Warnings: Tons of swearing. Science Cuties (with Pepper, but it's only mentioned).

The Fuzzy Idiot, The Angry Billionaire and The Smart One (who happens to be Clint)
by wuemsel

Maria Hill wasn't on board and she'd put this guy in charge, who Tony thought looked like someone in desperate need of a smack to the face and who Clint said was a complete asshole. A statement proven to be true when after two hours of waiting for Bruce to call to be picked up, they found out that SHIELD agents had already found him close to the centre of the "incident" and put him in the "safe room" that most SHIELD vehicles where now equipped with just in case.

"I don't understand," Tony said. "And when I say I don't understand, I mean I understand perfectly but refuse to acknowledge the truth, because it makes me want to bring harm to people. Why did you do that? Did he go big and green again?"

Asshole Guy in charge wore the expression SHIELD agents of that sort always wore when dealing with Tony - a mix between violent exasperation and restrained hate - and replied, "Dr Banner was in his human form, but very distressed and unresponsive."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "And you didn't alert us to the fact he's been found, because... ?"

Asshole Guy didn't say anything.

"That's where you ramble something nonsense-ish in audible fear, while I glare at you, looking hot," Tony said.

"I have a crew to protect," Asshole Guy said.

Before Tony could give him advice on protection, Steve quickly nudged his shoulder and turned for the door. "I'll get him."

"We haven't cleared-" Asshole Guy in charge called after him, but fell suddenly quiet.

The door closed behind Steve. He didn't look back to see what had shut the man up.

Steve found Tony in the lounge a little later, his laptop resting on his knees, fingers flying over the typeboard. Hearing Steve approach, he looked up.

"Bruce gone to get some sleep?" he asked.

"No. Uh, Tony," Steve said, "I think you should go talk to him."

Tony's expression darkened. "I'll fucking kill that agent." He put his laptop away and stood. "Where is he?"

Steve rubbed his forehead. "Still in the safe room."

"What?"

"He didn't want to come out," Steve said, quickly going from sounding apologetic to reflexive defence. "Rambled something about being comfy there and... yeah. I gave him a blanket," he added sheepishly.

Tony glared at him, seemingly trying to decide whether to go the easy way and blame him or explode and rant. He settled for the latter. "Aaaaargh, that fuck annoying guilt-hamstering idiot!"

"I'd use that as an opener when you talk to him," Clint called over his shoulder from where he was playing on the xbox. Nobody paid attention.

"It's this fucking... thing he does," Tony continued. "Where they do horrible shit to him and he pretends to think it's all right and he deserves it and whatnot? And he really doesn't, you know?" he added, whirling around from where he'd been pacing up and down, startling Steve. "It's all an act. I mean, yes, okay, he makes himself believe he believes it, but he really doesn't. He knows better. He just fears that if he *does* acknowledge he thinks they're fucking bastards, he'll get angry and Hulk will smash them, like he fucking should." Tony paused to think, then shook his head. "Man, I never heard it out loud. That sounded even worse than in my head."

"Well," Steve said. "You should go talk to him. And," he said after a moment's pause, "maybe we should have one of those piggy banks where you put in a dime every time you swear."

"Fuck fuck fuckety fuck," Clint sing-songed from the couch and was ignored.

Tony hadn't even listened. "I mean, that'd mean... that *means* - because obviously I know I'm right - that he thinks to protect those pathetic, scum-eating, shit-under-our-shoes-ish... *people* is more important than to stand up for his right *not* to be treated like a fucking animal. Worse! Animals get cuddled sometimes. Well, all right, so does he. This is just... I hate him so much right now!"

Steve watched him throw his arms in the air and almost smiled. Sometimes Tony was surprisingly adorable.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," Tony declared.

"You should," Steve said.

"Fucking fuckers fuck fuckers' fucking fuck fucks," Clint said. Nobody listened. Steve frowned, but wasn't sure why.

"And then I'm gonna fucking kick him till he turns green and make Hulk hit his head against the wall a hundred times."

"That seems exaggerated," Steve said, then, still frowning, asked, "Would that even do something to Bruce?"

"I fucking hope so," Tony said and marched out.

"Balls!" Clint exclaimed, this time because he'd just died in the game.

Steve half-turned his head, then shook it curtly and sat down to read Tony's Rolling Stone magazine.

All the way to the safe room - or "cell" as stubbornly called it in his mind - Tony had been prepping himself for the talk he was going to submit Bruce toand he started ranting the second the door did its mind-blowingly slow opening slide, so he wouldn't be stunned into not-talking-and-listening by Bruce's big-eyed puppy look or his sad ramblings about how they should always keep him in a cell, anyway, and he loved it in there, it was safe and all, blah blah.

That had happened too often in the past, so without looking at the figure he more sensed than actually saw somewhere to his left, Tony began, "The fuck is this again, Popples? Instead of just saying, 'Screw you, guys, I'm a person, thanks, I'll go screw my amazingly attractive boyfriend now, but only until we're home and I can screw him *and* our amazingly hot girlfriend!' and flipping them off - like we fucking practised - here you go *again* and let them throw you in their dungeon! Remember what I said *just* the other day about the worth of Bruce Banner? Remember that? When Pepper took over and explained it using smaller words, so you'd get it too? Oh, yes, wait till I tell Pep about *this*, she'll love it. 'Yes, honeyplum, after we all saved the galaxy and Hulk brought a building down on Bruce's head, Agent Assbrain had him thrown in SHIELD jail - you know, like Disneyland jail, but they never alert your family - and Bruce fucking let him, because reasons.'"

He stopped to draw in a breath and at last glanced in the general direction of the unmoving lump of blanket he assumed had Bruce somewhere inside. There was no reply, no huge sad eyes making him lose his anger, nothing but a mop of hair peeking out from under the gray-green-ish-puke-coloured blanket.

Tony frowned, took a step closer and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Bruce," he said sternly. "I'm scowling at you. Look up and pay attention."

Bruce did no such thing, but continued to sit more or less still and worry Tony.

Tony sighed. It was such a pain in the ass to love Bruce so much sometimes. Like when he was huddling in cold holding cells, behaving weirdly. Or when he hogged the blanket at night. Sure, Pep did that, too, but she'd done it first and so she had one of her own now.

Grumbling under his breath, Tony approached the trembling form and became aware of a constant low murmuring. It was breathy and trembly and it didn't sound like it'd make much sense even if it'd been intelligible. It also added to his worrying and that made him angrier.

"C'mon now, what's going on with you?" he said as he crouched down next to Bruce and reached out to touch his shoulder.

The blanket felt scratchy as hell, making Tony wince, when he spotted a glimpse of naked shoulder and collar bone. He wondered if it had been lying around all the time before Steve had given it to Bruce like he'd said. If Tony had been sitting naked in a cold room, he sure wouldn't have touched that particular blanket, either.

He shook his head curtly. Why was he even analysing this shit? Who cared why Bruce kept a sandpaper blanket wrapped around himself instead of walking the fuck out of there in the first place?

"Hey, yo," Tony said and shook Bruce's shoulder, which got him no reaction but had him reflexively reach out in case Bruce overbalanced and fell on his back.

"Jesus, Kermy, are you stoned?" Tony asked and grabbed Bruce's chin to hold up his head and turn it to face him.

"Never mind," he said softly.

Bruce looked up at him, or at least it seemed like he was trying to - his eyes kept crossing. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but just let out a small puff of breath, his head sagging in Tony's grip.

"What'd they do that for?" Tony asked, still in that gentle tone, rubbing his thumb over Bruce's cheek. "Did you rawwr at them?"

As expected, there was no reply, and Tony just continued to stroke Bruce's face, occasionally reaching up to pet his hair, as if he was calming a distressed cat. He wasn't sure if Bruce was even aware of who was with him or where he was or who he was or why he was who and where he was, but the gestures were more to comfort himself, Tony, anyway. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was surprised at the lack of anger he felt. His first reaction, of course, had been a bright hot flash of fury, but now that he was watching Bruce close his eyes and lean his face into Tony's palm a bit more, all he could feel was a weird, suffocating mixture of resignation and sadness. And fear.

Bruce looked so... helpless, the way he was sitting there, huddled under the world's most uncomfortable blanket, not even strong enough to refuse its scratchy warmth like any sensible person would. Looking at him now, the thought that somewhere hidden in that trembling body lay the biological ingridients for a smashing green giant was absurd.

Well.

A hundred times more absurd than usually, when it was already pretty absurd.

Right now, Bruce looked like he'd grown up in this cell, like he'd never worn clothes or spoken at all or knew his name (or had a name) or anything. Like he was a lab experiment some Bond-ish villian had locked up for further use after realizing it hadn't turned out the way he'd planned it.

Okay, maybe Tony was a *little* angry.

They had thrown *Bruce* in there, not the other guy. He'd personally seen Hulk start to transform back from where he'd been flying over the basically destroyed street, so he knew. The agents arriving shortly after had bundled up Bruce - confused, exhausted, post-Hulk-slow and naked Bruce - in a helicopter, brought him here, shot him full of that shit they always gave him when they thought they had to, which did not only turn Bruce into a freaking zombie but also left him hungover for days after, and locked him in a fucking cell!

Screw feeling resigned and sad! The more Tony thought about it, the more he felt like suiting up and showing them what a good smashing looked like. How dared they do that to his Bruce? To anyone, really? He didn't care much for most people, but, seriously, these were supposed to be the good guys!

Sensing a sudden gaze on him, he looked up from where he'd been staring at Bruce's limp hand lying outside the blanket on the floor and found Bruce frowning slightly, almost like he was trying to make sense of the situation.

"Hey," Tony said and smiled grimly. "You in there, champ?" He shifted his hand on Bruce's face to cup his cheek and lift his head a little higher. "Bruce?"

Bruce drew in a slow breath, which sounded like he was preparing to speak, but in the end he just closed his mouth again and blinked heavily. A violent shudder ran through his frame. Tony moved closer, so he could wrap an arm around Bruce and have him lean against him.

Unconsciously, Bruce snuggled closer, letting his face rest against Tony's neck and placing an ice cold hand on Tony's chest, seeking warmth.

Tony sat for a moment, stroking Bruce's head, his anger increasing the more he thought about the actual scenario of what had happened, of how they had treated Bruce, then suddenly stood, dragging Bruce up with him. Bruce didn't react at all, he was deadweight and apparently out like a light.

Unceremoniously, Tony wrapped the blanket tighter around Bruce's shoulders and lifted him in a fireman's carry. Bruce didn't make a sound all the way to the lounge, where Tony carefully lowered him onto one of the sofas, next to Clint, who was still playing xbox.

Bruce slowly slid to his side, until Clint's shoulder stopped him. Without taking his eyes off the screen, Clint lifted his arms, reached over with one hand and tugged at Bruce's form, until his head landed on Clint's thighs, while Tony picked up Bruce's legs to put them on the sofa as well.

Lowering his arms so they'd rest on Bruce, Clint frowned. "Ugh. Where the fuck did they buy this blanket? Gimme that one." He gestured for a plain brown woolen blanket lying crumpled on one of the other seats.

Tony did as told and covered the scratchy blanket with a softer one, so Clint could put his arms down on Bruce's side, then sat down in a comfy armchair next to the couch and looked gloomily at Bruce.

"Man, he's cold," Clint said, brushing a hand over Bruce's forehead, before quickly returning to killing what seemed to be mutant squirrels.

"Hm," Tony said.

Clint cast him a brief glance, but didn't say anything. They sat like that for a while, only the sounds of agonized shrieks emerging from the screen.

"You know they don't do it to hurt him," Clint said eventually.

"I don't care why they do anything," Tony said, sounding tired to his own ears.

"I just mean, if he told them how shitty he feels when they give him this shit, they might actually try to avoid it the next time."

"I told them," Tony said. "More than once. In various degrees of volume."

"Yeah, but they wouldn't listen to you, you're an asshole. When you talk, they hear this sound the aliens make in 'Mars Attacks'. Akk akk akkakkakk."

"Bruce was standing next to me when I told them, and he nodded. They saw him nod."

"I'm not going to fight with you," Clint said, not looking at Tony. "I'm just saying nobody round here pureposefully wants to hurt Banner. That'd be fucked up. Like kicking a very fuzzy kitten. But because sometimes he just *isn't* very kitten-ish, they're nervous. You can't blame them for not wanting to be smashed."

"He'd just transformed back. They saw him change back."

"Yeah, okay," Clint said, sounding the tiniest bit annoyed. "You're not getting my point." As if out of reflex, he absently dragged the wool blanket a bit higher on Bruce's neck so it covered more of him than the other, scratchy blanket underneath.

"No, I get it," Tony snapped. "Your point is we can never feel safe around him, so when it looks like he's not in top mental shape, it's best to sedate him like a rabid lion or something."

"You'd shoot anything with rabies," Clint said. "And that's not my point. What I m-"

"How dare they lock him up, anyway?" Tony suddenly exploded. "He's not a criminal! Or an animal or whatever they think. And most importantly, he's not their fucking property! They can't just do that, he has rights."

Clint pushed the pause-button, turned his head and cast Tony a pointed look. "He doesn't claim them, though, does he?"

Tony scowled. "He should claim his right not to be drugged and thrown in a dark cell, naked? You're saying that's not something he should expect to just not happen, anyway, because he's part of the team, a human being, super cute and sickeningly kind to every person he meets?"

"I'm sure he expects it to happen quite a lot," Clint said. He didn't notice he had started to pet Bruce's hair much like Tony had in the holding cell. "First time you guys met, they had a detachable glass cage installed just for him."

He frowned suddenly, apparently realizing that was not helping him make his point clear in the ongoing discussion, and shook his head curtly at Tony's glare. "Never mind. Of course he has rights, and of course he should feel safe here, but-" He quickly lifted his free hand to stop Tony from interrupting him, "but - he's also dangerous. And he's even more aware of that than those agents are, who don't consider him their friend or sleep with him. So what happens is they get scared when he behaves off, so they do shitty things out of fear, and then he feels guilty, because 'Omg, I'm a monster, they're right, I shouldn't be allowed to exist, etc etc' and so he lets them do shitty things to him. Like in a dysfunctional relationship."

Tony frowned, his gaze wandering to where Clint was stroking Bruce's hair in a constant slow rhythym, like he was petting a dozing cat. "Have you been reading Psychology Today on the can recently?"

Clint looked like he'd roll his eyes if this response was worthy of that much energy. "It's exactly what you told Steve earlier, dude."

"I'm willing to bet money that the term 'dysfunctional relationship' never left my mouth." When Clint didn't say anything, but just looked at him then away to turn the game back on, Tony sighed. "Okay, yes, maybe I said something vaguely like that. More sophisticated and less Oprah-esque, but sorta based on the same observations."

"That your boyfriend's grasp of his self-worth is fucked up?" Clint said, shooting squirrels again. He'd stopped petting Bruce's head and looked down briefly, when Bruce moved slightly, his nose rubbing against Clint's knee.

"You're exhausting," Tony said. He looked over his shoulder at the little housebar at the other end of the room. "Is this what couple therapy is like? Because I hate it."

"Yup."

"Won't be doing that, then." Tony walked over to the bar to pour himself a scotch.

"You'd need... throuple therapy, though," Clint said. "You lucky bastard."

"That's actually a good idea," Tony slowly walked back to the armchair, drink in hand. At Clint's frown, he added, "Not your nonsense, of course, but I should let Pep tell Bruce to stop accepting being treated like shit after missions. Or... whatever we call these," he waved his hand in a general gesture that seemed to include the whole SHIELD ship, the world and maybe everything else, "... things, when we do our shit. Pepper can be very convincing." He sat down and drained his glass.

"I bet," Clint said.

"I mean," Tony went on, not listening, "why should I do all the work? I carried him outta there, didn't I? That's what the man does, carrying people. And the woman talks to them about self-esteem and standing up for oneself and all that bull."

"What does that make Bruce?" Clint asked.

"Our green-turning hugbear, obviously."

"Sounds good. Considering what it looks like in my head, you know, if you were the one to give him the talk, telling him he's fucked up and crazy and needs to accept the fact he's Mr Hyde, but bigger - in those exact words - I'd say letting Pepper do it is the most sensible decision you could have come up with."

Tony opened his mouth to protest, then closed it and said, "Yeah, right? Yeah." He nodded and returned to the bar.

He looked up from refilling his drink, when Steve walked in, apparently back from a sparring session in the gym. His hair was still wet from the shower.

"Well?" Steve asked.

Tony gestured dramatically for the couch and walked back to his armchair, where he plopped down and sipped his drink.

Steve followed him, looking down on the motionless heap that was Bruce. "I thought he didn't sound right," he said and sat down on the armrest of the couch. Watching the killing spree on the screen for a moment, he absently rested his hand on Bruce's blanket-covered foot. "He was pretty out of it even before they carried him away. They shouldn't drug him like this just out of principle; he'll feel awful later, like last time."

"Yeah, we discussed that, and Pepper's gonna fix it now," Clint said. Tony nodded.

Steve looked from one to the other with a slight frown, but decided it sounded like the smartest way to go about anything (Tony leaving things to Pepper) and didn't comment on it. His frown deepened, when he spotted a piece of colourless material peeking out from under the wool blanket covering Bruce.

Without a word, he swiftly dragged the scratchy blanket out from under the soft one and with a stern look at first Tony, then Clint, placed it on top of Bruce, up to where Clint refused to lift his arms.

Checking his work by brushing over the scratchy blanket to smoothe it, Steve nodded curtly to himself and stood up. He ruffled Bruce's hair once and left the room.

Tony and Clint didn't look at each other, but Tony discreetly reached out to put his hand on Bruce's foot where Steve's had been.

In companionable silence they watched Clint shoot squirrels and waited for Bruce to stir.

The End?