It's eleven twenty-five A.M. and Bruce Banner is trying not to throw up.

Two months earlier he had started the long trek back to America, braving the tangled vines and saturated, heavy air of the rainforest. He had fallen into a river, got tangled in a rat's nest of creepers, almost got bitten by at least three snakes, and nearly had his face snapped off in an angry crocodile's jaws. He had been bitten by mosquitoes, starved, sweated, tripped, dropped, flopped, fallen, and had had seven near-death experiences.

He hadn't hulked out once, and this was a fact that he was very, very proud of.

Unfortunately for Bruce some nasty flies had also bitten him, and about halfway through the trip the jumbo bottle of bug spray was empty. So God only knows how many sicknesses he probably had.

Stumbling down the leafy green street, Bruce was acutely aware of the fact that he looked like a homeless maniac, the sort of person that you see in alleys and try to avoid. His hair was messy, his clothes were ripped and covered in dirt, his eyes were rimmed with red and bloodshot, and stubble grew on his cheeks that was too short to be a beard and too long to be fashionable.

But there it was. At the end of the drive. Even with his vision going slightly double he could still see the neat little house, standing there like it had been waiting for him. He started up the gravel driveway but suddenly felt dizzy and fell onto his hands and knees. Tiny, sharp bits of rock imbedded themselves in his palms and he cautiously climbed to his feet again, moving slower this time. He was sweating, and his stomach was churning, and the edges of his vision were turning fuzzy, but it would be worth it, he told himself as he dragged himself up the steps, supporting himself on the handrail. The long months would be worth it.

He pressed the doorbell. And no one answered.

He pressed it again. And again. And again, three times in rapid succession.

A woman's irritated voice called out from inside the house. "I'm coming, I'm coming! Jesus H, have a little patience…" Footsteps coming to the door. The doorknob turns.

She yanks the door open, a scowl on her pretty face that quickly changes to a dropped jaw and a look of startled disbelief. "Bruce?" a hopeful whisper. She hopes it's not a dream. She hopes he's really there. She hopes he isn't dying, because he looks like shit.

Bruce smiles, relieved. "Hi, Betty." He says, and then falls face first onto her hall carpet.

Bruce wakes up tucked under at least five blankets and wedged between two huge pillows. For a second he lies there, enjoying the crisp smell of laundry detergent.

Then he freaks out because he realizes that he has NO idea where he is.

A quick glance around the room tells him that it's definitely not any of the places he's been living in. Photos on the walls, too, so that rules out a hotel. He turns his head and sees another photo, this one on the bedside table. His vision is still a bit fuzzy, and he has to squint to make out who the lone figure is.

Male… brown hair… tall… skinny… crossed arms…

Oh. It's him.

Bruce blinks at the picture of himself and falls back onto the pillows. His head hurts, and he feels like he hasn't eaten in weeks.

He starts at the sound of the opening door, his eyes darting to the frame. Then he relaxes and lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

She walks over, a soft smile on her face, and sits in a chair beside the bed.

"You're awake."

Bruce tries to say something, but his mouth is dry and his throat hurts. Finally, he manages to croak something out. "How…long…asleep…?"

She frowns slightly, concerned. "A while. Should I get you some water?"

"Please."

She comes back a minute later with a glass, and holds it up to his lips. The cool water feels amazing flowing down his throat, and he sighs contentedly. She smiles and puts the now empty glass on the floor beside her chair.

Bruce opens his mouth. Coughs once. Starts again. "How long is a while?"

She harrumphs. "Nearly a week. You're lucky it's summer vacation, or I wouldn't have been able to stay home and take care of you."

Bruce is shocked. "A week?"

Her expression softens. "You were pretty sick." She puts her hand on his, turns it over. Traces his palm with her long, graceful fingers. "I was really worried." She whispers. She picks up his hand and holds it to her face, closing her eyes and just taking the time to feel Bruce's hand on her skin. The don't have many of these opportunities- usually their tender moments are cut short, and they are both afraid of getting too used to infrequencies.

Bruce curls his fingers and cups her cheek, stroking her face. "I needed to see you again. I was going crazy all alone."

She laughs. "The feeling is mutual."

A smile curves Bruce's lips-the first real one in over a year. "I think I can control it."

She dropped his hand. "What?"

"The Hulk. I can control it now. Most of the time. Unless something is really bad, I can keep it in check. I- Betty, why are you crying? Don't cry, please, I'm fine, I'm back, we can be together now… please don't cry, Betty, please…"

The tears course down Betty's cheeks as Bruce leans forward, almost sitting up fully. He moves his other to her cheek and holds her face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. He whispers, "Sshhh, it's okay, we're fine now. I love you, Betty. I love you. I love you. I'm home, Betty. I'm home."

And she smiles and kisses him.