All that is now, all that is gone (Avengers, Tony&Bruce, R), Part 4

[lindmere]

<< Part 3

“I thought the HYDRA M.O. seemed a little too good to be true.”

Nick Fury is taking Tony’s confession surprisingly well, perhaps helped down by the vodka martini in his hand, the last pink rays of a sweet May evening glinting off the arches of the Chrysler building. Tony’s glad now that he didn’t take Natasha up on her offer to “go to the principal’s office” with him, especially since after she’d said it, he’d been unable to stop thinking about her with teased hair, ripped jeans and a cigarette.

“I would have come to you first,” Tony says, “but until I talked to Bruce, I didn’t know how far down it went. Or up.” Tony tries to work a little apology into his tone, since he’s basically admitting that he thought Nick was capable of keeping Bruce locked up as his personal circus animal.

“No, I get it,” Nick says. “I don’t know if Banner mentioned it, but I encouraged him to go along with the nice doctors. He was seriously messed up after what happened to you. They were talking about leaving him on that ice floe down south, building some corral for him at Nellis. This way seemed more humane--keeping it in the family, as it were.”

Tony’s touched, because it is isn’t Nick’s business to care about them individually beyond what operational necessity requires.

“I could pretend to be shocked to find a conspiracy right under my nose, but the fact is that these ambitious sons of bitches breed like cockroaches,” Nick continues. “What I really need are a quarter of the staff and a lot more independence, but the Council will give me that when the moon’s green.” He runs a hand down the long thigh of his black jeans, considering. In the jeans and a gunmetal gray shirt he doesn’t exactly look approachable, but it’s a reminder to Tony that Fury wears a costume, too. “There are guys in the sub-basement who’ve had the same offices since the Cold War, but this kid Park--” Tony knows his name from the files he wasn’t supposed to see “--he’s young, and he’s trying to take the elevator straight up.”

“To the Director’s office, you mean?” Tony feels a strong desire to cut the cable on Assistant Director Park’s car. He was the one who’d taken Project Catalyst out of some file drawer and given it enough of a scientific veneer to appeal to a bunch of people who ought to have known better. “I suppose there’s no point mentioning that Bruce is a human being who’s entitled to decide whether he wants to be kept on a leash by some asshole bureaucrat.”

“Present company excepted, you mean,” Nick says with what Tony hopes is a smile. “Unfortunately it’s standard for human rights to go out the window when people are scared. The Atomic Age, the Age of Terror, and now the Age of Monsters--we went a little crazy each time, but each time we got back on track. This time I’m not so sure. Hostile aliens, genetically engineered monstrosities--the things under the bed, the things from nightmares are coming to life. That’s why people need the Avengers. They need to know that our guys are as strong as the bad guys, but that our guys are good, and that makes them better. Leave aside what it would do to Banner, turning the Hulk into just another monster is the wrong approach. The Hulk has to be a hero.”

“Bruce is a hero,” Tony says. “Even if you can’t buy his action figure at F.A.O. Schwarz.”

“You know what people like even better than heroes? Sure things. That’s what Park and his gang are offering, and that’s why we have to discredit them.”

“We?” Tony says, his hopes lifting a little with the warm spring night. “Are you serious? Because if you are, I have a proposal for you.”

“It scares me when a billionaire tries to sell me something.” Nick eats the olive from the bottom of the martini and taps the empty toothpick against his glass. “I’m going to need another drink.”
+++++

It’s a little more than two weeks later when they get the call, an undramatic text from Fury asking if they could please get their asses to HQ pretty damn quick. Tony’s in Malibu, Pepper is in Taiwan, and the molecular finish on the Mark VIII is barely dry, but there’s monster trouble in the Mediterranean, so everything else will have to wait. Tony delivers his customary exit line to his executive team (“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I have to go save the world”) and within a few hours he and the suit are being loaded onto SHIELD’s tricked-out Boeing Globemaster along with the other Avengers.

“I heard the creature is a minotaur,” Steve says, like he’s anticipating a 16-ounce steak. “That’s right up your alley, Thor.”

“This is a mythological creature? Not all of your Earth gods know each other, you know.” Thor leans forward and lowers his voice to confidential whisper. “I suspect some of them aren’t even real.”

The crew is in the last stages of loading people and weapons and crappy self-heating meals when Clint, seated in the jump next to him, nudges Tony.

“Hey,” he says, pointing out the airplane’s open tail section. “Look who.”

It takes another few moments for Tony to pick out Bruce’s silhouette, a blue button-down shirt in a sea of camo.

He’s not alone, of course. He boards the plane with what looks like an honor guard but is probably just a plain-old guard flanking him: in the front, Dr. Medina and a baby-faced man in a dark suit, and behind, four SHIELD square heads in black leather. Tony’s first reaction is surprise, because although he’d expected--hoped--that they’d let Bruce come to the party, he’d thought they’d probably transport him separately, in something more rage-proof than a flimsy aluminum tube. His second thought is more of a general oh, shit at the thought that if Bruce hadn’t been able to do what Tony had advised him to do, then they were all going to be parachuting out of this plane lot sooner than planned.

“He’s wearing some kind of medical device,” Clint says. Tony squints and can see a black rectangle hanging over Bruce’s right hip, a couple of wires and tubes snaking under his cuff.

The Avengers register this with indignation, hidden or not according to their abilities. They all know what Nick and Tony have planned, but the effect of seeing Bruce marched in like a prisoner makes Thor grip his hammer, Steve frown and pop a few veins, and Natasha hum a pop tune while digging her nails into Clint’s arm.

Fury strides into view and stops the boarding party before it can go any further.

“Mr. Park,” he says, looking down at the baby-faced suit. “Do you want to tell me why you think this is a good idea? Because this is not looking like a good idea.”

“Of course, Director,” Park says, in an eager, nasal tenor that kicks Tony’s dislike up ten points. “As I indicated in my memo, we can demonstrate that Banner--”

“Dr. Banner,” Fury says.

“That Dr. Banner is completely under control and no danger to this aircraft or this operation. I thought a demonstration would be reassuring to other personnel,” he says, nodding in the direction of the Avengers, who don’t nod back.

“All right,” Fury says. He’s wearing his standard scowl, but Park takes that as enough of an endorsement to pull a large control box out of his briefcase and begin fumbling with it.

“If I could have your attention please,” he calls out, whiny voice fighting with the engines revving.

“Over here, now!” Fury calls, and a minute later there’s a small crowd gathered around.

“For those of you who don’t already know, this is Bruce Banner,” Park says, “otherwise known as the creature called the Hulk. Mr. Banner--”

“Dr. Banner,” Natasha says.

“Yes, thank you, Dr. Banner.” Park pauses to adjust his glasses and regain his momentum. “We’ve developed a technique to allow us to summon the Hulk as needed, but also to prevent Dr. Banner from transitioning in an untimely manner. We’re going to demonstrate now. Are you ready, Dr. Medina?”

Tony’s been avoiding Bruce’s eyes because he’s afraid of what he might give away. It’s okay to look now, because Bruce’s attention is on Dr. Medina and everyone else’s is on Bruce. Tony has seen Bruce in the helpless moments before transformation, a shockingly intimate thing--fear and reluctant surrender, anticipatory regret. But he’s also seen Bruce around bad guys, people who had no idea what the Hulk was capable of or thought that it might be fun or profitable to provoke him into action. Bruce has that look on his face now, the look of someone watching two equally stupid drivers about to run into each other. Anyone else might feel humiliated by the scrutiny, at his helplessness at the hands of some idiot bureaucrat about to dump who knows what kind of electricity or chemicals into his body. Bruce just looks like a bystander at the birthing of a very bad idea.

“First,” Park says, turning a dial, “we can raise the stress hormone levels in Dr. Banner’s bloodstream. This will make him more receptive to the actuator, which will only be applied in a ‘live fire’ situation.” Bruce twitches, just slightly, and Tony can see some kind of liquid start to move through the tube.

There’s an uncomfortable silence as everyone stares at Bruce, tense with anticipation, waiting to see whether he’s going to Hulk out or pass out first. Sweat breaks out on Bruce’s forehead and he begins to tremble, breath shallow and fast. It’s more horrible than Tony imagined, more so because he knows that the whole scheme is not a reaction to fear but a desire to own Bruce and the being inside him, a kind of naked exploitation that’s so far from science that Dr. Medina has good reason to look embarrassed.

It’s like watching a thunderstorm rolling in across a bay. As his shaking intensifies, Bruce’s pupils turn dark and his hands clench into fists.

“Now,” Bruce says to Park, voice becoming guttural, monosyllabic. “Now would be good.”

“Not quite yet, Dr. Banner.” Park’s face has gone a little pink, whether with satisfaction or fear, Tony has no idea. “I want to demonstrate that we can control the transition even once it’s underway.”

“How?” Natasha asks.

She’s got her professional face on, bland and beautiful, but Tony knows she’s probably imagining the things she’d like to do to Park. She’s more creative in that department than Tony.

“A low-voltage electric shock,” Park says. “Administered directly to the hypothalamus.”

At that moment, the sound of ripping fabric seems to echo off the metal walls of the plane like thunder. A couple of the tough-looking agents flinch and reach for their sidearms.

Park jams a button on his console with sudden and sensible urgency. Bruce goes rigid, eyes rolling back, and lets out a faint cry of pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony can see Steve doing his best to restrain Thor, who clearly feels a hammering coming on.

Park and the doctor hold onto Bruce’s arms as he sinks to his knees, shaking the shock off like you would a taser hit but still weak from adrenaline, the aborted transformation, or just the horror of having the intimate details of his physiology pimped out in front of a crowd of uniformed strangers. Tony had been thinking in terms of Bruce being treated like an animal but now it seems more that they’re treating him like a child, someone who can’t be trusted with agency over his own body.

“Tell me this ends soon,” Clint says in a rough whisper behind Tony. “Or there may just be some projectiles flying around here.”

“Soon,” Tony agrees, though in truth he can’t promise anything. It’s all on Bruce, who doesn’t seem to have control of his biological systems, let alone his destiny.

The crowd begins to wander off, reassured or ashamed. Bruce, still on his knees, raises his head slowly and looks right at Tony, as if he’s known all along that Tony was watching him. He may be trying to communicate something, but Tony doesn’t register much beyond the fact that there are tears in his eyes.

+++++

Except for the mild suspense of wondering whether Bruce will Hulk out and kill them all, the flight is horribly boring. Tony misses the full-sized bed and massaging shower from his Gulfstream but knows it would be tacky to say so. Steve, in his element, is teaching Thor how to play stud poker; Natasha and Clint have fallen asleep, hands touching quite accidentally. Bruce is asleep, too, though it doesn’t look restful; he’s handcuffed to his seat and the tug at his wrist keeps waking him up as he tries in vain to find a comfortable position.

When the loathsome A.D. Park goes to bend Fury’s ear about something, Tony sees Dr. Medina rise from her seat next to Bruce and head his way. Tony closes his eyes, still too pissed to want to give her any encouragement.

“Mr. Stark?” Her voice is soft and anxious in his ear.

“Oh, hi,” he says. “Dr. Medina, right? I assume it’s still Dr. Medina, unless the AMA has found out what you’ve been up to and pulled your license.”

“I want you to know I had nothing to do with any of this.” She gestures to the “this” involving Bruce wired up and in handcuffs tethered electrically to the world’s most assholish bureaucrat. “I only came along because I wanted Bruce to have a medical doctor in attendance.”

“It’s ‘Bruce’ now, is it? Good thing he has you to rely on and not his actual friends.” Tony enjoys the way Medina’s brow furrows with annoyance.

“The epinephrine pump and the electroshock--that’s from a completely different project,” she says. “Park showed up a couple of weeks ago. He said another lab had come up with a way to stop Dr. Banner from transforming at the wrong time. And since I’d found how to trigger the transformation, those two things could be combined to make the Hulk completely predictable and reliable.”

“Because asking never works with Bruce.”

“Because, I suspect, Dr. Banner wouldn’t participate in the kinds of missions Park wants to use him for.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Tony says, parroting back Medina cautious, academic tone. “And now you get all conscience-y all of a sudden because you realize the quasi-military top-secret global organization you work for is conducting weapons research. You know what I do with people like that at my company? I tell them they should have thought of that before, and then I fire them. Of course, I’m not in the business of kidnapping and torturing people, so there’s a lot less dissatisfaction.”

“I’m a contractor, Mr. Stark, not a SHIELD employee,” Medina says tightly. “I agreed to work on the project because it was a once-in-a-lifetime research opportunity, I won’t deny that. But after I spent some time with Dr. Banner, I found that he was--” She hesitates, maybe because she’s about to reveal the extent of her lack of scientific objectivity.

“He’s nice, isn’t he? Nice and funny and smart. He likes spicy food and bad sci fi movies. Almost like a real human being. “

“I’m not here to apologize or justify myself to you,” she says with much more firmness. “We were making progress. We were getting closer to figuring out what triggers involuntary changes. What I showed Park was a step in that direction, but it’s not as crude or as predictable as Park’s telling everyone it is. So I wanted you to know, for your own protection. If they try to use the drugs and the trigger at the same time--there’s no way of knowing what could happen. That’s what I needed you to know.”

“I’d kind of guessed this was headed for flaming disaster,” Tony says, giving up any hope of sleeping on the flight. “That’s twice you’ve offered me vague, doom-y innuendos at no risk to yourself. So thanks for that.”

Tony folds his arms and closes his eyes as a way to signal to the doctor that he has important worrying to do, but he doesn’t hear her walk away.

“There’s something else,” she says. “He wanted me to give you a message.”

Tony cracks open an eye. “Yeah?”

“He says, ‘Everything is under control.’”

Tony considers for a moment asking Medina if she knows Bruce well enough to know when he’s being sarcastic.

+++++

Tony must have fallen asleep after all, because when he snorts himself awake, there’s a general buzz of activity and one of the staffers hands him a meal. At least, it’s packaged like a meal, but it’s worse than anything Tony has put in his mouth since college. While he considers whether to eat a bite of “Fiesta Chicken” or use his fork to catapult it at A.D. Park, Steve (who scarfed down three of the “meals” in the time it took Tony to unpack his) comes over to sit next to him.

“Can you believe this?” Tony says. “Animal crackers? Who saves the world on fucking animal crackers?”

“I saw that lady doctor talking to you,” Steve says, then lowers his voice. “Is she in on the plan?”

“What plan?”

“That’s what I want to know. Tony, you said we should all back off and not interfere with Bruce because that was the only way he was going to get out of this--situation.” After all this time, Steve still has trouble saying curse words. “Which is great, because I was pretty much ready to pop someone’s head off after that performance with the electric shocks. I want to help Bruce, but not at the cost of the mission, or if it endangers anyone else. I need to know what’s going on.”

“Okay,” Tony says, trying not to spit cracker crumbs. “Okay, that’s fair. So here’s the deal: the ‘trigger’ they keep talking about is a video. Specifically, it’s video of me getting hurt by the ice monster, by way of the Hulk.” Steve gets that look of righteous-person horror. “I know, I know. So I got him a copy of the video, disguised as something else, so he could practice not transforming. That way, when A.D. Park turns on his little music box, he’s going to fail spectacularly.”

“So the plan is for Bruce not to turn into the Hulk?”

“Pretty much.”

“You don’t see the problem with this plan? When there’s a minotaur involved?”

“Oh, but he’ll still be able to transform when he’s good and ready.”

“And you know he can do this?” Steve presses. “Resist all those drugs and emotions and then Hulk out at exactly the right time?”

“Not really. I haven’t seen him in weeks. But come on, it’s Bruce. He wouldn’t have let it get to this point if he didn’t have everything under control.”

Steve looks to where Bruce sits handcuffed between two SHIELD agents, meal balanced on his knee, trying to eat with one hand. Tony has to admit that he doesn’t seem in control of very much right now.

The P.A. system crackles. “Attention. We’ve begun our descent to Sigonella Naval Air Station. Flight crew, begin preparation for landing.”

Tony knows better than to give Cap false assurances. “I promise you that at minimum, this isn’t any worse than it would have been with Park and his yahoos in charge. The more of Bruce there is in the Hulk, the better.”

“And you trust him after what happened in Antarctica?” Steve is using his Captain voice, hard-edged and bullshit-free.

Tony thinks of all the ways he could answer that: that he trusts Bruce to do his best; that the Hulk is no more or less capable of making mistakes than the rest of them; that the Avengers are stronger with him than without him, always. But he settles for answering with the first thing that came into his mind.

“Yes.”

+++++

When they reach the airbase there’s a huge scramble of people and materiel, and then they load onto a ship for the two-hour voyage to the private island of the minotaur master. The way Fury explains it, the guy is almost certainly a narcotrafficker but also a close “friend” of a number of politicians and newspaper editors, so they have to be careful with how they approach this high-monster-probability situation. The reports they’ve been getting from the island--cattle disappearing, weird bellowing at night, sightings of a massive man-beast--have been getting the oh-those-wacky-villagers treatment in the press. But combined with SHIELD’s intel about the global monster supply chain, it adds up to someone wanting to make a splash on the international bad guy scene.

Tony dozes, jet lagged and dry mouthed, and wakes up to the first blush of sunrise over an azure sea. He daydreams about a yacht and Pepper.

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” Fury says. “We’re going to land you on the south side of the island, closest to our friend’s compound. You’re going to be given flares and animal carcasses and various things that should attract the creature’s attention, if you don’t on your own. We have a three-stage line of defense: Thor and Stark will keep the creature busy while Barton hits it with tranquilizers. If that doesn’t work, we’ll send in the Hulk.” There’s a pause while everybody throws a doubtful side glance at Bruce.

“Sure,” Bruce says after a moment. “That’ll work.”

“The objective is to capture the creature, not kill it. Once we get confirmation that the creature exists and is hostile, we’ll establish a beachhead and authorize Romanoff and Rogers to capture our guy, also alive. If the creature starts moving toward the village, I will authorize you to use lethal force, provided you get authorization from me. Any questions?”

“Do we have to use animal carcasses?” Tony asks. “That’s disgusting.”

“Let’s suit up,” Steve says, ignoring him. Fortunately for them both, it’s the invitation-slash-order Tony has been waiting weeks to hear.

The Mark VIII, like every suit before it, is pretty much the greatest thing that Tony’s ever imagined. He doesn’t preclude the possibility that maybe he’ll think of something even more incredible in the future, but for now it represents the pinnacle of human achievement ass-kicking-wise, so hell yeah, he suits up where everyone can see him. Making the Mark VIII transportable was worth all the insane three-dimensional geometry just so the SHIELD boys can look on his mighty boner-inducing work and despair.

They stand on the bow of the ship in the misty golden half-light of a Mediterranean morning. It’s the first time in months all the Avengers have been together, and each time it happens Tony feels humbled, or at least as humbled as Tony’s capable of feeling. It’s an honor and a privilege and a huge fucking rush to work with them, and his heart is beating 14 bpm above baseline, according to his visual display.

The uncomplicated joy of getting ready to kick ass lasts until Bruce appears, flanked by two of the square heads. He’s in one of those institutional shirt-and-pants combos, looking grayer than usual, too thin and too stubbly, and the minor discourtesy of not letting Bruce attend to basic grooming makes Tony as angry as much as the more obvious mistreatment.

“Hey,” Tony says, pointing a finger at each of the square heads. “You’re not in the Avengers. Who said you could come?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, moving to flank him, all pecs and intimidation. “Fury said we were going in alone for jurisdictional reasons. You guys know something we don’t? Or don’t you take orders from the Director?”

The square heads scowl, exchange shrugs, and disappear with Bruce back into the cabin.

“We’re not leaving without Bruce,” Steve says. “I assume nobody’s got a problem with that.”

Everybody nods and murmurs and Tony feels a little eye-sting of gratitude, especially since they said “Bruce” and not “The Hulk.”

After a few minutes Bruce returns, alone. He’s still wearing the medical pack on his hip, and he’s wearing glasses--not his wire-rimmed, professorial ones, but something chunky and thick-rimmed.

“I suspect these glasses have some hidden purpose,” Thor says.

“You suspect right,” Bruce says. “They’re only going to let me play if I stay on the leash.”

Thor looks puzzled, but everyone else looks appropriately pissed off.

“Okay,” Steve says. “If that’s the way we have to play it, that’s how we’ll play it. Whatever it takes, Bruce.”

“Thanks,” Bruce says, and Steve gives him a thump on the shoulder that should knock him over, but instead makes him grin.

“Let’s go kick some minotaur behind,” Steve says, and jumps over the edge of the boat. Luckily, there’s a smaller landing craft waiting below.

Tony and Thor reach the shore under their own power, Tony cooling the afterburners so as not to startle the sheep.

Tony has to admit that the bad guy has good taste. Green fields slope toward the steep, rocky coastline, and in the distance Tony can see a towering, white washed villa, pointy cypress trees guarding it like soldiers.

“This is a beautiful place,” Bruce says, peering over the cliff edge to the ink-blue water below. “I wouldn’t mind living here, if I were a monster.”

“It seems like they treat their monsters better here,” Natasha says. “If you were a monster, maybe you’d be handing them a resume.”

There are a million things Tony wants to add to that, but they’re all mic’d up, so for once in his life he keeps his trap shut and watches Steve unpack the monster-attracting kit.

“What, no nylons or chewing gum?” Steve says nothing but tosses what appears to be a squirrel carcass at Tony’s feet.

As it turns out, there’s no special equipment needed. A bellow rings out through the soft morning air. It sounds like a bullhorn being murdered by a troop of macaques. A moment later a second bellow joins the first in a horrible duet. Then a third. Then a fourth.

“I’m a city girl,” Natasha says. “Somebody want to tell me those are sheep?”

“Nope,” Clint says, as a couple of brown blobs crest over the hillside. “Not unless the sheep here walk upright.”

Clint draws an arrow, Thor hefts Mjolnir, and a few seconds later the beasts lumber into view. They’re at least nine feet tall with huge, horned heads, man-like but covered with shaggy, dark fur. Like the yeti, they look half-formed, like somebody sketched a rough outline but forgot to fill in the details. The long, pointy horns are plenty well defined, though. Tony silently addresses the nanites surrounding him: I hope you guys can handle some piercing.

“Well, shit,” Steve says. There’s a chirp as he engages his comm. “You seeing this, Director? I’ve got a new plan of attack. If we lure the creatures to the cliff edge here, we might be able to throw some of them over it. If they’re too strong for us, we can still escape that way. All we have to do is make it to the boat.”

“That works,” Fury says. “Survival first, but keep one of the creatures alive if you can, you copy? And if you can’t stop them and they make a move toward the village, we’re sending in gunships.”

“Roger that,” Steve says. “One more thing: we’re definitely going to need the Hulk.”

“Banner?” Fury says. “You ready to go?”

“Sure, any time someone wants to start my engine.”

“Affirmative. A.D. Park is starting the process now.”

“This is such bullshit,” Clint says, apparently not caring about the comm link. “Bruce never had any trouble transforming before when we needed him. Fucking bureaucrats just want to take credit for it.”

Fortunately for the team, the minotaurs are lumbering creatures, wobbling along on hoof-like feet that seem too small for their huge mass. With the help of his onboard cameras, Tony can watch both the creatures’ approach and Bruce, who’s beginning to tremble as the drugs take effect.

“Tony, Thor--” Steve says. “I’m going to need you to fly over the creatures and take a couple of shots at them so we get an idea of how powerful they are.”

“Sure thing.” Tony doesn’t have to be asked twice. He’s got more power than he knows what to do with and an apparent talent for annoying monsters.

“Wait,” Steve says. “Hold up. Let’s get the Hulk into position first.”

“You sure you want to do that?” Bruce’s voice sounds raw and strained; Tony figures it’s from the meds. “Once the genie’s out of the bottle you’re not going to be able to put him back in.”

“I’ve always found the Hulk to be most cooperative in battle,” Thor says. Tony wants to agree, but watching how Bruce is shaking, how the veins are standing out in his neck even while he’s still all Bruce, Tony wonders if a turbocharged Hulk is such a good idea.

“Initiating the trigger,” Park says over the comm, voice high-pitched with excitement.

Tony sees the way Steve is looking at Bruce and it’s only then that he thinks about what the trigger is. In the middle of this fresh attack, Bruce is being forced to watch the last one, the one that ended with blood on the snow. Everything is different now; it’s a blue, cloudless morning and the air smells like salt and flowers. But Bruce is trapped in a memory, at the chemical mercy of people who don’t understand that what’s going on in his brain is far more complex than any lever they can pull. Tony’s been trying for weeks to push the other way, thinking of it as an engineering problem, and now he’s realizing that it has very little to do with Bruce’s good intentions or hard work or willingness to suffer. Their lives may depend on Bruce’s ability to forgive himself.

For the first time that morning, Tony is scared.

For a long moment, everybody looks at Bruce, trying to ignore the bellowing of the quickly closing minotaurs but also ready to clear the hell out if he blows.

“What’s happening, Park?” Fury’s anger comes through clearly over the comm. “You said it would take 10 seconds.”

“I don’t know-- I thought-- Give me a few more minutes. Maybe more drugs-- Or if Dr. Medina--”

“Stark, Thor, go in now,” Steve barks. “Buy us some time.”

Tony blasts off, wishing he could stay to watch A.D. Park go down in flames, but the minotaurs are within spitting distance. He starts with some warm-up repulsor bolts directed at the ugly heads of the creatures. They flail with their human-like hands and toss their horns, but it doesn’t have much effect. He tries again with the chest RT, and this time they stagger back a bit, but still no K.O.

Thor, meanwhile, is cooking up a mini weather system, mostly in tornado form because the clear blue sky doesn’t have the ingredients for lightning or rain. He hurls Mjolnir again and again, clonking the creatures on the chest and head. Tony sees a black-fletched arrow whizz by and knows that Clint has joined the party.

“The creatures have thick hides,” Thor says on the comm. “I fear it may take us a long time to subdue them.”

“Last chance, Park.” Fury snarls. There’s nothing but silence from the idiot end of the comm.

On his display, Tony can see Bruce, head down and fists clenched, tense and sweating, but still fully human.

“Uh oh,” Clint says. “We’ve got tourists.”

Tony sees dark shapes silhouetted at the crest of the hill and zooms higher to get a better view. Sure enough, there are a dozen or so locals, cell phones out, taking in the best blockbuster they’re going to see all summer.

“Get the creatures moving,” Steve says. “Toward the south cliff face. I’m going to tell those civilians to back off.”

Tony can see where Natasha is setting up some kind of tripwire--a neat old trick that the minotaurs will probably fall for. The problem is, the minotaurs don’t want to move. Their resistant hides are taking all the Avengers can dish out, and it’s making them angrier. Their flailing has more purpose now; Tony moves for a close-range blast and one of the needle-sharp horns almost pricks him. He does not want to find out what sort of nasties are loaded on the tip.

“Okay, but we’re going to need help,” Tony says.

“Banner, you’re authorized to remove the medical equipment. Do whatever you have to do,” Fury says.

Tony has to stop himself from cheering as Bruce yanks off the glasses, pulls the needles out of his arm, and throws the black box on the ground. He pauses a moment in his attack to enjoy a green and glorious Hulk out.

It doesn’t happen.

“Bruce?” he says, as Bruce passes a hand over his forehead. “You okay?”

“Can’t do it,” he whispers. “I can’t transform.”

“You can’t--” Tony leaves the minotaurs to Clint and Thor for a moment so he can concentrate. “Bruce, everything’s fine. Look, the townspeople are moving away.” The townspeople are actually taking photos of the American superhero in the very tight uniform trying to shoo them away, but no matter. “It’s just us and the monsters, buddy. Come on.”

“No, I mean I really can’t.” Bruce is kneeling now, elbows on thighs and forearms wrapped around his middle, as if he’s in pain.

Steve has used one of his flares to get the townspeople to step off, so Tony calls down to him. “Hey, Cap! Can you hold things down for a minute?”

“You bet,” Steve says, running in shield-first.

Tony zips over to where Bruce is kneeling, still at the landing site, the monsters’ backs to him. Tony kneels beside him as well as he can in the suit and takes off his helmet so they can’t be overheard.

“What is it?” he asks quietly. “Is it the drugs?” He’d like to touch Bruce’s shoulder or rub his neck, but he doubts a nanocarbonite gauntlet is going to be all that comforting.

“No,” Bruce says, head down. “I don’t think so, I just--I spent so long practicing not transforming, I think I have--” He stops, and still won’t look at Tony.

“Some kind of mental block? Or maybe--is this like performance anxiety? I mean the stage fright kind, not the other kind. Although, when you think about it--”

“I don’t know,” Bruce says, desperate. “This is horrible, letting you all down, after everything you’ve done--”

Tony realizes then that if Bruce fails to perform, they’re not only slightly fucked from the monster perspective, but there’s a bigger and worse problem. Because if the Avengers win the battle without Bruce, he’ll apologize and congratulate everyone else, but if anyone gets hurt, he won’t get over it, ever. And ever for the Hulk is a very long time.

It’s not easy to think straight amid the bellowing and thunder. Natasha has finished setting up her snare and is now using good ol’ fashioned firepower to drive the minotaurs closer to the cliff, but they’re fighting back with more precision now, as if they’re learning about their enemies as they go along. Clint’s given up on the tranquilizer arrows and is using the exploding kind instead, well enough that he’s brought one of the creatures to its knees by finding its Achilles hoof. It’s not impossible for them to do this without the Hulk, although the longer the battle goes on, the greater the risk that the minotaurs will figure out a way to turn the tide.

And then there’s Bruce, slumped in defeat, panting through his open mouth because his heart is probably going 200 beats per minute, the chemicals in his body saying yes but his brain saying no, that overachieving brain that’s he’s been training so hard to resist the urge to give in to despair. It would be ironic if he’d finally figured out a way to suppress the Hulk at the very moment his own life and the lives of others depend on it. Tony knows there’s a reason he’s always hated irony.

“Do you think maybe you’re cured?” Tony asks.

“Don’t think so,” Bruce says with a twisted smile. “The other guy’s still there. I just don’t know what to do to coax him out.” He raises his eyes long enough to glance at the battle. Between the bright sunshine and the drugs, his pupils are practically pinholes. “You’d think a bunch of screaming monsters would be enough.”

The sensible thing would be to tell Cap what’s up so he can tell Bruce to go back to the ship, where A.D. Park and his band of idiots will no doubt be waiting to explain how their little mistake can be corrected with a few more drugs and a few more months of captivity. Or Bruce can wait out the battle and escape somewhere with Thor afterward, to some nice planet with sun and sand and no possibility of ever coming home.

Those would be sensible things to do, and Tony lets himself savor them for a moment with sweet, nostalgic regret. Tony has no intention of doing the sensible thing; he’s going to do the right thing, because problem solving is his curse as surely as a big, green monster is Bruce’s. It’s like that moment in New York when the missile was heading for them and Tony realized I’m a missile, too.

He gives himself a few seconds to think of everything he loves about life--Pepper, the suit, his work, his toys--and then he runs toward the battle, helmet still off, right up to the angriest and least-injured of the minotaurs and gives him a full-on chest blast.

A lot of things happen at once: Bruce, Thor and Steve all yell at him, variations of What the hell are you doing? The monster gives an enraged yodel and wheels clumsily around. Natasha and Clint have to hold their fire because the minotaur lists from side to side as it turns, leaving Tony exposed.

“Oh, God,” Bruce chokes. “Don’t do this. Please.” Tony doesn’t have to turn his head to know that Bruce is still on the ground, still human.

Tony expects the monster to crack his unprotected head like a walnut, but instead it rears back, tilts its horns down, and takes aim straight at Tony’s heart. Tony can see the tips of its horns glinting with something metallic, and has no doubt that it’s all for him, the most famous and most obnoxious of the Avengers, the one any rich bad guy in the world would like to stuff and mount on his wall.

“Tony! Are you hurt?” Steve calls. “Do you need us to pull you out?”

He can get away on his own, of course. All he has to do is blast off; in seconds he can be hundreds of meters above the fray.

Instead he stands his ground and tries not to think of all the ifs: if Bruce can still transform, if the sight of Tony about to be gored will spur him to action or shock him into inertia; if Tony’s going to doom them both with his act of desperate hope.

Holding still is the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life, harder than having a cold gun barrel pressed to his temple. He can see the creature’s enormous forehead, its dripping snout, its black marble eyes. It smells like the old buffalo hide blanket in his father’s den. A sweet memory comes over him, and he almost gives in to the temptation to close his eyes.

Just before the tip of the minotaur’s horn closes in something hits him, hard, and shoves him out of the way. For a soaring moment he thinks it’s the Hulk, but then he sees that it’s Bruce, nobody but Bruce, and in the time it takes Tony to transfer his fear from his own impending death to Bruce’s, the tip of the beast’s horn touches Bruce’s chest.

Tony has seen Bruce transform before, been pierced to the heart by that last, desperate look before the loss of control, but that’s not what he sees now. When Bruce’s eyes meet his, all he can see is the purest and most grateful relief. Then Bruce’s eyes flutter closed and his features relax, just for a second, before twisting again in pain.

There’s a spurt of blood, a cry cut short, and then only green as Bruce expands, enlarges, transfigures into what he’s always been.

The Hulk literally grabs the bull by the horns and gives a vicious wrench. The creature thrashes briefly and then falls heavily to the ground, neck broken.

“That was well timed!” Thor says, hoisting Mjolnir for another blow.

Tony, too happy and surprised to stay focused, doesn’t see the minotaur kick out its leg as it shifts to dodge the hammer. The hairy leg sends Tony flying and he lands hard a few feet away, body insulated by the suit but neck rebounding hard enough to give him minor whiplash. The minotaur gives a nasty, gloating snort and Tony lets him have it with the repulsors, but as before, he doesn’t seem to do much but annoy it. He starts to struggle to his feet but then wonders if he’d be smarter to stay down with his suit-end pointing at the creature. While he muddles this over, the creature wastes no time in bending over him, stamping, ready to bring his boss his trophy.

“Hey!” Tony calls, still flat on his back like a capsized turtle. “Guys! I could use a little help here!”

The Hulk lifts his head, grunts, and looks at Tony with fierce attention. Tony wonders if he should have kept his mouth shut and taken his chances with the minotaur, but it’s too late now. Those brown eyes, so disturbingly like Bruce’s, dart back and forth between Tony and the minotaur, which is snorting out a prelude to killing him.

“Tony?” There’s fear in Natasha’s voice, which means things are very bad indeed.

“It’s fine,” he calls back. “Just--give us some space, okay?”

They all know how this movie turned out the last time, Bruce best of all, but Tony doesn’t know how much of Bruce is here. When the Hulk bares his teeth, flexes his muscles, and reaches out to destroy, all Tony can think is I must be really stupid to let this happen twice.

The Hulk’s massive hands land on the minotaur’s shoulders, and the beast tries to shake him off. But the Hulk isn’t someone who can be ignored; he can cold-cock a god, snap the neck of a mythological beast. He pulls the minotaur off balance, making it stumble backward.

What follows is the epic monster battle of Tony’s dreams, a snarling, staggering clash of pure, adulterated muscle between genetic monstrosities that should never have existed but shit, they’re amazing to look at. Tony’s having as much fun and feeling about as scared as when he and Pepper watch shark programs in 3D.

“Hey, Stark!” Clint yells. “You taking a nap, or what? Come on!” Tony pulls himself together and runs back to pick up his helmet like a kid getting an out-of-bounds ball.

With one minotaur down and one being Hulk-handled, it’s a lot easier to manage the other two; within minutes, Tony and Cap manage to get one to their knees thanks to the revelation that the creatures are top-heavy. Bad design, Tony thinks, and smirks under his helmet.

The Hulk roars and Tony lifts his head in time to see him punch his minotaur to the ground and then, vast muscles straining, lift it over his head. The beast struggles and bellows, and Tony thinks, Sucks to be you; we’ve got a Hulk. Tony expects the Hulk to spike it like a football, but instead he bends with his knees and hurls it, still complaining, over the side of the cliff.

They all stop for a moment to watch the shaggy beast sail over their heads; even Thor seems to be impressed. This is why they need the Hulk, not just for the pure, brutal power but for the intention behind it. The five-year-old in Tony appreciates the smash, but the fact is that the Hulk thinks and plans and works in his own way. Whether it’s Bruce’s mind that Tony detects--or thinks he detects--in there is beside the point. Tony has the suit, Thor has his hammer and Bruce has his Hulk, and if his mistakes are bigger it’s because everything about the Hulk is bigger, but they aren’t a team without him.

Clint figures out a way to finish off Tony and Cap’s minotaur by shooting into its gaping mouth, right up through the palate and into its brain. It convulses and then goes still and things get a lot quieter with only one minotaur left on the hoof.

“Send it this way,” Natasha calls, and Tony remembers the tripwire. Together, they herd the creature toward the cliff edge. It doesn’t go easily--a backhand sends Clint tumbling--but they distract it well enough that its beady eyes don’t see what its clumsy feet are doing until they’re tangled in the wire. It flails, trying to find its balance, the greatest YouTube video ever if it weren’t unbelievably top secret. As it pitches over the cliff, they all draw near to watch the splat and it’s then that Tony sees what Natasha spent so long setting up: a huge net designed to catch and enclose the monster.

“Super cool.” Tony says as he watches it thrash around. “How are they going to get it home?”

Natasha shrugs. “I don’t know. Not my problem.”

“We’ve got it covered,” Fury says over the comm. “A special vessel’s on its way. Romanoff, Captain--you’re cleared to go secure our target. Forces will meet you .5K north, toward the residence. Everyone else, we’ll see you at the landing site when you’re ready. Nice work, by the way. This arrest is gonna look good on CNN tonight.” Fury sounds positively smug. “One more thing--is the Hulk secure?”

Tony turns around, half expecting to see the Hulk roasting a minotaur on a spit, but there’s just Bruce, naked on the green grass, arms wrapped modestly around his knees.

“Tony, look in the bottom of my backpack,” Steve says as he and Natasha go through their pre-mission check again. “Tell Bruce he did a great job.”

Bruce looks like he’s doing fine, so Tony does as instructed and rifles in Steve’s pack. Under the monster goodies, he finds an athletic bag with Bruce’s name on it.

“Hey, Bruce,” he says. “Isn’t this the bag from your locker?”

“Oh, yeah,” Bruce says, zipping it open. Inside is a change of clothes--Bruce’s own clothes, a long-sleeved shirt, slacks, and loafers, perfectly wrong for the weather. “That was thoughtful,” he adds, but doesn’t rush to put them on. “I haven’t been in the sunshine in a couple of months. It feels good. It’ll be a shame to go back.”

That last sentence sets Tony’s teeth on edge, but he doesn’t want to rip into Bruce while he’s tired and groggy from the transformation.

“Yeah, this is a nice place. I’m thinking of buying a house here. That house,” Tony says, pointing to the bad guy’s mansion. “I bet it’s got nice stables. There’s no airport on the island, but that’s not a problem for Iron Man. It’s a great location, too, if I parked a yacht here I could--oh, for fuck’s sake, Bruce, tell me you’re not going back to that place.” Tony winces and snaps his jaw shut.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bruce asks. Butt naked and with his chin resting on his knees he looks young and tentative, in spite of the grey hair and the lines on his face. “Has anything changed?”

“Are you kidding me? After everything that happened?”

“I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember, remember? I look around and I see a lot of dead bulls and live people, so I guess everything’s okay, but I don’t know.”

“It’s better than okay--you were amazing!” Tony can’t put the image in Bruce’s head, so he acts it out with his hands. “The first minotaur was about to attack me, and you snapped its neck with one twist. Then the second one, you picked it up over your head, and you threw it, and it was like groooonnnk, it was so pissed, and it landed, like, a hundred meters away, it was like the fucking minotaur Olympics. You saved my life, by the way, when it--”

“This time. So this time the other guy was helpful, but the next time--”

“Just don’t, okay?” Tony runs a hand over his forehead. With his visor up his climate control doesn’t work as well, and he’s getting hot and cranky. “I’m not the guy to argue hypotheticals with. I’m not the guy for ethics and philosophy. I’m the guy who knows what works and this works. We were getting nowhere before you transformed, and as soon as the Hulk arrived, everything fell into place. And it’s not just the Hulk, it’s you. You don’t just show up and bring him along. You’re in there, I swear you’re in there--the way the Hulk figures things out, the way he uses mass and energy and inertia, that’s a fucking physicist in there, Bruce. And even if you disagree, even if you still treat the other guy like your big, green cousin from the Bronx, you’re the one who makes it possible. You go through all the hell and you don’t get to have any of the fun, but you still do it because we need you.”

Bruce gives that pleasant, forced smile. “Not such a team player this time, was I? I didn’t transform until my own life was in danger.”

Tony wishes there were a minotaur left to punch. He wishes he could open Bruce’s head up and see what’s going on in there, why a smart man fights so hard against simple truths.

“Which it was because you were trying to save my life,” Tony says.

“Which I was because you did something incredibly stupid and really, really--” Bruce stops and presses his fingers to his eyes. “Really brave. I can’t believe you did that. Tony, it could have gone so wrong.”

“I know,” Tony says. “But it didn’t.”

Bruce actually laughs at that. “I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

“Do you want to? Seems like it would be a Pyrrhic victory, man. You can bug out, or you can let A.D. Park keep on disgracing the good name of science. Or you could come home.”

“Home,” Bruce says, such a sweet, sad word. His voice sounds like he’s thinking about it, but his smile says he’s already decided. They lapse into silence, Bruce’s tired eyes resting on the deep blue water dotted with the green cones of volcanic islands, and for once Tony thinks he can do more good by keeping his trap shut.

Clint and Thor wander up from where they’ve been keeping a tactful distance, inspecting the minotaurs and not obviously eavesdropping.

“So what are we doing?” Clint says. “Don’t know about you guys, but I’d rather monitor the rest of the op from here, not the boat.”

“Good idea,” Tony says. “Also, I was thinking of lunch.” Tony flips down his visor and engages the satellite comm system. “JARVIS?”

“Ah, hello sir. I see you’re in the Mediterranean. How delightful..”

“Yeah, it’s great. JARVIS, can you find a restaurant that delivers to my current location?”

“Of course, sir. It seems there are several highly rated options available. What type of cuisine would you prefer?”

“Thor, do you like seafood?”

“I don’t care for rauðmagi, but I enjoy everything else.”

“JARVIS, lunch for six, hold the rooeythmah--what he said.”

Since JARVIS has been programmed with Tony’s taste for excess, what arrives 45 minutes later is a white-tablecloth setup with chilled white wine and enough antipasti and cheese to keep even Thor’s hunger at bay until Steve and Natasha get back. They follow the mission over the comm; the bad guy apparently isn’t so tough without his minotaurs and goes down without much of a fight. In due course there are sirens and helicopters and Steve is complaining that there are more reporters than police.

“Time to wrap things up,” Fury says. “We’ll send the ship to the landing site in 20.”

“Uh, Director?” Tony says. Could you give us about another hour and a half? We have something to finish up here.”

“You still having some trouble?”

“No, we just--” Tony looks at the covered plates of seafood and pasta being kept warm by the sun. “We need to do a mission debrief.”

“Can’t you do that on the ship?”

“No.”

There’s a pause while Fury digests this and hopefully reflects on the fact that he has a bad guy and a live minotaur and a very shiny report to make back to the Council.

“Make it two hours. Just make sure you’re not too debriefed when you get back here.”

“Understood.” Tony reaches for another bottle of vernaccia.

“I want you all to know that following the extremely poor results this morning, I’ve suspended Project Catalyst and let Assistant Director Park know that I’m going to be conducting a full inquiry. Dr. Banner?”

“Yes?”

“There’s still the matter of your status to clear up, but you helped your case considerably with your performance today. If nothing else, I can guarantee that the return trip will be more comfortable for you than the one out.”

“Thank you, Director.” Bruce’s smile makes Tony feel like his heart is going to burst through the arc reactor, maybe cause a meltdown.

“I offer a toast,” Thor says, raising his glass. “To Óðinn Allfather, to our victory in glorious battle, and to those we love--may they come safely home again.”

They all drink, and then drink some more, but manage to keep their hands off the rest of the food until Natasha and Steve appear over the hill.

“Oh my God,” Natasha says. “Tony, you’re a nut. Please tell me there’s cannoli.”

+++++

“I’m not an invalid; you don’t have to carry my bag,” Bruce says, trying to pry it from Tony’s hands. He’s been like this the whole way back, fidgety with anticipation, nervous and trying to hide it.

“No, but as your landlord, I want to go the extra mile for a valued tenant. Especially since the vacancy rate is creeping above 95 percent.”

“You should evict that strange guy in the penthouse,” Bruce says. “All those explosions and alien hot tub parties--he’s bad for business.”

That lasts them until they reach the door of Bruce’s condo and he just stands there, staring at the doorknob.

“It’s your place, Bruce,” Tony says quietly. “You don’t need an invitation. Not a vampire, remember?”

Bruce takes a deep breath and pushes open the door, revealing Pepper, caught in the act of putting fresh flowers on his coffee table. She jumps back, startled, spraying petals and pollen onto the spotless glass.

“I knew there was something going on between you,” Tony says. “Pistols at dawn, Dr. Banner!”

Pepper runs right past him and throws her arms around Bruce. “It’s so good to have you home,” she says and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s been too long.”

“It’s good to see you too, sweetheart,” Bruce says, flushing with what Tony trusts is strictly platonic pleasure.

“No kiss for her boyfriend, you notice,” Tony says.

“You’re not allowed to complain,” Pepper says, arms still circling Bruce’s neck. “Neither of us is traveling for another week; we’ll have plenty of time to ourselves. So...I thought Bruce could join us for dinner. If you’re not too tired, Bruce.”

“Sounds great,” he says, “if it’s okay with Tony?”

“I don’t see why not. Did you cook a roast, dear?”

Pepper just snorts and gives him a little swat on the behind. “Tartuffo is delivering, if you’re not too sick of Italian, dear. Gotta go, I’ve got a teleconference. Bye, Bruce,” she says, extra sweet, giving him a peck on the cheek.

Tony’s not really sure why he stays behind, except that Bruce, when his smile fades with the scent of Pepper’s perfume, is standing there looking like he’s afraid to sit down on his own furniture.

“It’s okay for things not to be normal right away,” Tony says. “You know that, right? I’m not going to think you’re ungrateful if you don’t start jumping up and down on the bed and singing along with the radio.”

Bruce’s slumps down into the black leather sofa, limp with relief. “I am grateful. And I’m really glad to be back. It’s just that--I don’t know how many more of these I have in me. The other guy stays the same, but I’m getting older. Fighting my way back gets harder every time. Even back to this.”

“I know.” Tony sits down next to him, not too close and not too far away. “I know what it’s like to put on a happy face for the world because that’s what they expect and then lie in bed at night wondering where you’re going to get the strength to get up the next day and do it again. But anything you need, anything that’ll help, you’ve got it it--money and power and connections, the best engineers and the most bad-ass assassins. I could use that old cliche, you’re not alone, but in your case that would be a pretty bad joke.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Bruce’s mouth. “Ever since this happened--since he happened--I’ve lived in fear of people depending on me. Now look at me. And I’ve got a glass coffee table. How did I let this happen?”

“Tell me about it. Wanna run away and join the circus? I think we’d be a hit. You especially.”

That earns him the full-on Bruce Banner grin, all white teeth and a kind of world-weariness that’s gone past to despair come full circle to innocence. His eyes get bright, those expressive eyes that Tony has seen both golden and brown. When Bruce opens his mouth to speak, Tony braces himself to repel any expressions of gratitude, because Bruce owes him nothing.

“Any time,” Bruce says, “except tonight. I don’t want to disappoint Pepper.”

Tony smiles because it’s a joke, but also because it’s Bruce, always so quick to sacrifice even when the world had taken almost everything away. Tony is convinced that anything that lives that deep in Bruce must be part of the Hulk, too, because the Hulk is Bruce stripped down to the bare essence, and where the world sees rage, Tony sees fear and a need to protect. Tony knows where that fear comes from; he learned it from Pepper, and from Bruce. It isn’t the first time life smacked him upside the head to teach him a lesson, and Tony just considers himself lucky to be alive to collect the reward.

“Better hurry up, then. You can’t trust that woman around calamari.” Bruce goes to wash up and Tony calls after him. “Calamari is squid, right? I wonder if we’ll get to fight, like, a mutant squid or octopus or something. That would be pretty cool, because I don’t know if I told you about the hydro pack, it’s good for depths up to--”

“You know,” Bruce says, exiting the powder room with his clean hands in the air doctor-style, “I was hoping for no monsters for a while. I just want to sit on the patio for a while in the sun with the Sunday paper. Maybe get out on the golf course.”

“Too late for that,” Tony says, trying and failing to keep a straight face because Bruce can’t either. “Welcome home.”