I'm finally back, and with Bruce, too! Woop woop!

Finals are over, thank goodness, and inshallah I'll be able to keep that update promise I made two weeks ago, and give you guys the other three I've got planned so far - Clint, Thor, and Peter. Maybe Hope Van Dyne, too, though I'm not sure. Tell me who you guys want to see!

Bruce was... complicated, to say the least. Not the Natasha kind of complicated, but even worse - he's the only one, I think, who doesn't choose to 'turn on' his powers, which makes the Hulk such an intricate, integral part of him. And it was weird showing that, without making it awful. I'm still not one-hundred-percent convinced, but I do hope you guys like this chapter.

Bruce

It was the doorbell that set him off.

Bruce, as a rule, let no one know where he lived. Not his colleagues, not the Avengers, and certainly not S.H.I.E.L.D., who sniffed out assets like bloodhounds. Not even the landlord knew it was Bruce Banner in their apartment half the time, because those who knew of him expected callused, green skin, and those didn't were comfortable with their ignorance. Bruce didn't mind – he was comfortable with it too; it made life easier for him. Only Tony and Pepper knew where he lived, and that worked out just fine, because it was those two and no-one else that he trusted himself around.

The doorbell wasn't supposed to ring.

Another agreement between him and Tony: when the billionare felt like coming over, he'd call Bruce first. Never ring the doorbell, in case one day someone found out where Bruce lived.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had found him.

Bruce didn't hesitate, but he didn't cause a ruckus, either – maybe he'd convince them home was vacant. Backpacks, shirts, trousers – all of them were littered across his flat in unsurprising excess. He stuffed the latter into the former, counting the seconds until the bell would inevitably ring once more, praying that it hadn't been Tony who gave him away. Praying that the other guy wouldn't make his first debut in months.

The bell rang again, its deep clang jarring as its reverb echoed across the flat. Bruce flinched, running into his bedroom to look for money.

Thirty seconds.

Two minutes tops, before they crashed in and began shooting, and then the other guy would definitely rear his head. Bruce couldn't hope for Natasha, not anymore, because S.H.I.E.L.D. no longer trusted them near one another. It was Bruce and his backpack and possibly the pipe he'd have to scale to escape unnoticed; though knowing Fury, his agents would be stationed in every nook and crevice. The bell went off once more. Bruce's hands were shaking. Veins melting into a pulsing vomit green.

No.

He didn't know how to climb, but the window would have to do, and if they found him – well, he'd think about that then. Or maybe he wouldn't, maybe he'd be encased in ripped fabric and deafening roars, and they'd be forced to cope with someone else.

Bruce just hoped that whatever brought them wasn't a fight.

He threw open the window, his breathing hot and hurried. He lived on the first floor – one of many precautions he and Tony had taken when scouting for an apartment, and there were rubbish bags piled beneath the ledge, where neighbours didn't care to go. Maybe Bruce wouldn't have to climb after all. His mind raced, calculating forces and trajectories; estimating just how much the landing might hurt him.

Another high-pitched buzz. Bruce flinched; crouched to take the leap. With luck, he'd avoid spraining his ankles.

They just had to find him, hadn't they? Even though he'd been kind, he'd been quiet, avoiding experiments and villains and stress, with only silence and sentimental movies emanating from his apartment. He and Tony conversed now and then, sure, and Natasha was as wily as ever, claiming that she knew where he lived but never actually visiting to prove it, but he'd never let himself stress out. He did everything slowly, methodically, with precision his college professors would probably admire; never leaving his time to chance. Bruce had done his best, truly, and they still wanted him.

Next time, not even Tony's gonna know.

Bruce thought, then threw his bag below, where it hit the pile with an unremarkable thump. S.H.I.E.L.D. were being generous. He couldn't count on them waiting any longer than they already had.

The bell went off again, twice in quick succession.

Bruce paused. Twice?

Sure, S.H.I.E.L.D. hunted with scary determination. But they prided themselves on being professional, too. Never in a million years would they act desperate.

Maybe it's a trick. To draw you out, make you look through the hole.

No, Bruce would not look through the hole. They'd see the sudden shadow, clear as day, and they wouldn't hesitate. He turned back to jump, for real this time, before a low hum reached his ears.

He caught Banner, door, and please.

What the hell?

Bruce was dreaming. He had to be. He tiptoed off the ledge, inching toward the door. Still avoiding the eyehole. The door, tall and mahogany, seemed to be mocking him.

"Uh, Dr. Ban – sir? Are you in there?"

The voice belonged to someone young – no, an honest-to-god kid, it had to be – high and just a tad desperate. It echoed again, and Bruce reeled at the sound of it, trying hard to imagine how a kid of all types of people would end up here. A sick S.H.I.E.L.D. trick? They started young, didn't they, those agents? Though not that innocent, he hoped. Natasha's workplace was many things – warped, dangerous, unfailing – but above all they protected the people, and surely, Bruce hoped, that meant no kids.

So Bruce did the unthinkable. He opened the door.

Sure enough, before him stood a boy, with wavy, russet hair and wide brown eyes. Just a couple inches taller than Tony. He was dressed for his age, in a hoodie and geeky t-shirt, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

The boy's hand jolted toward Bruce, and Bruce jumped back. His visitor's cheeks turned a faint red.

"Uh, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Mr. Stark sent me here. I'm uh - well, my name's Peter Parker. Sorry if I burst in on you."

Bruce was ready to murder Tony.

Forget what he'd said about the Hulk. Hulk was _great_. If Hulk showed up, the billionare would probably feel just a smidge of the worry that had consumed him for, what, fifteen minutes?

There's a teenager in my kitchen.

Peter-something – Bruce didn't know, and he didn't especially care just yet. He needed to process the facts first. A sixteen-year-old boy was making him chamomile tea. Tony was, as Pepper and J.A.R.V.I.S. had both put it, unavailable. And he, the guy with seven PhDs, was lost and pissed off.

"Dr. Banner? Do you prefer sugar or no sugar?"

"No sugar, thanks."

At least the kid was sweet.

"Oh, okay then. Coming your way right now, sir."

Bruce wasn't quite sure what to do with all the misters and sirs. He hadn't been shown that much respect since he'd first become the Hulk; back when he'd become too volatile to teach and too feared to be a scientist. He suspected it was just the kid's own habit. Peter – he'd better get used to calling him Peter, if he wanted to return the politeness – seemed too awed and wide-eyed for his own good, as he meandered into the living room with two steaming mugs.

"It's, um, still pretty hot. Though you'd probably already know that." The kid looked like he was chastising himself, as he blushed once more. "Just thought it'd be helpful for what I'm about to say."

"Yes, about that." Bruce pointed at the kid as he said it, hoping the blush wouldn't worsen. It did anyways, and he apologised hurriedly before talking again. "You are here, because..."

"Oh! Because, um, Mr. Stark sent me."

"I get that, ki– Peter. But why did Tony send you? Why didn't he come? How'd you even–" Bruce frowned as he thought. "How'd you even know him?"

"I've got news from Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner." Peter paused, breathing slowly. "I, uh – he didn't actually send me."

"He didn't send you. Well, that's great."

"I swear I'm not breaking in! It's just, he looked so guilty and depressed, and coming here would have made him even worse, and he really doesn't need that. So I asked Ms. Potts for your address, and I came myself. He wanted it to be him, but no-one's letting him outside the mansion right now."

"Huh." Well, if Pepper let him through, the kid was worth trusting, Bruce deduced. Then his brain caught up with the rest of Peter's short speech.

"Woah woah woah, what's wrong with Tony, Peter?" He watched as the boy cringed, his expression turning more distraught. "Peter, is he okay?'

"He's not injured, Dr. Banner."

Bruce nodded, slowly. "Alright, that's good. Good news. So then what's the problem?"

Peter's hands began shaking – much like Tony's did when something wasn't right. Bruce could suddenly feel his chest shudder, his insides folding tightly into themselves. It didn't help that Peter started crying – dozens of small droplets that slid right off the leather couch and onto the floor.

"Woah, Peter, it's okay. It's okay." Bruce's mind was racing. It was harder thinking through his mounting anxiety. Was it the Hulk? Maybe the kid was scared?

"Peter, just tell me what happened to Tony. I'm not – I'm not going to do the Hulk thing, okay? I know I'm famous for that, but I won't do it."

Peter nodded, sniffing. He muttered a small "I'm not scared of that, Dr. Banner," and Bruce's heart squeezed at that, though not out of joy. Because if it wasn't the Hulk that scared this kid, then something truly terrible had happened. Bruce reached for his tea, which was lukewarm now. He felt thankful for the kid's idea to make some.

"Dr. Banner, I – Mr. Lee passed away."

Bruce felt confused, especially when Peter erupted into tears all over again.

"Mr. Lee?" Bruce didn't know anyone named Lee.

Peter nodded, and his next words were interspersed by small hiccups. "Mr. Stan Lee."

"Oh."

And before Bruce knew it, droplets were landing in his tea.

Peter cleaned up pretty fast. In only ten minutes or so, his eyes were dry again (Though still shot with red), and his grip on the mug was firmer. Gaze locked on Bruce, who hadn't said anything for a torturously long five minutes.

Bruce could see the kid, clearly. He could hear his thoughts, whirring and weeping and screaming, and he heard them clearly, too. But all he could do was cry. Truth be told, he was scared, scared that he'd be a furious griever who would break his peace and then break the kid before him in half. Wasn't this just perfect for the Hulk? To show up and start throwing things just so Bruce wouldn't have to deal with emotions?

After the Chitauri, after Fury had finally let Bruce exist without the need to run – unless they needed him drafted, Bruce thought, bitterly – Stan had been one of the few Bruce had gotten to know all over again, even though back then the thought had scared him out of his wits. But Stan was safe, always had been, all slow limbs and soft words, everything about him emanating kind, old age. Stan had first come into Bruce's life as a witness: a Howling Commando, one of the few left who recalled Steve Rogers in action; who could tell them whether their serum recreation was working. He had stayed as a curious friend, and he had stubbornly stuck with Bruce even after everything had gone awry, and the scientist had warned him to stay away. When Bruce had reached out to him again, years later, Stan had been delighted to hear from him again. That he was Tony's friend too was lucky coincidence, and though they never spoke together as much as Bruce wished they could, Tony told him all sorts of stories, and that had been good enough for Bruce.

No, not good enough anymore. Stan was dead. He was stuck in a cold morgue, and Bruce wouldn't be allowed to see him, and their last talk had been a two-minute phone call.

Stan is dead.

Bruce heaved, his tears still coming but now faster and heavier, like a cloud that had hung grey for too long. Peter's image before him blurred and then focused and then did the whole thing all over. But Bruce couldn't concentrate, not on that, not on anything except how every one of his plans failed, how the piece of shit Hulk in him filled him with shame and regret whether he chose to talk or hide, how Stan had been the only person he'd done both with and it had still ended in death and misery.

The death, he'd seen it coming. He wasn't stupid, after all. The knotted, arthritic movement, the dementia-like daydreams of the past, the heart-rending acceptance that came when the person knew their body was giving up and no longer fought against it. But still Bruce had insisted on imagining it as a thing of the future, because the world was so big and wonderful now, surely someone out there had found something for people like Stan. But no, they hadn't, Stan was dead, and only the memory of a meeting five months ago was left, because Bruce had only called him after that.

The mug cracked.

Bruce looked down, and so did the ever-silent Peter. They'd both finished their tea – he could see Peter's cup because it was back on the table – but that didn't mean the crack didn't terrify Bruce to his core. A small scar tearing through the ceramic; nothing glue couldn't fix.

Neither of them, however, missed the pulse of green in Bruce's hand.

"Peter." Bruce tried to keep his voice level. His chest was stuffed; he could feel the tightness strengthen its hold. "Peter, I'm sorry, I really am, but you should go."

Peter stared at him, eyes wide.

"Did you– did you hear me? Peter? I'm not stable right now. You need to go, kid, before something bad happens."

Peter raised his brows, before uttering a small oh.

"Sorry, Dr. Banner. You just haven't, uh, spoken in a while."

Fair enough. "I'm sorry about that too, Peter, I really am. But you need to–"

"Go?" Peter suddenly flushed. "Oh God, sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt you–"

"That's alright–"

"But no, Dr. Banner, sir, I don't need to go."

"Oh?"

"I don't think you'll be dangerous, sir. You're grieving, like Mr. Stark is. You shouldn't, um. You shouldn't stay here alone."

Bruce stared at the kid, who looked back with equally unsure eyes. He didn't think Bruce would Hulk out? That was a first.

"You're sure about this?"

Peter nodded, and Bruce felt even more surprised.

"I'm the Hulk, kid. I don't know where you know Tony from, but I don't think he's told you what I can do."

The teenager shook his head, frowning. "You're not Hulk. You're Dr. Bruce Banner. You're like the biggest scientist of the century! And I'd be thrilled to meet you any other day, really. I love everything you do!"

"You're serious, Peter?"

"Yeah, really serious! You're one of the coolest people on Earth!"

Bruce snorted. "Stan wouldn't think that. But– thank you for the compliment."

"What? No, Mr. Lee said you were the best!"

Bruce's head jerked up, and he stared at the kid. "You knew him?"

"He, um. He lives – lived – nearby. We were friends. He always told me you'd been incredible back when he worked with you. And, well, you're Dr. Banner!"

Peter grinned at him – awed but hesitant, Bruce would put it. He could see why Tony would want to be friends with a kid like him.

Stan admired him. Had, Bruce reminded himself, shuddering. But he hadn't seen Bruce as some half-hearted buddy he spoke to when the day got too dull. He had liked him. Talked about him to some random kid, like it was an everyday discussion.

He hadn't messed up.

Peter stayed, long after Bruce cried again, long after he started laughing and whooping with joy, long after the sun brushed the horizon. After all, Peter was grieving, and though Bruce didn't know the first thing about teenagers or what Peter and Stan had shared, he knew well enough that ice-cream and conversation were universal. They talked for hours, mostly about science, and Bruce told the kid – wide-eyed, tearful, grinning – about Stan's story. How he'd marched in purposefully, demanding to help Steve, even after half a dozen scientists reiterated he was too old. How he still grinned at Bruce even after the Hulk was born, only saying you should see the things Howard used to do. How he'd brought Bruce and Tony even closer and marvelled at both of them despite not understanding a single thing about their careers, how he drew and told stories whenever science got too cruel. How Stan had divulged the secrets Steve had divulged back in '43: It wasn't just the superhuman speed and strength, it was superhuman empathy too, an amplification of everything that made Bruce human. How, after years, Bruce had finally began to feel human once more, and sure, it was Tony who really brought him back, but Stan had started him on that journey.

"It makes you stronger, my boy, not just in your body, but up here, too." They'd had the discussion years ago, over a lukewarm cup of coffee, and Stan had pointed up at his own forehead, smiling softly.

Peter left shortly after sunset – very early, in the midst of November. But they were friends now, and they planned to ambush Tony at the Stark mansion very soon.

Bruce was supposed to be mourning. Truth be told, he was, because his chest still squeezed and he spurted random tears. But he'd become used to death and distance, to losing friends and family to a vomit-green alter-ego. And here was a man who was none of that, who had arrived at the beginning and stayed till the very end.

So when Bruce went to bed, it was with tears in his eyes, regret clasped in his hand, along with his phone, and a slight anger floating around him. But he could feel all that, feel it and not transform. So he smiled, too.

Pro tip: when you don't know how to write a character, insert another character and write that one instead. Works every time.

All jokes aside, I didn't want to give every character an intricate, serious relationship because that's just not realistic. I just wanted to see what Stan Lee would bring out in each of them (Anger, despair, Pride/Longing, regret - thats the order here so far), and Bruce, who's often alone and locked in his own head, has a pretty shaky grasp on feelings from what I've seen. He's a lot of things all at once, and without someone there for him to talk to, he sounds almost scary weird. he feels so much and he can't show it because Hulk, and he deserves a shot at figuring it out for once. And I got to try one of my favorite unexplored interactions - an excited Spidey and weirded-out Bruce. And their situation is weird, but oh well.

Sorry for all the philosophical character talk! Drop a review and tell me what you think - I think I'll do Clint tomorrow.

Love, Mariam