Thus in silence in dreams' projections,
Returning, resuming, I thread my way through the hospitals,
The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested,
Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
-Walt Whitman
1. The first time, it's Tony that sees it, right after the huge battle with Loki. There are Chitauri corpses everywhere, stinking up the whole of New York City, but Tony doesn't care right now. The Hulk is missing, and it takes Tony a couple minutes of flying to find Bruce, unconscious on his back in the middle of a street with only dead aliens for company. He goes straight down to his friend, glad that the doctor still has pants to cover himself with. He walks towards Bruce and is about to shake him out of darkness when he sees it.
Bruce is lying with his bare chest facing the sun, head tilted back, unruly hair splayed out across the hot tar of the street. His neck is bared, a perfect snowy white in contrast to the rest of his pink and tanned skin- save for the scars. They're old, not from any recent fight, and completely healed, though Tony can see that they're not ever going to fade. They're just below his chin, underneath the jaw where no one can see them. Tony can tell that they're burns, second-degree by the looks of it, and never looked at by a professional. He stares at them for some time, wondering where in the world they had come from until Bruce stirs.
"Tony?" he grumbles, sitting up, wincing a bit as he does so.
"Hey, Big Guy," Iron Man greets as Bruce sits straight, and the scars disappear for the moment. He reaches a hand out, and Bruce takes it and heaves himself to his feet, holding his pants up. "Did- did I hurt anyone?" is what comes out of his mouth first. Tony is cowed. The man willingly became the Hulk to defend the city of New York and he's wondering if he harmed any civilians.
"Are you kidding me? You beat the shit outta Loki! You saved my life!" Bruce's eyes widen at the last part, not believing any of it, so Tony shakes his head, wraps an arm around his friend and begins walking back to the others with him, promising to relay the entire story to him later. He stores the new information in the back of his head for further wondering another day.
2. The second time, it's Thor. The god gets confused with the elevator (again) and winds up on the wrong floor of Stark Tower. He remembers that Bruce's room is on this floor, though, and goes off in search of the correct one. He knocks on empty doors up and down hallways, getting quite lost in the process, and hasn't the faintest idea if he's already checked the hallway he's pounding his fist on the doors of, but he can't find the elevator and really doesn't want to be trapped in the seemingly endless maze of hallways and doors, hallways and doors for the rest of eternity. What sort of dignity would that give him, Thor, God of Thunder?
He's knocking on a door in the middle of a suspiciously familiar hallway when the one behind him opens. "Thor? What are you doing?" The god turns on his heel to gaze upon Bruce, curly hair being stubborn and unmanagable, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep. He's rubbing his eyes now, and Thor feels guilt deep inside. It looks as though his friend had just managed to- what did the Misguardians say? Oh, of course,"tackle multiple movements of the eye." Thor must have woken him from a well-deserved rest. Bruce wears only gray sweatpants that should have fit him, but they don't. They are far too baggy and loose, falling around his bare feet like a dress would have a lady back in Asguard. They slide down his waist and reveal the elastic of his boxers.
"I apologize for waking you, friend Bruce," Thor apologizes, his voice soft on purpose,"but I wished to inquire you upon the wherabouts of the Midguardian elevators. I seem to have lost my way." It takes the groggy Bruce a moment to think about what Thor is saying, but he then nods, yawning. "I'll show you," he says. "Let me grab a shirt." He turns around to go back into his room.
"Friend Bruce, you do not have to-" Thor stops speaking altogether when he sees Bruce's back. He takes a step into his friend's room and stares at the skin. It horrifies him.
It's a scar. A long one, rearing its ugly head from underneath the far left side of Bruce's pants, most likely trailing down his left leg; for how long, Thor cannot guess and, frankly, wishes not to know. It's pink around its edges, proudly revealing itself to new and innocent eyes. Thor stares, thoughts coming to mind in the form of words. You cannot unsee what you have just seen. He prays for all the world that he can defy this saying, but he is still there in Bruce's room, watching the man pick out an old shirt so he can guide the god to the elevator. He is still staring at Bruce's bare back. The hideous scar tainting the human's flesh is still staring back.
Bruce slips a T-shirt on at last, effectively hiding the wound and breaking Thor of his trance. He stares back at Thor, who is standing in the room watcing him. "Are you alright? You look a bit pale. Would...you rather stay here?" He blushes at his own words. "I- I mean...I'd sleep on the floor or something..."
Thor shakes his head, perturbed but not being able to think of a way to bring up what he had seen. He slips back into his own personality. "No, of course not, Bruce. I would never think of having you slumber on the floor. Far too uncomfortable for so kind a human." His comment causes Bruce's cheeks to redden deeper, and the doctor shrugs off the kind words. "Um...thanks." Thor makes no quick quips about Bruce's own wan complexion after his friend notices his.
The Midguardian walks Thor to the elevators, which aren't too far, causing Thor to curse himself for being so childish and the doctor for being too kind. No, he doesn't really curse Bruce, but still, there is far too much sentimental good will in the man.And still able to beat me in battle! This causes Thor to chuckle quietly. Bruce doesn't hear, yawning and rubbing his tired eyes. When they reach the elevators, Thor must quench his sorrow when he looks at Bruce, who says,"Here you are. Have a good night." He can still picture the distorted flesh, pink and old and angry. He doesn't think kind Bruce deserves such wounds, but says nothing. He has seen many wounds during battle on Asguard, wounds far worse than this, but this...this is different. This is Bruce. He knows from experience and multiple questionings that any wounds inflicted on the Hulk disappear whenever he becomes Bruce. So why is the doctor injured? Who would dare?
Thor smiles a little and takes Bruce's hand in his own, knowing that his friend is too exhausted for questions. "Good night, friend Bruce. Do sleep well." He presses his lips to the hand, which is surprisingly cold, but it quickly flushes with warmth, as do the doctor's ears and cheeks.
The scar leaves him wondering all night.
3. The third time, it's Steve. He steps into the lounge where the flatscreen is, wanting nothing more than to stretch out on the couch, get warm, and watch something old, something familiar, like Steamboat Willie, his eight-year old childhood adoration, or the Wizard of Oz, which he had seen in the pictures with his mother when he was nineteen.
He makes it to the couch before he finds out that it's already occupied. He almost sighs when he sees that Dr. Banner is very asleep, glasses askew, a touch screen device (Steve never had gotten around to figuring out what they were called) gripped loosely in his hands. The soldier shakes his head, amazed at the manic way his friend pushes himself to work. It reminds him of Tony, except for the fact that Tony never looks tired. Bruce looks exhausted now, curled into himself as though he's in pain, though perhaps it's from the frigid outside temperatures and the fact that the room they're in is hardly ever used and therefor neglected of any heat. Seeing Bruce finally resting causes Steve to smile a little. The soldier takes the touch screen device (maybe it's an iPad, or some Stark industries contraption, but no matter) and sets it on the table before snatching a blanket from a chair near it, unfolding it, prepared to shield his friend from the cold with it, but stops when he spots something on Bruce's right foot.
The doctor isn't wearing shoes, and the soldier peers down to peek at two of his toes, which look different from the rest of them. They are more pink, and one spot underneath the larger one is purple. They're swollen as if they had been broken and never healed. Bruce suddenly sighs in his sleep, startling Steve, but he doesn't wake. He merely moves his limbs closer to his chest; this part of the tower chillier than the rest of it. Steve sets his lips in a thin line and covers his friend with the blanket. Bruce's expression relaxes.
Steve doesn't watch television in any of the other available rooms that night, too busy wondering to himself.
4. The fourth time, it's Natasha. She's the bluntest of the group, the quickest to vocalize the placement of out-of-place things. So when she spies the faded, yet still visible, line running down the underside of Banner's right upper arm, slithering down his shoulder and ultimately disappearing beneath his shirt sleeve while he's reaching up to snatch a glass from the shelf in the kitchen, she walks over and runs a finger down it. Bruce starts violently, nearly dropping the glass. When he regains his grip on it, he hugs it again his chest as if he had given birth to it. He gazes wide-eyed at Natasha's amused smirk.
"Sorry, Dr. Banner. I didn't know you were so sensitive."
Bruce flushes a sweet pink, and he shakes his head. "No, that's- that's alright. Sorry I jumped. Tony would be..." His eyes wander, not to the nearly-lost cup, but to his right shoulder, and they darken. Soon enough, he murmurs,"Excuse me," to her and moves past to the sink so he can fill his glass. She lets him pass, but keeps him in the corner of her sharp eye. Natasha crosses her arms. "That's a nice scar you've got on your arm. Where'd you get it?"
The doctor takes a sip of water. He knows attempting to evade any questions will be a bad idea. "Mm. It was, uh, glass, actually. Someone broke a window in my house with a rock when I was a kid. I fell onto the glass and cut my arm. I was always clumsy."
"That's a long cut for some shattered glass. You just have had some good luck that day."
"There's no such thing as good luck for me."
Natasha nods and leaves it at that.
She wonders all throughout the day how many other clumsy accidents Bruce had had as a child.
5. The fifth time, it's Clint, and he is alone in a dark cell with a drugged Bruce after being separated and captured by their new enemy, who is really getting on the archer's nerves. It's not just that this inexperienced "villain" decided to destroy New York (why is it always New York? Why can't it be Phillie, or Reading, or one of those weird rural Amish counties? Those little towns aren't even hooked up for electricity, and nobody cares about Pennsylvania, anyway). No, that's not the real reaason. What irks him is that this guy's Australian, and Clint is ready to tear out the guy's vocal cords because his accent is really grating on his ears. And why come all the way to the U.S.? Why can't he have stayed in Sydney?
But, nevertheless, Clint finds himself captured with no one but Bruce, who isn't the Hulk. He's also drugged, and pretty heavily, too. His brown eyes, usually alight with quick wit and genius intelligence, are glazed and pointless, staring ahead of him at the other wall as if he can't quite figure out what a wall is. Clint has tried shaking him, insulting him, shouting in his ears, slapping him. Anything to wake up the Hulk and get them out of wherever the heck they are. Clint has given up since then; the window's too high to see where they are, and it's barred with no sill to grab ahold of; too small and too high up to escape from. Besides, Clint can't leave Bruce here. He's way too out of it to defend himself, and way too drugged up transform into the Hulk. Clint just hopes he wakes up soon enough so he has someone to plan with.
As if on cue, a slurred version of the archer's name escapes the lips of the only other person in the room. Clint is immediately in front of Bruce, hands on his shoulders to steady him and keep him grounded in consciousness. "Bruce? Bruce, listen to me. Can you hear me?" Bruce stares at him for a long while before repeating Clint's name. "Yes, yes, I'm Clint. Tell me your name. Do you know who you are?"
It takes a shorter period of time for Bruce to answer, but it isn't the correct one. "Li-il...fruh...eeg." Clint's eyebrows furrow. "What did you say?"
The two words are repeated, this time more confidently. Barton shakes his head, befuddled. "No. Your name is Bruce. Bruce Banner. Do you know your name? Bruce Banner."
"Fruh-eeg."
What in God's name is a fruh-eeg?
Bruce blinks heavily and shuts his eyes, asleep immediately. Clint sighs and gives up, searching every inch of the room for an escape. Bruce opens his eyes six minutes later, and Clint's interrogation fares him no better as the man continues to insist that he is "Fruh-eeg" and not Bruce. This happens twice more until 18 minutes after his third incoherent consciousness when Clint still has no plan and no one has come for them; by this time they've been hostages for at least thirty-five minutes. "Clint?" His voice is clearer, though rough. The archer kneels in front of him for a fourth time, not willing to give up any hope on Bruce's mind. "Bruce? Are you with me?" Bruce sways his head back and forth, dizzy, and it doesn't look like much of a nod, but it's good enough for Clint. The archer says,"Good. Tell me what you last remember." Bruce can't think of anything past transforming, so Clint fills in the huge blank, remarking aloud at the end how amazed he is at the fast rate of Bruce getting over the sedatives. Bruce replies,"Blood...my blood...i's radio...rad...radioacti-ive. Pois-on-ous. Di-ifferent." His words swing and sway to the beat of a song Clint can't hear, but considering how long Bruce had been staring at the wall prior to his initial awakening, it's pretty damn impressive that he's actually able to focus on one thing. The man deserves to be cut some slack.
The cell is, Clint must clarify, not keeping them locked up with a long door with bars. The door is your average sized, middle-class bedroom door, except, of course, it's six inches thick and made of steel. No window. The floor is dirt, the walls look innocent but are most likely reinforced. Clint sees no means of escape, unless the door is unlocked and the entire building he and Bruce are in is abandoned and directly next to Stark Tower.
Clint assesses Bruce once more in his little test of easy answers. This time, Bruce passes the name-game with flying colors, and though his voice pendulates on the "a" in "Banner," he's gradually becoming more and more lucid. Clint realizes with a dark swoop in his gut that it'll be much longer before the man's ready to "Hulk out" once again.
"Looks like we may be here a while. There's no way outta this place."
"Did you trrry thuh door?"
"I don't think Wally Wallaby is gonna leave us in here alone with the door unlocked," Clint muses, using his stereotyped nickname for their villain, whose real supervillain name he's currently drawing a blank on. Bruce shrugs. Well, he tries to, anyway. It looks more like he's trying to jab his right ear up farther into his hair with his shoulder. His left shoulder won't move. Not many things can alarm Clint, but this sets it off just a bit, and he wonders what exactly are in those drugs coursing through his friend's veins.
Bruce says,"Yoou can trrrry."
Clint shakes his head, smiling at the suggestion, but goes over to the door and grasps the handle, tugging on it. Nothing happens. He looks at Bruce, who's reminding Clint of Stephen Hawking, what with the awkward way he's trying to see what the archer is doing way over on his left, how one shoulder droops with no feeling and the other seems to be on edge, ready to lash out at any bug that attempts to land on it. "See? Nothing."
"Di-id you try pu-ushing it?" Clint purses his lips, but pushes on the door despite himself.
It opens.
Clint's mouth opens in a little "o" shape. Well, would ya look at that? The door's open. Clint's definitely going to have a word with Australia about this.
He turns back to Bruce, who has a little smile on his face. Clint sprints over to him, mock annoyance giving way to an entertained smirk at Bruce's smug expression. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Save it for when you can speak right. Can you stand?" Bruce doesn't know, and Clint helps him up. The doctor's legs wobble on the spot. Clint grabs his friend's arms to keep him from collapsing like a top that has no more to give. Clint doesn't know if the place is armed or not, but he hears no footsteps and couldn't see any shadows when he had peered through the doorway. "You ready?"
Bruce sways his head in a wavy up-and-down motion. Good enough for Clint.
The doctor is still weak, but regaining his strength back swifter than Hawkeye ever could. The former has his arm over Clint's shoulders, moving a quarter less than the archer, but doing well. His other hand is holding up his pants, and Clint has a steady hand on his companion's back. Clint peeks out of the door and then gets them out, shutting the door as so not to arouse any suspicion. Then he and Bruce are off, moving almost silently up and down hallways, searching for windows to find out where they are. Clint spies one with sunlight streaming through after five hallways and two stairwells leading up. He leans the other Avenger against the wall, and is pleased to see him able to stand on his own. The window has a small sill, and the walls are a smooth and shiny black, but it doesn't deter Hawkeye in any sense. He readies himself, and then leaps up, gripping the sill and hauls his body up far enough to see through it. He sees grass and a warm breeze ruffling them with affection right in front of his eyes, its dear green children. He gets an image of the Hulk as a baby, as tall as Clint's waist, with a Hulk mother to ruffle its black locks. But the Hulk doesn't have a Hulk mother, and it brings a wave of sadness into this particular mind picture. Clint stops thinking about it.
"Bruce," he whispers,"good news." He drops down, landing like a cat, and turns around. "We've just gotta-"
Aw, shit.
"Well, well, well," the evil Wally Wallaby croons, removing the syringe from Bruce's neck,"looks like we've got a couple of dags here. Whattaya think, Brucie?" He turns to the man, who he is supporting completely; Bruce is a rag doll in his arms, eyes vitreous once more. The only part of him moving are his lips, forming words Clint can barely make out. No, no, stop. Please. No more. Please. Fruh-eeg. Fruh-eeg. Stop. Please. Little...Fruh-eeg. No. Yes. Why? There are some longer pleads that evade the archer's eyes, but whatever empty words his comrade is muttering doesn't matter. Hawkeye has been stripped of his bow and arrows, and his only other help is lying limp in a villain's arms. Gotta keep him occupied until the others get here. Granted that they actually get here.
"So what's your motive, Wally Wallaby?" Clint asks, wincing internally at the lame jab, but out-talking bad guys- or anyone, for that matter- is Tony's gig, not Clint's.
The man laughs, and it is just as vexatious as his speech. "Your little insults won't work on me, mate. I think I know better than to let some middle-school quips get the better of me!" His eyes darken. What's his superpower again? Oh, yeah- psychokinesis. Clint remembers quite well as the ground begins to shake; the Aussie pulls all of his power into the earth, moving it, and the walls around Clint begin to crumble, and there's no where to go because he can't put pressure on any other spot of the ground or else it will collapse and he wil fall down, down, down, below.
"Have fun burning to death, Hawkeye," Wallaby snickers. "And meanwhile, I might just keep Brucie for a little pet; wouldn't that be nice, Dr. Banner?" Bruce's eyes are far gone, his body moves not an inch, and all he can whisper is "Fruh-eeg".
That's when the wall explodes.
Clint opens his eyes, unaware that he had shut them. He isn't dead, or dying, or falling to his death. The wall that had burst was the one next to Wallaby, and the villain is out cold and trapped underneath rocks and rubble from the chest down. Bruce has been miraculously spared from further injury, and is lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and repeating the words to himself, no noise escaping his lips. There's a hole in the wall now; Iron Man lowers his arm and flies in. "Have fun in jail, you half-witted marsupial."
Steve makes his way over to Ciint, who's shaking only marginally, not enough for anyone else to notice. "Are you OK?" the soldier asks. Clint glares at him. "Bruce," he orders. "Help Bruce!"
Thor already has the man in his arms, snapping his fingers in front of glass eyes. Tony bends over Bruce's head. "He's drugged pretty heavily. Thor, follow me back to Stark Tower with Bruce. It'll wear off sooner if he's resting somewhere familiar, and I need to inspect what was injected in him."
It turns out that whatever was in the syringe, it's harmless and only very powerful; really, it looks worse than it is. Clint visits Bruce's bedside every day as they wait for him to wake. The doctor is wan, but finally asleep, and it will take longer than before for the drugs to wear off because Bruce was already under their influence the second time he was dosed. Clint think the poor man looks like death warmed over, and, despite him knowing otherwise, the thought of comas never quits pestering him. He spends days mulling over the wondering word "fruh-eeg", and continues to even after Bruce is fully recovered.
+1 Bruce doesn't celebrate Christmas. None of them know why; he simply evades Stark Tower for several days each year, leaving a note in his room promising his return, and isn't seen again until it's nearly New Year's. Soon enough, the Avengers and Pepper forget to buy him anything, and he doesn't complain. They don't ask where he's been, and he doesn't tell. It never comes up in any conversations. None of them know why it's a taboo subject. It just is, and Bruce intends to keep it that way.
So when it's that time of year once more, Tony walks in on Bruce packing. The billionaire deflates. "C'mon, man, you're not doing this every year, are you? Where's your Christmas spirit?"
"I don't have any," Bruce replies, continuing his task. "I never had any." Which is a lie, a horrible lie. The truth is that he lost it so early he can't remember what it is or how to utilize it. Tony, of course, sees right through it. Or maybe he's just so optimistic in these situations that he can't bear to imagine that someone doesn't have Christmas spirit.
"Pfft. Yeah, right. Even Thor celebrates with us, and he doesn't even know about Santa Claus!" He winks at Bruce, who rolls his eyes. "Besides, you haven't had a gift in- what, two years, or something? You've never even told us when your birthday is, Bruce, now what does that say about you?"
I hate parties?"
It's Tony's turn to roll his eyes. "No. Well, yes, apparently- but no." His face takes on a serious expression, one that is dark and collaborates with his eyes to tell tales of torture and death, of horror and forsaken souls that are constantly shrieking in his ears for help. Tony's good at that face. "It means you're afraid."
Bruce stiffens and pauses in his work, his favorite purple button-down shirt half-in and half-out of the suitcase. His breathing hitches and he sets it down. Tony sees that he's hit a correct spot and goes on, leaning in closer to his friend. "You're afraid; I know, I can see it. You're afraid of celebrations and parties for you. You're afraid of being in a room with a Christmas tree, one with bright ornaments and flashing lights and people all around you-"
"Stop it,"Bruce warns quietly.
"-and you're afraid of beer, I've never seen you drink a drop of it, and you're afraid of family and that warm feeling in your chest when you know that you belong somewhere with people who love you. You're afraid of being happy, Bruce," Tony concludes,"and I can see it. And- I know everyone says this, and I know you think that it's a lie, but, really, I know how you feel. You're afraid that if you're happy, something horrible will come and take it away, just like everything else." Bruce is glaring at a spot on the floor, but his eyes are the same- the same brown chocolate color that Tony always thought were the saddest eyes any person could ever have. Even now, smoldering a bit at being examined like a specimen on display, they hold an underlying forlornness that will never leave.
"Bruce. Bruce, look at me." The billionaire turns his friend's chin towards him with a single finger, until they are eye-to-eye. "Listen, Banner. If you stay with us just one day- for Christmas Eve- and you find that you can't handle it, I will let you leave, and I will continue to let you leave every Christmas if it means you won't freak out. But I will not let anything happen that puts you in danger or bring any harm to any of us, you got that? I will lock all of the doors and cover the windows, if need be. But no one will take anything away from you, got that?"
Bruce steps away. "I'm serious, Tony! I really- I just...can't. Look, I moved into Stark Tower with everyone else, I'm living here and assisting you in your experiments. You could at least let me leave when I want to."
"But it's-"
Bruce snaps. "Tony, that's not even an excuse! Everyone thinks that I should be with them for the holidays and gifts and friendship- and they only say,"Because it's Christmas" when in reality, I show up and get ignored, but it's OK that I'm miserable, because at least it's Christmas! Nobody ever says to come because they want me there or because they think I'll have a great time! I never do. And don't tell me you want me there, because I know you don't, and even if you do, no one else does."
Tony's perplexed. Bruce has just explained to him that he hates Christmas. Is it the girls, who Bruce always gets shy over, or the overwhelming sensation of claustrophobia when surrounded by sickeningly cheerful people, fat on eggnog and ham and trying to cover it all in gaudy sweaters, twinkling and singing out of tune carols? Is it the pure happiness that might bring a tear to his eye when he realizes that he's loved and has a family again? Is he too ashamed of being emotional in front of others? "Why? Why can't you have any fun whatsoever with your family?"
Bruce flinches at the word 'family', but is calm when he replies,"Because it's Christmas."
He wins that argument, and falls into a restless slumber once left alone, ready to sneak out tomorrow into the snow of New York City, find a motel with no Christmas lights in any rooms, and down some sleeping pills each night for a week or so until the holiday craze dissipates. He'll leave a note; he always does, and Tony doesn't make a fuss, unless you count the discussion he just dominated. Bruce doesn't. Nobody should worry or care about him, where he's going, where he's been; he's Bruce.
He's padding around people now, the space on the sidewalks less because of all of the winter apparel. Bruce goes unnoticed, blending in with the rest of the citizens. He feels sorry for the civilian who slips on an unbidden patch of ice that escaped justice.
Oh, wait. That would be Bruce. And he's falling, too, backwards, wondering if he'll it his head or tailbone or fracture his hip. Or maybe he'll just fall and be OK. Sheepish, but OK. He's still falling, all the way to the unforgiving ground, all the way to the frost-layered pavement, all the way back into his bed, where he sits up with a gasp, alarmed at the dream.
Bruce breathes, in and out, in and out. Falling in New York...that had been a dream, a bad dream. He falls again, but this time, it's into a fit of harsh coughs that sound wet but feel like a desert in his throat. He drops back onto his pillow, and suddenly he's hot, burning, a fire growing from his flip-flopping stomach and spreading out to his toes, his trembling fingers, his sweaty forehead. He feels flames licking at the small of his back, and he arches it, moaning a little at the heat.
He doesn't know what time it is, but there might be sunlight streaming in through his window and setting him aflame, and his door might be opening up because everyone thinks he's left already, and there might be a surprised blond standing there, asking him questions in an archaic vocabulary. There might be a cool hand on his forehead that fights the heat for a sweet moment before pulling away and saying something else before scuttling off, leaving the door ajar and letting in cool, blessed air. Bruce doesn't know these things for sure, though. They can all be a crazy fever dream, and the door isn't really open, there is no one coming back for Bruce and no one to put out the fire.
Flames, flames, all around the room. They move closer to the bed, threatening to set the sheets aflame and, in turn, the sick man they surround. Bruce moans again and, using up what remains of his strength, curls into a fetal position, tucking his knees into his chest and digging his hands into his curls. The door closes on its own, trapping him inside. He can't call out for help or moan any longer. Perhaps he should accept his fate. He's lived a good...well, his life is and always has been horrible, for lack of a better word. Time to put him out of his misery.
He hears the door creak and footsteps stomping towards him. Easy hands are on him, pushing him onto his back, mollifying him, and someone is saying things in his ear that mean nothing, so he doesn't listen, even though their short beard is itching at his skin. Bruce has nothing in him to stop them from moving him, so he falls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling; it's pitch black and he can see the reflections of himself, lying prone, and the man moving him, checking his pulse (funny- he looks just like Tony). Bruce can see another man with long blond hair watching from the door, standing in the flames. He turns his head and lets out a little sob, twitching his fingers, which are grasped by the Tony-lookalike in what must have been a comforting gesture (Bruce knows this isn't Tony).
Everything else passes in blurs and the static on TVs with no signals. Lookalike-Tony holds Bruce's hand, puts the fire's enemy over his eyes, under his arms, on the back of his neck, making him hiss and squirm and moan, but there is nothing he can do about it. Bruce can hear arguments from outside of his room, or maybe it's inside his head. Either way, he doesn't sleep. He watches himself and the rest of the world through the mirror ceiling, sees his own body wasting away, sees the lookalike-Tony whisper nothings into his ear, the two women changing his bed sheets and keeping him cool. The blonde one cracks open a window and the red-headed one wipes his bone-dry brow and neck and temples with water that evaporates instantly. There's one who looks as though he can be the poster child for the 40s, and Bruce listens to story after story of the good old days that he forgets minutes after hearing. Bruce doesn't forget the screaming, though. He can't tell if it's children's gleeful voices soaking through the window slightly ajar or a nightmare in his head. Fire rages around the man, angry, hating, and so hot, but Bruce doesn't break a sweat, even though he's only been frightened this badly once when he was a child.
All this time, voices speak and don't desist.
"...ed you to o...r mouth. Bru...ear me? Br...Br...Bru...nner..."
"...nner...sit up for m...do that?...Need you...there you g..."
"Why...what...did he...saw her..."
"It'll be...never lie...not to you..."
"...do we do?...wakes up...?"
"...my God..."
"Little...use...iece...why were...shit..."
"Robert...Robert...Robbie..."
"Ssssh...rucie...et...alright...verythi...loves you..."
"Probably...us...know..."
"...wake up...wakes up...he wakes up?"
"Bruce!"
Banner opens his eyes. His head is pounding and the sun is too bright, but he has sweat on his brow and his fever has broke. He sits up. He's sore and tired, but much better. He inches his legs to the side of the bed to get up and go to the bathroom. When he stands, he wobbles dangerously, and has to sit again. When he's finally able to stagger down the hall, it's very silent. It's been silent before, but a comfortable one, one of relaxation and easiness. This is...wrong. There is no one to be found.
After relieving himself, Bruce hobbles to the kitchen, significantly more awake now. He hears mumbles and continues. He stumbles into the kitchen to find Pepper and the rest of the Avengers sitting around the dining, bodies tense and mouths moving just barely. They all look more like reluctant strangers than friends and teammates. Tony has his head bowed and is shaking it slowly, not believing his own self.
"Guys?' Bruce finally croaks.
They all turn to stare at him simultaneously. The man fidgets under their gazes, some accusing, some guilty, some sad. He says,"What...happened?"
No one says anything or moves to answer him. After an indefinite amount of time, Pepper stands, her eyes mostly on the floor and her slippers. She bites her lip. "Bruce," she says,"sweetie. I...would you like to sit down?" She is a vase balancing on the edge of a pedestal, he observes, so he nods, confused, and does as he's offered. His mind is already racing itself in a marathon of horrible ideas. They're too scared to have him around; they want him put down; they're kicking him out of the Avengers; they're all dying of cancer because of his radioactive blood. As Bruce sits, he folds his hands and comes to two conclusions: 1) He's not wearing a shirt, and 2) Someone is about to say something very bad.
They sit there for a while, and Pepper won't take her seat. No one is willing to say a word.
"What?" the doctor asks, breaking the delicate silence. "What happened?"
"You were grievously ill, Bruce," Thor fills in. "We all feared the worst for you until just yesterday noontime when your fever broke at last." Yes, Bruce knows he was sick, but the rest of it is beyond him. "How long...?"
"Three days, friend Bruce."
Bruce likes it when Thor calls him 'friend', though it makes his stomach twist with the guilt of someone trusting him so. "So...what? What happened while I was out?" Someone's dead, someone's dead, and I missed it again. Thor sucks in a brave breath of air. "Nothing...no battles or villains, but I do believe we are 'snowed in', as you Midguardians say. It is quite a blizzard as well, if I might add. It hasn't ceased for near four days, now." Bruce is perplexed. "OK...so it's snowing. Why are you all so serious, then? Why are we all sitting like this?" He quips,"Didn't Christmas come this year?"
That's when Pepper starts to cry. She sniffles a bit and wipes her eyes, covering her mouth with her hand. Bruce looks to her, baffled and wanting the mystery to end. "I-" he tries to say, but she shakes her head and rushes off. Tony stands and goes after her.
Banner looks around the table at the remaining Avengers, panicking, but his voice is low. "What did I do?" he pleads, frightened that he had done something horrible, if he had transformed and more blood is on his hands. Did he kill someone Pepper knew? Maybe Agent Hill, or a child. "Is it my fault that Pepper-?"
Thor slams both fists on the table and jolts to his feet, and his four teammates stare up at him in shock- he's never lost his temper before, not at them, and never would he do it so very violently. "No!" Thor booms, and the dark clouds grow darker, looming and making the snow fall harder than ever. Too bad he couldn't take them away completely. He stops himself from saying anything more before growling and striding off, away from Bruce and Steve and Natasha and Clint.
Bruce is more perplexed than ever before, but Clint and Natasha leave together then, and Steve mutters an apology for the rest of the team's abruptness and departs as well. Bruce is left alone. Nothing has changed, in that sense.
Three days pass, and Bruce is forbidden from leaving Stark Tower because no one is willing to let him go off on his own directly after his terrible fever. Plus, they're all snowed in. Bruce plans on celebrating the holidays in his room and thinking about anything but what day it is. Meditate, clear his mind or something. Christmas looms like a bomb over the man's head, waiting to go off.
Bruce cannot stop playing the kitchen scene over and over in his mind. Such an outburst, from all of them. He hadn't transformed, hadn't killed anyone. Did someone die while he was out of it? Did he miss another death? A funeral? Had he died from the fever and is now a ghost who doesn't know that he's kicked the bucket? They have little meetings at the kitchen table all of the time when they think Bruce is working or sleeping. He sees them with their heads bowed, speaking in the lowest of voices. Maybe they've all converted. He knows they're not praying, though, so the doctor wants to know.
Bruce is a scientist. Scientists observe, and are patient in their findings, open-minded and looking for more than one answer, testing and experimenting each one until they find the correct one. But Christmas is in two days and there isn't any time for that bullshit, so he decides to jump the gun for once.
They're having another of those meetings again, whispering and murmuring like a bunch of nuns. Bruce can see them, but they don't know he's there, so they keep talking until Bruce clears his throat.
He has their attention. He usually hates it, but now it's necessary. They all look at him, waiting for him to speak. And speak he does.
Bruce is amiable, if you get to know him, and isn't really a monster. He's quiet and awkward and has a way of wringing his hands together that makes him look far too shy for a grown man. That's what he's doing now, nervously rubbing his wrists and palms and fingers as he moves towards their table, afriad that maybe his teammates have knives and pitchforks hidden beneath it and are ready to strike him if he makes any sudden movements.
"Guys," he requests, voice soft,"I'm...sorry for interrupting, but...I'd like to ask you all something."
And Tony sighs, because he knows what Bruce is about to ask, but lets him ask anyway. "What is it, Dr, Banner?" Steve asks, even though he knows what it is. They all do; Bruce can tell.
"You've all been...a bit stiffer around me lately. I'd really like to know why." Bruce shrugs, as if to say "no big deal" when in reality, it's eating him alive. He's never felt so comfortable before, so at...home. He's never had a home, not when he was a kid living with his parents or or when he was older, researching gamma radiation and his lumpy bed would be warmed by Betty, who made the awful bed luxurious, who made his life feel better, who made him feel beautiful about himself. Not even that was home, though it was very close. He needs to know why they hate him all of a sudden or else he'll try to kill himself again.
"Bruce," Natasha weaves, pulling up a chair for him, which he accepts with great suspicion. She continues when he's seated, so different from her usual insensitive self,"we're not sure what to-"
Tony slams his hand on the table, making only Bruce jump. Natasha lowers her head as if ashamed. The billionaire looks up at his friend, eyes weary and amounting to two tons each in his skull, weighing him down. "OK, Bruce, just- I'm going to give it to you straight, OK? I won't leave anything out, and I promise you I will tell you correctly. No bullshit beating around the bush, OK?"
Bruce can only nod. This will go quicker if he says nothing.
"Alright..." Tony scrubs his face with both hands before looking Bruce straight in the eye and says,"When your fever spiked, you kept talking and we couldn't shut you up. At first, you babbled on about nothing in particular, but...but then you started talking about...about your mother. You thought that...Pepper was your mother. And you would talk to her when she was in the room and sob when she wasn't. You didn't make any sense, and it was all just...babbling at first."
Bruce stares at Tony. They're not supposed to find out this way. They're not supposed to find out at all, as a matter of fact. And Bruce wasn't even aware of what he was saying. This isn't fair at all. Please, make it stop, make it stop. But only Bruce can make it stop, and he can't move. He wants to stand up and leave, assure them that he wants to talk about it just as much as they do. He knows they don't want to say anything on the suject, and they'll let him leave and everything will be back to normal. Just stand uup now, Banner, just get up and go.
Bruce won't move.
Tony goes on when no one else will. "And you would go on about your mom, talk to Pepper as if she was your mom, and...sometimes...you addressed Thor as your dad." The doctor blinks once, for a long time, so long that all is black for a moment and his eyelids are squeezing themselves together. A long blink, it lasts forever. Maybe it has. Maybe it will be the end of the world when he opens them again. But he does open them, and Thor looks absolutely heartbroken and all of the others guilty and Tony hasn't noticed his dark absence and is still speaking.
"You would scream if he came near you or Pepper, Bruce, scream. We had to keep him away; we thought you'd lose control. You'd..." Tony swallows nothing down his throat, though it seems to be a difficult task all the same. "You would...Bruce, you would..." He sighs. Bruce wants him to sigh forever and never speak again.
"We had to listen to you day and night, pleading for your dad not to do anything."
This is another fever dream. Wake up, Banner. Wake up. Wake up. Your father is dead, he isn't here and nobody knows what he did to you and Mom. No one has to know but you, Banner. Don't let Tony keep talking, figuring it all out. Stop him.
Please, stop them, Bruce.
Bruce doesn't stop them.
Tony and the others are asking these questions as one, though only Tony's mouth is moving and only his voice echoes in the room, frigid and afraid of moving on but knowing that they must. Iron Man stares at his friend intensely. He and the others sitting around Bruce are different; different than any therapist Bruce had ever had, who decided that his childhood was taboo and never attempted to bring it up after half a try. Bruce has no words to lie with. None grace his lips with smooth practice, because he's only ever had to lie about his childhood as a child to others and in court: Yes, I was a witness. No, I wasn't hurt. No, he wasn't there. No, I cannot identify him.
"Bruce," Tony says, having no other way to put it but bluntly,"was your father violent towards your mother?"
"I-" Bruce says, and that's all he can say. He opens and closes his mouth several times with no success, though he does manage a few strange, short beginnings of words that die on his lying lips. His eyes refuse to blink and he feels suddenly claustrophobic, all eyes on him and his life, his secrets, everything he's worked so hard to keep to himself. Bruce is speechless. Tony leans in just a bit, voice lowering.
"Bruce, was your father violent towards you?"
They've gotten to it too quickly. They're all too smart, he has to get out, get out, or else, or else, lest he's found out, and he's always found out. Dad always finds out, there's no way to keep it a secret, you might as well insult the man to his face.
Bruce's mouth is open and it won't close. He looks as calm as ever, just staring at Tony with a strange blankness in his eyes, and he's the farthest he can be to flipping out, to going all green and huge on them. A serene horror.
And then, all of a sudden, tears make their way down his cheeks, not expected in the least, and his friends are shocked to see them. They come like raindrops, leaving paths for more, and more come. Then his mouth shuts and Bruce is sobbing right then and there in front of the only six people he trusts and loves. His shoulders are shaking and his whole body is rattling like a bad car engine. He sucks in thick air and breathes out silent confessions and more sobs. He can't face his friends any longer with his calm façade when everything inside of him is turmoil. He can't show them this side of him, either, so he covers his eyes with his hands and cries into them, cries and cries and cries.
His tears are answer enough.
Tony stands and moves behind Bruce, placing but four fingers on his back. Bruce flinches violently but does nothing more, so Tony adds his palm which forces another cringe out of the man. This time it's less, so Tony adds his other hand, and then rubbing the emotionally unstable man's shoulders and back comfortingly when he realizes it's OK, it's just a natural reflex.
There are tear stains on Bruce's cheeks as he lets every tear loose, and the sadness that is always in his eyes has taken over, leaving no prisoners and no room for any other emotions who have survived the ravage.
They sit like that, needing no further explanation. They all know what is what.
Christmas comes, and Bruce is far too afraid to be near a Christmas tree or jolly people with twinkling presents and alcoholic eggnog. It's too much.
They drag him downstairs, anyway, Pepper and Tony guiding him with a hand on a shoulder as his pleads fall on deaf ears. He arrives on the scene to the sight of everyone gazing at him, expecting everything, or nothing, both of which make his stomach swoop. His entire being is tense, ready and waiting for someone to lash out at him. Bruce eyes the eggnog everyone is holding, Steve and Clint and Thor and Natasha and Pepper and Tony all with glasses gripped firmly in one hand and occassionaly taking a swig from them. Bruce stops and starts moving as he observes, not sure whether to confiscate their drinks or jump out a window, because he knows that they know, and that's making him angry. Angrier than usual, that is. It scares him more than anything, to be honest.
"It's OK," Pepper says to Bruce as they all move to a seperate room,"it's all non-alcoholic." That causes some of him to relax. Well, a lot of him. No alcohol, no losing control, nobody hurt. Perfect equation.
It's what's in the next room that makes him stop entirely in his tracks. There- right there next to the wall- is a Christmas tree. It's the most perfect Christmas tree Bruce has ever seen, trimmed and trussed. Multicolored lights hang in a perfect spiral around it, tinsel interwining with it and the popcorn strings that he can smell. Surrounding it are dozens of stacks of presents, all in neat little piles addressed to each Avenger and Pepper. The pine needles are the greenest green any person can hope to see. And not even a Hulk-green color, as Bruce had now just realized he had been fearing. It's deep and rich and beautiful. At the top is a star that twinkles, just like in the song. It has been programmed to spin in a circle, glittering gold, a miniature disco ball. It would have been beautiful, if anyone but Banner were standing there gazing upon it.
Bruce is scared to death of Christmas trees. He freezes on the spot when he sees the conifer, all decked out and tall and graceful and emanating what's beauty to all others.
No one sees his fear. They all smile at him, thinking he's in a happy shock, and he's about to express his love for them in words. They all probably think he's never had a Christmas tree before. They assume he's just speechless from the wonderful sight.
How wrong they are.
"So?" Clint asks. "What do you think?"
"Don't be afraid to tell us the truth," Tony adds.
Bruce looks away from the tree, covers his eyes with one hand to protect himself. "Horrible," he breathes, head starting to throb. "It's horrible."
"What's wrong?" Steve sees it first. "Bruce? What is it?" Natasha sees it, too. "Is something the matter?"
"No!" Bruce cries, then,"Yes! I- I mean-" He doesn't know what he means, but he can't go on; he buries his face in both hands and shakes his head. This is going all wrong. He's not supposed to be afraid of Christmas, for God's sakes. But he is, and he's ruining it for everyone else. He shouldn't have come. He really shouldn't have come...
"Bruce." He doesn't look up. He can't, he really can't. He can feel them moving closer, Pepper's hand hovering over his bicep, Thor leaning close to try and think of something to say. They're all worried, trying to assess the problem and help, but they're making it worse. They're cutting off his oxygen supply, and Banner begins to suffocate, slowly but surely.
"Bruce," Tony's voice cuts into him like a knife,"you have to tell us what's wrong."
Bruce won't say a word, but his defenses are slipping. He moves his hands from his eyes and instead rubs the back of his neck, tugs on his curls, anything to keep from looking at them. He shut his eyes and keeps his head bowed. His fingers move to tug on the hem of his shirt, the pockets of his pants.
Tony tries again. "Bruce, we need you to-"
"Christmas was the first time my father beat me."
Bruce had interrupted, unable to take it any longer, or else he might have just burst from everything around him. The Earth slows to a stop as the whole of Stark Tower's volume is cut off. Silence ensues. His teammates take turns in blinking, but look only at Bruce, shocked and maybe even ashamed. It's quiet for a long while. It takes some time for anyone to speak.
"Bruce, I am- I really am...so...sorry." It's Tony. Tony Stark. Tony Stark who never apologizes. Looks like he found a pretty good reason to do so his first time. "If I had known...I mean...I didn't think that you were afraid of it...I just thought you thought that nobody loved you. I just wanted you to...you know, be happy for once."
Bruce wants to leave. He's making everyone miserable, ruining everything with his pity-party. "I don't think I know how anymore," he says instead. It's more true than anything else he's ever told them; even his name isn't his birth one. But he had grown weary of flinching whenever he heard the sound of the name Robert, and his mother had always preferred his middle name, anyway.
"Then perhaps you should learn once more," Thor suggests. "We shall not let the night go to waste. Come, Bruce. I shall teach you."
Clint says,"I'll teach you."
And Natasha. "I'll teach you."
Steve smiles. "I'll teach you."
Tony looks into Bruce's eyes. "And so will I." Pepper joins her hand with her boyfriend's. "And I will, too."
Bruce almost starts to cry again, because this isn't cheesy at all. It's beautiful.
The party is the best Bruce has ever attended. They blast the music on high and turn the lights all the way up. They keep away from the Christmas tree, even shut the lights in the room it's in so they can't see it. And, as they promised, they all teach Bruce to be happy.
Tony teaches Bruce how to waltz. They clasp their right hands together; Bruce's left hand rests on Tony's shoulder, and Tony's left hand is placed on Bruce's side (this makes Bruce blush, and Tony beams like sunshine and whispers in Bruce's ear how cute it looks. The others don't hear this). They move around the room, and the doctor falters at first, clumsy and staggering, making him feel like a baby elephant and Tony like the teasing gazelle. Soon, though, sooner than Bruce thought, they're moving with ease, and Bruce is proud. He hasn't been proud of himself in...maybe ever. But the pride quirks his lips, and the quirk makes Tony smile brighter, which makes Bruce feel lighter in turn; soon they are both sunshine gazelles.
(Bruce's dad threatens to kill him many times, but the closest he actually gets to doing it is when his son returns from school when he's eleven. His mom is sleeping on the floor of the kitchen, a purple fingerprint necklace around her throat. There is no one to stop the man from grabbing his son from behind and pressing a knife against his throat; it had been simmering in the fireplace for a little while, now, most definitely on purpose. The flat side is shoved onto the skin under his chin, and Bruce can't cry out because he's choking and burning and too afraid to do anything. His father lets go, and all that can be done for Bruce is frozen peas.)
Thor teaches Bruce how to hug. Bruce has hugged before, of course he has, don't be riduclous. His mother after she was finished patching up her son and herself in the bathroom they didn't dare lock, his aunt when she came to take him away from his father, Betty before they parted for work; she went with her dad, he went back to researching gamma radiation. He would hug her only once more when she lay dying in the hospital bed. He can clearly picture the dead body of a little girl in India who had loved him so, body crushed from he buildings he smashed in. But Thor doesn't care about personal space too much. The god takes Bruce's hand and kisses it once, like he had before, then ruffles the man's hair, then pats him on the shoulder, then on the back. It's only when he stands behind him and rests his hand on Bruce's shoulder and squeezes that the doctor jumps, backing away, jumped back to a time when a hand on his shoulder means a swift turnabout and a bloody lip. The party freezes until Thor moves forward hesitantly. Bruce apologizes profusely, but suddenly, he is wrapped in strong arms and pressed against casual Asguardian clothing. It takes him a moment to register what is happening until he reaches out and hugs back. He wonders if he's doing it right, but no one laughs, so he hugs tighter.
(Bruce's dad finds the book on physics in his son's room while scrounging for money to grab a beer downtown. Bruce comes up the stairs, only to be pushed down it, thumping and tumbling, and ultimately breaking his leg. His mother is only able to pick the lock of the closet the next evening when her husband still hasn't returned and calls the hospital; this is beyond her. The surgery and recovery is painful, and Bruce can still easily be reminded of it.)
Steve teaches Bruce to sing. Bruce has never sung before, and never thought he would actually do it. All of them sit and sing, and they don't make him do any of it on his own. Thor teaches them all Asguardian holiday songs, and Steve sits close to Bruce, but doesn't handle the man like he does with the others. He lets Bruce sing quietly, encourages him to sing louder, and Bruce does, damn it all. He sings louder.
(The night Bruce's mother leaves forever, the twelve-year-old is left outside. It's freezing and snowing, but that's what they get for living in northern Pennsylvania, isn't it? Bruce is in his bed, unable to sleep, when his dad storms in, grabs him and dumps him out the back door and into the snow. More snow falls. There is no porch to hide on. There is only snow and a horrible pain in his toes before they go completely numb.)
Natasha teaches Bruce to play the piano. They spend half of the night on one song- "Frosty the Snowman", or maybe it's "O Holy Night", but it's all a big, giddy blur to him. She shows him the bottom half, all of the chords and rhythms, and it's not long before they're playing, and everyone sings along. More likely to be Frosty the Snowman. Natasha sometimes reaches across him to get to lower notes, and he blushes at the closeness. She notices and reaches lower notes until he doesn't. Then, she smiles.
(Bruce is an adept liar. A rock through a window is easy to believe, because who will ever suspect it? And who will ever believe him if he were to say that no, it wasn't a rock thrown by a troubled kid looking for fun. It's for the best to keep the story as open-and-shut as possible. Besides, who will believe him if he tries to explain that it was not a rock, but a little five-year-old with curly hair and too-big glasses?)
Clint teaches Bruce how to eat. Of course, Bruce already knows how to eat and drink, but only in sparse numbers. His figure would be lanky if it isn't for his broad shoulders and chest after years of being the Other Guy. Bruce learns not to eat much, becomes accustomed to vegetarian diets and meals consisting on nothing but the fat of a single animal to be shared with six other people, but on this night, Christmas Eve, he dines with Clint and is shown bizarre food combinations that bedazzle on their own. He stuffs himself slowly, waiting for it all to be taken away. It isn't, so he keeps going, his high metabolism allowing him to continue well into the night. Clint marvels at this after hours of being full, high-fiving his teammate and complimenting him. It means more to Bruce than Clint knows.
(Brian Banner is skilled in many arts of abuse, including physical, emotional, and verbal.
"L'il fruh-eeg," Bruce says.
Little freak, Clint translates.)
Pepper Potts teaches Bruce confidence. The man has none, hasn't had any since he was five or so, and therefor is the most grateful for this gift that is unable to be bought. She dances with him like Tony did, but the song is slower and they're dancing closer, the closest they've ever been to each other. Tony approves of this, and doesn't laugh at Bruce's blush. Pepper smiles at it though, as if it's somehow cute or funny. He's only thinking of Betty. (The young and beautiful Betty Ross dies in his arms, cold and gray against the stark whiteness of the hospital bed. Radioactive blood isn't as useful as Bruce had originally thought.) But Pepper is warm and alive as they dance, and he's sure that he'll somehow get her killed, so he pulls away. It's not just that he's awkward. It's because he's Bruce.
Pepper frowns and takes his hand, trying to pull him back into the song. "Bruce, it's alright-"
"No," he pleads in a whisper,"it isn't. They're all dead because of me."
Tony's girlfriend moves closer, but not to dance. She murmurs so only he can hear,"I'm not going to leave you or Tony or anyone else any time soon. I'm Tony Stark's girlfriend for a reason. I think I can live through a little dance." Her lips quirk at the last remark. "C'mon. Dance with me."
"But what if-"
"What? You step on my foot? I think I'm tougher than that."
("I think I'm tougher than that if my child is in danger," Bruce's mother says to him while his father is upstairs, kept company by his beer and tantrums. Two years later, she leaves and never comes back.)
Bruce ducks his head. She doesn't understand. "I- I should have left. I'm going to get you all killed, one way or another." Pepper is adament, never wavering. "Bruce. I promise you that there will be no more innocent blood on your hands. No one is dead because of you. Don't!" she cuts across him when he opens his mouth. "Don't you dare tell me otherwise, because I know you, Bruce Banner, and I don't care whether you were the Hulk or not. Nothing is your fault. If you loved those people, then you loved them, and there is no arguing with that. If you loved them, then I know for a fact that you never hurt them. You can't harm someone you love."
Try telling that to my dad, Bruce wants to snap, but doesn't, too afraid of hurting Tony's girlfriend. He just nods, cheeks pink, and he is tugged away from his thoughts and into the dance once more. He doesn't feel comfortable with women, never has, not even with Betty, at least at first. They grew together quickly and never grew apart, like two trees intertwined. Betty was cut down only a short time after choosing Bruce to twine with, and now he grows alone, still growing and learning. He's lonely, though, and any other tree that attempts to twine with him dies, so he pushes the rest away. He covers himself in poison ivy and prickers and lets the rest of the world grow around him.
And in such a Pepper-esque way, Tony's girlfriend has managed to help strip away the "stay out" signs Bruce has built up around himself. Everyone helped, everyone took part, and, as they dance, Bruce grows less stiff, less afraid of breaking her like a twig. So he relaxes, because he knows that Pepper is strong, and all women are strong, and all humans are strong. Just because so many that he knew and loved left him doesn't mean that he has to give up. Bruce sees loyal Betty in her, sees determined General Ross in her (even if his determination is dead-set on destroying Bruce), he sees the will of humanity in all of his friends. He sees his mother in Pepper most of all. His mother was stronger than all of the Avengers put together.
(Rebecca Banner tries to escape with her son, away into the frigid air of early March with the sun just peeking over the woods to say goodbye. Her son thinks that they'll get away scot free, until his mother's lips cry out and have dark red smeared on them, running down her chin; her lips tell him to run. Bruce doesn't remember running, but he does remember the shadowy colossus of his father coming at him with a raised hand. He does remember his mother stopping her husband with a slap to the face. He remembers his mother lying limp on the ground, his father holding her head in a grip tighter than anything, smashing her head against the driveway again, and again, and again. He remembers the smell, sticky and clinging to his nostrils in contrast to the sharp scent of trees that block out his screams from their faraway neighbors. He remembers it in his mother's hair and all over his dad's hands and running down the gray pavement and staining red the toes of Bruce's brand-new white shoes. He remembers his mother's brown eyes staring blankly at the rising sun when they should have been blinking and laughing as they drove away, free from Brian Banner. Neither of them escaped the way they thought, but Rebecca Banner is free. Bruce still remains trapped, even after the man is cold and dead.)
Christmas Day rolls around at last, after long hours spent awake and a quick bit of sleep. The Avengers, like children, rush to the Christmas tree to find their pile. Bruce pauses in the doorway, watching the scene before him. His eyes turn to one spot in particular, just a bit to the left of the front of the conifer. He blinks, and he can see a little boy sitting there, innocent, smiling, a finished puzzle by him. He blinks again, and all of the twinkling ornaments are shattered on the floor, and the little boy is beaten and bloody, as broken as the once-beautiful decorations.
"Bruce."
The boy disappears. Bruce blinks and turns to see Tony standing beside him. His smile is sad. "Come on, Big Guy," he encourages.
Bruce latches his hand onto Tony's wrist, staring at the bruising child that has appeared once more. He raises a feeble pointer finger. "There," he whispers to Tony. "Right there." His friend nods in understanding, aware of exactly what he means and not needing any explanation. His eyes hold unadulterated disgust, but not for Bruce, and the billionaire doesn't hold the feelings back when he turns to look into his friend's eyes.
"It's OK. Nothing will ever happen like that, not ever again. You don't have to sit there, or go near it." Tony's eyes soften back to a green and brown amber that can be sliced with a butter knife. "Just please come in the room with us. Join your family." Bruce feels a prickle in the corner of both of his eyes, but nothing falls from them. Family. This is his family.
Bruce looks over to the Christmas tree once more. There is no beaten boy with lying underneath it. There is no drunken adult towering over him. There is only Pepper and all of the Avengers, bantering and opening gifts and laughing. He releases his grip on Tony's wrist. He doesn't need it. He's safe here, with his family.
Banner takes a step into the room and grins when he doesn't spontaneously combust. Tony follows with a hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce sits on the couch and talks and opens his own gifts and laughs. God help him, he laughs. He does his best not to think of the Christmas present that ruined his childhood. He sees no curly-headed boys with broken glasses under the tree. He sees no women lying dead on the floor, their heads bashed in. He sees only life and sunshine and love. He's been so afraid of it- love- for the longest time. He sees it now, feels it, too. His heart is here.
Bruce Banner is home.
A/N: Hope you all enjoy. I appreciate ALL reviews, including good and bad ones, as well as critiques. Tell me how I can improve, if things are repeated too many times, if I wrote the characters well and in-character, grammar/spelling mistakes. Anything. Just review, please.
Poem at the beginning is "The Wound-Dresser" by Walt Whitman.
Edit-In: For any of you readers who are also on tumblr, there is a Harry Potter rp set several years after the last book. It's called hoggywarty-hogwarts-rp. It combines several fandoms (The Avengers, BBC Sherlock, Doctor Who, etc.) into Hogwarts. Play as a character and create a fictional biography; interact with characters from other fandoms, cast spells, brew potions, break the rules, make friends, lovers, and enemies. The character of Tony Stark is now open, Avengers fans! First come, first serve.