids in time with the rhythm of Thor's voice. Bruce murmured quietly to let the Asgardian know he was awake, slumping forward to let Thor tuck the cape around his back.
'Made glorious summer by this sun of York.'
Thor heaved Bruce up in one smooth motion. His legs were like jelly, though (had he been shot at? He normally found he ached and trembled in areas he'd been attacked), and he fell into Thor's chest. His cheek pressed against the cold armour. He heard the beat of Thor's heart, breath in his lungs. His voice was deeper like this, and it ran straight through Bruce. He could hear Thor's words through his cheek, across his jaw and down his neck, all the way to the tips of his fingers and soles of his bare, torn feet.
'And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house,' Thor continued as he swung Bruce up and over his shoulder. Bruce pressed his cheek against Thor's back, the sound of his voice making the shift in his balance seem all but minimal. 'In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.'
Bruce shut his eyes and concentrated on the rumble in Thor's chest instead of the way he swayed as they walked, or the way his skin felt as though it were on fire. He could hear the scrape of fabric on fabric, the clatter of metal in Thor's armour.
'Dr Banner, what is York?'
'I don't know,' Bruce replied, and at that moment, he didn't.
*
The headache currently thumping steadily behind Bruce's eyes was threatening to turn into a migraine. He'd had enough over the years to know was happening. His head felt crowded, pressurised. The pain was leaking down his spine and he could feel it filling his bones. The Other Guy must have had a lot of fun today. His muscles were sore, a heavy weight akin to lead filling his hands and feet.
Light dazzled his eyelids, and he felt warm air against his skin. He was outside. There was grass underneath him, scratching at his skin. He finally managed to raise a hand, though it was still heavy, and he pressed it to his face. As he groaned, the sound grating to his pounding but brain but still worth it, the light dimmed. Peeling open a lid, he saw Clint's silhouette standing over him. The sunlight radiated around him, a blurry aura smudging his vision. Easing himself up, Bruce held out a hand. Clint took it and helped him up, bracing a hand on Bruce's bare shoulder. He drew a knee to his chest, more to ease Clint of an embarrassment than of any shame of immodesty. He'd accepted that part of his transformation a long time ago.
'How many people?' His words sounded abrasive in his ears.
Clint didn't reply. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he shifted to the side. The sun streaked out from behind him and Bruce hissed loudly and bowed his head. Squeezing his eyes shut, he turned away and pressed his brow to his knee. Clint's shadow darkened over him, and he dared lift his head- he had moved to where he'd been earlier.
'Better?'
Bruce's response was somewhere between 'uh-huh' and 'ugh'. He sagged into his knee, the heel of his hand pressed to his forehead, and shut his eyes. It was going to be a long uphill battle with the migraine, he knew that already. The world was spinning and shutting his eyes made it worse. Although the aura was uncomfortable, and it pounded in time with his aching head, it was better than feeling as though he was about to fall over at one moment. Groping in front of him, he found Clint's hand and tugged him down. He went down easily. At any other moment, it may have surprised Bruce, but with his growing migraine, he didn't have the mental capacity to muse on it. It was likely, though, he had been informed to just go along with whatever Bruce did post-transformation.
'The Widow will be here soon,' Clint said. 'She'll- '
'Shh.' Even the soft hush made Bruce curl up. He shut his eyes and teetered to the side. Opening them again, he fixed them on the centre of Clint's chest. 'Can you stop... moving?'
To be fair, Clint wasn't actually moving- he was sitting fairly still, actually- but in the fog of the throbbing headache, and the aura hovering around him, it seemed as though he was swaying from side to side. Reaching out a shaky arm, Bruce pressed his hand to the centre of Clint's chest. It helped, though minimally. Focusing on his hand, Bruce taking a shaky breath in and swallowed the bile that threatened to come exploding up.
'Your vest,' he slurred, tilting to the side as he spoke. 'It has... maroon.'
He could just see it, the vision in his right eye starting to flicker in and out of focus. He jumped when Clint touched his shoulder, and he groaned, trying to protest as he was forced, albeit gently, to the ground. The grass itched behind his back, and the sun penetrated his lids, causing his hands to come instructively up to cover his eyes. Clint was talking to him quietly ('okay, big fella, let's get you over'), and he was suddenly rolled onto his side. He faintly realised he was being put into a recovery position- arm out under his neck, a leg up. Bruce tried to thank Clint, but his tongue wouldn't work and it suddenly seemed all too hard.
There was a shift of light behind his eyelids, the sound of metal on metal, akin to a zip, and the rustle of fabric, when his vision was blacked out completely. Something was covering his eyes, and it fell across his head, to his ear. It smelt of leather and sweat, but it didn't compare to the uncomfortable brightness of the sun; Clint's vest, he realised dimly. Bruce just sighed and settled in, deciding he'd thank Clint later. For now, he just settled into the grass and waited for Natasha's arrival.
*
Although the battle was long over, and Bruce had shrunk down to his meagre five-foot-eight height, he was still running on high. He was shaking all over, fidgeting as he waited for the kettle to boil. He wasn't even thirsty, just desperate for a distraction, anything to focus on instead of the panic running through his veins. He had been working up on one of the levels of the Stark Tower, hyper-focused on his work, when he had been attacked from behind. He didn't remember much as he'd been tossed across the room, just a flash of black and grey, a long pink tongue and a row of sharp teeth. He had landed hard, and had just enough sense in his mind to feel that tell-tale wave surge through him. The window had crashed behind him, and Bruce hadn't even realised he'd been picked up and thrown again. By then it was too late, though. He had already started to transform, his rational, human mind locked away before he even fell three levels.
But he was still stuck on that memory, of those hands on his shoulders, that utter, human helplessness. Bruce wasn't a fighter. He wasn't a lover, either, but even as a much younger man, before the Other Guy had worked his way into his blood, he had avoided confrontation if at all possible, shying away the moment he sensed aggravation, aggression, annoyance. At least he managed to avoid it most of the time now, excusing himself when he felt his anger pique. But he hadn't had a choice, up in the workshop. It had been ripped from his hands, all ability to run leaving the moment the attacker had picked him up with ease and tossed him to the side like an overgrown rag doll.
'Dr Banner.'
Bruce lifted his head and looked over his shoulder. Natasha was standing in the doorway, looking neat and put together as she always did. Without a word, she crossed over to him. Bruce backed away, as he tended to do around her, letting her steal his position by the counter. She smelt of soap, of shampoo and talc, of blood.
'Sit down,' she said.
Bruce didn't even pretend to think it was a suggestion. It was an order, a directive, and he followed it, rubbing his nose. He ducked his head, kept his eyes low as he pulled a chair out and eased himself into it. The ends of Natasha's hair were still curled and damp from her shower, the hem of her neat, white shirt sticking to the small of her bed. Bruce averted his eyes, not wanting to be caught staring. His nose was still twitching though, and he couldn't help but give her another quick, medical once-over. She wasn't injured, at least not from what he could see. She wasn't limping, or preferring another limb over another. He could see no sign of a bandage, of gauze. Any blood from her enemy- and Bruce still stumbled over that idea, that he would willingly let himself get drawn into battle, that people may be slain- would have been washed off in her shower.
It dawned on him then, and he felt the tips of his ears burn, his cheeks redden. It was like a shock wave to his already-fried system. He kept his chin to his chest as Natasha served him his tea. The sharp smell of ginger and lemongrass filled his nose, blocking the metallic scent that was otherwise there. He sipped it carefully, and he didn't even bother hiding his surprise when his tongue wasn't instantly burned.
'I added cold water.'
Bruce nodded. 'Thank you.'
'It's not your fault. You couldn't have known.'
He held the warm mug in his hands, concentrating on the smell of the tea instead of the warm, female scents radiating from Natasha. He hadn't been with anyone for so long, his celibacy admittedly not entirely his own choice. He kept his eyes low, lips to the mug, even though he wasn't drinking the tea, and tried to block out the twist in his gut, the longing ache within him. It wasn't until Natasha slipped from her chair and left the kitchen, as quiet and stealthy as a ghost, that Bruce realised his anxiety, his terror had left him. Maybe that had been the point.
*
Bruce was sick, and when Bruce was sick, the Other Guy got sick. And when the Other Guy got sick, whole blocks were destroyed. The team voted to allow Bruce leave, and he didn't argue, just gave a nod that disorientated him as he was severely congested and curled up on his SHIELD-assigned bed and did his best to sleep.
Really, he wasn't all that surprised when he was called out. Hill looked as reluctant as she ever did, and Bruce recognised that corner-mouth twitch she did whenever she was agonising over a decision. She explained that all their top agents were on the scene (along with a few that weren't quite up to it yet), even Fury was on the scene, and Bruce cut her off there and started to unbutton his shirt and put on the newest stretchy design Tony had given him to try out. Which was how the Other Guy wound up on Coney Island with part of the Wonder Wheel wrapped around his middle. Magneto was an ass sometimes. But the Other Guy didn't take illnesses too well, and by the time he was done, Deno's was destroyed, with most of its remains floating on the shore.
Thor carried him back as he was wont to do, and he collapsed in his bed in the Tower, nose feeling as raw as his knuckles. Rolling around on the bed, the blankets twisting around his legs, Bruce shut his eyes and desperately willed sleep to come. It was futile, though; his head ached and his sinuses were congested too bad. When there was a gentle knock on his door, Bruce gave a nasal call to enter. Steve entered, carrying a wash cloth, a box of pills and a glass of water. He left the door partially open, a sliver of yellow light cast on the carpet, and crossed quietly over to Bruce. He set the glass down on the bedside table, popped two pills and offered them. Bruce took them gratefully and sipped the water.
'Here- lean back,' Steve murmured quietly.
The wash cloth was warm on Bruce's feverish forehead. Steve sponged him quietly, his hands careful, gentle. He knew about Steve's sickly childhood, some stories that Steve himself shared, others he picked up from Tony's often barbed remarks in the workshop after the two had had a massive argument. Bruce never responded either way, as anything would just rile Tony up more. But he could feel Steve's expertise now, as he trickled the water down Bruce's forehead, cooling his hot flesh as he pressed it to his upper lip, the back of his neck. Folding the towel back into a rectangle, he lightly pushed Bruce back onto his pillow and rested the cloth on his forehead. Without a word he tucked him into bed, pulling the blankets up to his chin, smoothing out the duvet and pressing a calloused, firm hand on his shoulder.
'When you wake up, finish the water,' he said, keeping his voice quiet. 'The antihistamine will make you thirsty. I'll be back to check on you before dinner.'
Bruce was too groggy to verbalise, but he gave a groan in response. He was certain he heard a chuckle from Steve as he walked back to the door. Despite his fever, his aching muscles, the headache pounding away behind his eyes, Bruce couldn't blame him. It was probably a novelty, taking care of someone instead of the other way around.
*
It was around ten PM. Bruce was draped over his desk in the Stark Tower workshop, head to his laptop and somewhere between sleep and waking. He had been large and green and angry for more than four hours earlier that day. There wasn't a hard and fast rule about how long he was Hulked out for and how long he felt it afterwards, but generally the longer he was the Other Guy the harder he felt the effects once he'd changed back to his smaller form. After the debrief with Fury, Bruce, Tony and Thor had driven back to the Tower and Bruce had holed himself up in the workshop to finish the tests he'd been running before MODOK, as Tony put it, had so rudely interrupted him.
But his nerves were raw and he'd collapsed against his computer, exhausted. The position was uncomfortable, though, and his back ached. He heard the elevator doors open, and without even needing to look he heard Tony cross the room. A part of his mind told him to sit up and greet him but it seemed impossible. It was like a wall was blocking him from remembering how to lift his head. His hands were heavy, his eyelids made of lead. He managed to open them just as Tony dragged a stool over, the sound of its legs against the floor grating to his ears. Somehow he managed to pull away from the laptop, roll his neck, sharp spots of pain floating down his spine.
'Hey.' His voice was thick, groggy.
Bracing his hands on the desk, Bruce yawned, loud, growling. He pushed back but it was sluggish, slow, and each movement seemed to take too long. Turning to Tony, he gave a lopsided smile and leant into him. The kiss was lazy, with most of the effort coming from Tony. He tasted bitter and strong, like rum and lime. It ran through Bruce, the taste of alcohol buzzing through his fried nerves as though he could get drunk off the barest hint of it alone. Underneath the rum was a sweetness, of fruit and berries. Tony nipped at Bruce's lower lip, the sharp touch doing more to excite him than the graze of the goatee against his chin, the way Tony leaned forward and crowded him on the chair. Tony's tongue ran along his teeth, teased over the tip of Bruce's tongue, and slowly he woke up, started to respond with increased enthusiasm instead of the sluggish, drugged-out clumsiness he had been before. His mouth wandered, up Tony's jaw, grazing against the bristled hair, tasting the salt of skin.
Bruce followed as Tony pulled away, hands intertwined and chests pressed together. He could feel the thrum of reactor against his chest, even through the material of their shirts. Breaking the kiss, Bruce rested his forehead against Tony's, lips still brushing. The alcohol lingered on his tongue, biting, tangy.
'Come to bed,' Tony breathed against his mouth.
The corner of Bruce's lips twitched. 'But you never sleep.'
Tony laughed. It dragged through Bruce's nerves, through his veins and hit him deep in his belly.
'Duh.'
He let himself get pulled from his chair and dragged to the elevator, the whole while his lips leaving a trail of kisses across Tony's cheek, his ear, his neck. As they stepped into the elevator, he eased against the wall and flicked his tongue over his lips. He was tired, but he couldn't begrudge Tony about that, particularly not when Tony knew the best way to help him recover.