Stark Tower's penthouse windows stretched from the floor to the vaulted ceiling, offering an unparalleled view of Manhattan below. The early spring day was gray and drizzling; low clouds obstructed most of the skyscrapers, and the landscaped looked as though it was washed in monochrome concrete. The sun had not yet risen, but the eastern horizon was bright and glaring in the fog.
A solitary overstuffed black leather couch faced the window with a solitary man gazing without seeing. Bruce lay along the length of the sofa, his cheek resting on his folded hands and his eyes fixed in the distance. The rainy morning was startlingly peaceful after a week-long covert operation that ended in a firefight that every participant quickly regretted. Luckily, there had not been any casualties on their side, but he didn't think he was going to see Clint outside of Medical for at least a few days. At least Natasha would be looking after him. Bruce hadn't spent much time in his own skin, so his account of the events were patchy at best; still, every time he closed his eyes, fractured memories assaulted him until he gave up on sleep. So he stared out the window instead.
Bruce shivered in the morning chill, sending of tingles of pain across his body. His shirt was damp with sweat and his stomach threatened to attempt to crawl out his mouth. He had never let the Other Guy out so often, with so little time between transformations, and he was paying the proverbial Piper now. His skin felt like it was on fire, stretched too tight so he felt the pull of every movement. His muscles felt weak, used to the point of failure and beyond. Deep breaths of cold air helped keep the nausea at bay, but the chill was starting to seep deeper. He pressed his spine further into the crack where the seat met the back of the couch and shoved his bare feet under the cushions. The leather warmed quickly under his body heat; he was unwilling to leave that little warmth to fetch socks or a blanket, so he shivered again and kept his vigil.
Footsteps echoed through the penthouse in a staggered beat. On some level, Bruce's brain registered that it was Steve because he was favoring his right leg—the bullet to his calf had gone clean through, but even Steve would be feeling it for a while. He felt too empty and listless to react when the footsteps approached the back of the couch and halted. Bruce didn't turn his head to see if Steve was looking at him or out the window, so he didn't see the large hand before it pressed against his back, right where his neck met his shoulders. The hand was hot, and the delicious warmth spread through skin, sending tingles of pleasure across his nerves. He shuddered-violently and suddenly-with the release of endorphins, and the hand was snatched back.
Bruce wanted to apologize for startling Steve, but by the time he formed a coherent sentence the moment had passed. He was sure Steve would feel badly because he hated showing how much Bruce still scared him. But Bruce understood how difficult it was to leave battle reflexes on the field. He wished he could tell Steve that he didn't take it personally.
The footsteps retreated after a moment and disappeared, only to return a few minutes later. Then, a thick, wooly blanket was being draped over him and tucked around him. Bruce turned to see Steve, looking far less like Captain America than a college frat boy in his sweats, considering him with a small smile and concerned eyes.
"Can't sleep?"
Bruce managed to form a reply in his head, but his voice wasn't cooperating. He shook his head instead.
"Me neither. But I could use some company. May I?"
Bruce nodded. Before he could shift his weight to sit up, Steve lifted his legs and settled beneath them. Bruce fumbled onto his back so he could bend his knees and give Steve more room and avoid putting weight on Steve's injured leg, but his feet were caught in warm hands. "No, here, lay down and prop up your feet," Steve urged. "You're looking a little shocky."
"Oh," was all Bruce could manage, and realized that, yes, he was.
"It's ok. I really can't sleep and I really would like some company." Steve picked up a sketchbook and a charcoal pencil from where he had left them on the back of the couch cushions. He leaned the sketchbook against Bruce's knees. "Anyway, you stole my drawing spot, but you can stay because you make a good easel."
Steve gave the blanket one last good tuck around Bruce's feet and then set himself to sketching. Bruce couldn't see what Steve was drawing, but he could feel the scratching of the pencil through the pad of paper and the blanket. It was oddly soothing.
After a few minutes, Bruce felt the chill recede and his chest loosen. He could breathe deeper, and his eyes closed of their own volition.
Tearing, scratching claws on his arms, across his chest, in his face. Metal screeching and groaning under his weight as he landed. Gunfire. The tang of blood and hot metal souring the back of his throat.
Bruce screamed himself awake and scrambled back against the arm of the couch.
"Hey, hey, Doc…"
"Bruce…"
Bruce's eyes darted around the room before they finally settled on Steve, backed up against his side of the couch, eyes wide and hands out half in a pleading gesture and half in defense. Tony stood next to the couch, leaning on the armrest with crossed arms, scotch in hand, and one eyebrow raised in question. He must have fallen asleep before Tony came in, he realized.
Bruce also noticed he was nearly climbing up the back of the couch, and slowly sank back down. The blanket was tangled around his legs, and he clutched it to him. "Hey, I'm Ok. I'm sorry. I was trying not to fall asleep…I…uh…knew that would happen. Maybe I should go sleep in the Hulk-Out Room?"
Steve had already picked up his sketchbook again and didn't seem fazed though the smell of fear lingered in the air. "That's not going to help," Steve said, looking up from his book. "Locking yourself up alone isn't going to make anyone feel better." He nodded towards Tony. "That goes for you, too." Bruce realized that he probably missed an entire conversation while he was asleep, probably revolving around Tony and the garage. Steve continued, "Despite what everyone says, fighting fire with fire is a mighty stupid idea. Same thing goes with fear and darkness. Dark doesn't defeat dark. You have to let the light in. Some fella named Martin Luther King Jr. said that. I read it the other day."
"Apparently you didn't get to the end of the story. That didn't work out so well for everybody in the end," Tony smirked, but it died quickly when the only reaction he got from Bruce was a blank stare.
"Anyway, the sun is coming up and it's been a long while since I've had the chance to enjoy the sunrise with my friends," Steve replied.
Steve looked back out over the horizon, and Bruce's gaze followed. The sun peeked through the spires of the buildings, reflected and broken by a thousand mirrored windows. The city looked like crystal glass, rosy with pinks and royal purples, melding into golden sunlight.
Tony sighed, weary and defeated, and moved to the end of the couch opposite Steve. "Move over, Big Guy," Tony urged.
Before Bruce could move too far, Steve caught his legs and pulled them back over his lap, which tipped his shoulders against Tony's side. Tony didn't seem to mind and actually draped his arm across Bruce's waist, pulling him closer so that his head was in his lap and leaning his glass against Bruce's hip. Tony fished behind his back for a pillow for Bruce's head as Steve spread the blanket back over him.
"Comfortable?" Tony asked.
Bruce nodded against the pillow on Tony's knees. "Huh, not using your big-boy words yet? Ok, just go back to sleep. Iron Man's on watch." He slammed back the rest of his drink.
Bruce couldn't remember being so comfortable in his life. He was warm and safe, and that had become a precious luxury for so long that he tried to never take it for granted. And both Tony and Steve were touching him casually, like it was totally normal, like he was totally normal. The thought that he was on a team with Captain America and Tony Stark, who had both influenced every day of his life so long before he ever met them, still boggled his mind if he focused too much on it. But, looking at the charcoal smudges darkening the edges of Steve's hands and listening to the quiet wheeze of Tony's damaged chest, those bright and shiny superheroes seemed as unreal and far away as the characters of his childhood, and, well, everything seemed a little more normal.
Steve was right, Bruce mused. If he had any chance of redeeming the darkness inside himself, he had to open up a little to the light.