[A/N] Enter Bruce "My wife could kick your ass into space, but your ass isn't worthy of that, so I'm gonna punch you in the face. Don't EVER talk to her again unless you're ready to worship her strength." Banner.
"Here." She takes his enfeebled hand, lays it flat atop hers, and applies the ice pack for him.
"You shouldn't have to worry about it."
"I'm worried you're beating yourself up." She counters, peering at him through her lashes. "Let me take care of you."
Enough time has passed from the party, from punching a man in the face, to reveal the true state of his injury—or lack thereof. There's not a tinge of blue or purple, there are no sunken knuckles; his mobility is hindered by soreness, but not an impossible task. It's safe for them to conclude that he has not broken or fractured anything in striking the politician who insisted on insulting her. That prognosis fails to provide much comfort, though. Bruce still chews on guilt.
"Hey—"
"You're the most selfless person I know. You—you make yourself a suit of armor around the world. You do that for everyone. It's what makes you a hero." He covers her in thee convictions he holds. Even after all this time, she struggles to cope with the sheer authenticity of it.
For that reason, she turns her gaze down to their palms, to the rivulets of water that leak from the ice, drip onto the kitchen counter, slip between the cracks of his reddened fingers and seep into her.
"You don't let people do that for you," he continues. "You say you don't need it. And you're right—you don't. But it's nice to have that sometimes."
She looks at him, connects their eyes in what feels like an act of telepathy. All this he says with anger. This is him pleading to her from the other side of a glass barrier, begging her to let him in so she can be released, so she can taste fresh air.
"It's easier said than done, I know. But I'm here for you. I know I wasn't—not always. But I am now."
"I know." She lifts their hands in a reminder. "But you can't punch everyone who doesn't like me." Though she smiles to let him know it's okay, to invite him out of the shame, it doesn't take.
"People don't get to slander you like that. Especially not guys like him." Though he shows no signs of turning green, he looks ready to punch the guy again. Part of him isn't with her, but a few hours in the recent past, when they stood in a circle of men as the so-called gentleman did all but physically spit on her. Even when Bruce spoke up, the prick kept going on about the ludicrous privileges granted to her—a woman, no less. Needless to say, Bruce hadn't found the blatant misogyny as amusing as she had, and thus was how Mr. Kumar found himself on his ass with a swelling eye. Thinking back on it inflicted a dark fringe on Bruce's tone, "He has no concept of what you're been through."
She removes the ice from his hand, sets the pack on the counter. It'll sit in its own puddle, but that's fine. It's more important that he hears her. "I don't know if punching him helped with that."
He misses the lighter notes. "He's never going to get it."
"Hon." She snaps him back to her with a chilled touch delivered straight to his cheek. He startles a little, as though she's a genie who materialized before him. She says, "I'm teasing you."
He relaxes then, setting his arm beside the ice pouch and slouching his weight into it. He directs a sheepish grin toward the floor which is, frankly, a disservice to her, so she tugs his hunched form into her torso, where she can bury her hands in his curls, kiss the top of his skull, and murmur, "It's easy to recognize bullshit about yourself when surrounded with people like you."
He presses his mouth to the pulse point on her neck before pulling her into a larger embrace. As she wraps her arms around him and he does the same to her, the emerald stone affixed to her neck clinks quietly with the maroon pin clipped to his tie.