Next chapter! Thank you all so much for your support! Your reviews keep me going:)

So we're about halfway done. This is kind of a filler, but hopefully next chapter I can pick things up. Trust me, it definitely picks up soon, I have plans for these characters.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: slash, language, past self harm, mentions of depression, mentions of abuse and rape, Ross being an unbalanced douche (the usual).

Enjoy!

Clint stared blankly at Bruce's empty desk on Monday morning, tapping his pen against his lip absentmindedly. Natasha had mentioned Bruce was supposed to come back that day, just in time for the end of Spirit Week and Thor's last football game. He wasn't sure if Bruce would want to go, but Tony insisted that it would be good for Bruce to get out of the house for a couple hours. Clint was less certain; Bruce didn't do well in large crowds, especially not when he was upset, and the last thing he needed was more stress.

When Bruce didn't show up that period, Clint figured he'd decided to take another day. Clint couldn't fault him for it; for the past week, Bruce had done nothing but deal with distraught relatives and cops questioning him about that night. Clint still wasn't entirely sure what had happened. Tony glared at him when he asked and told him it wasn't any of his damn business. Steve had said softly that he wasn't comfortable discussing it without Bruce there. Thor had told him as much as he could, but Thor didn't tell stories in a linear fashion and tended to get distracted, so he had given a very disjointed account of what they had seen, at best.

He sat down across from Natasha at the lunch table, setting his lunchbox down in front of him on the table. She glanced up from her math homework and nodded in greeting.

He managed to keep himself from asking for about forty five seconds before blurting out, "Where's Bruce?"

"In the guidance office," Natasha replied without looking up from her math homework. "Xavier wanted to talk to him before he attended classes again."

"How's he been?" Clint asked softly.

Natasha sighed shortly and closed her book. She pursed her lips and considered a moment before replying, "He has nightmares, when he does sleep. Most of the time he doesn't even bother. Every time Rick walks in the room, Bruce finds some excuse to leave. He barely eats anything."

Clint bit the inside of his cheek and nodded shortly, turning his sandwich over in his hands. "What does he need to help?"

Natasha pursed her lips and shook her head helplessly. "I don't know. Space. Time." She paused for a moment. "Us."

Clint shrugged and smiled at her warmly. "Well, we've got his back, right?"

"Yeah," Natasha agreed, the corner of her lips twitching slightly as her eyes flickered over Clint's face. "We've got his back."

Thor picked unenthusiastically at the sandwich in front of him, a deep ache in the pit of his stomach. He took a bite, but immediately regretted it; he felt like he'd taken a bite out of a cardboard box, and it was almost impossible to swallow. He set the sandwich back down on the table and pulled a face, disgusted.

"Not hungry?"

Thor looked up from the table and came face to face with Natasha. He moved his backpack off of the table so she could take the seat across from him and set her lunchbox on the table between them. He shook his head and replied softly, "Not particularly."

Natasha pursed her lips and dug into her lunch box for something. After a few long moments, she spoke up. "It's hard seeing something like that happen to someone else."

He didn't have to ask who or what Natasha was talking about. Thor swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably, and picked at the crust of his sandwich. "I wouldn't ever wish it on another."

Natasha nodded in silent agreement. She waited a few moments before inquiring, "When's your next game?"

Thor shrugged and dropped his gaze to the tabletop. "I am not entirely certain. I may not be participating. I have missed a considerable amount of practice."

"Are you sure you're alright, Thor?" Natasha asked quietly, her bright eyes meeting his steadily.

Thor forced himself to smile. "Of course. I am simply tired. I have had a lot of work lately."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, indicating that she wasn't buying Thor's words at all. She pushed a bag of crackers towards Thor, offering them silently. Thor felt sick just looking at them, but hesitantly reached out and plucked one from the bag. He didn't miss the flash of satisfaction in her eyes when he popped the cracker into his mouth and forced himself to chew and swallow, despite his rolling stomach.

Bruce swallowed hard, his throat dry and his stomach rebelling against the half a bowl of oatmeal Alyona had practically force-fed him that morning. Principal Xavier was doing that uncomfortable thing where he stared without speaking, looking like he understood everything running through Bruce's head, and Bruce hated feeling like his mind was being picked apart.

After a long time, Xavier broke the silence. He met Bruce's gaze solemnly and asked, "How have you been coping?"

"Alright," Bruce replied. He winced inwardly when his voice cracked from disuse. He cleared his throat and continued carefully, "I…I think it will help to get back to classes. Some normality."

"Your father's pre-trial is tomorrow, isn't it?" Xavier asked, his sharp eyes flickering over Bruce's face. The bruises had mostly healed, but splotches of dark skin still marred his jaw and cheeks. He bit back a sympathetic wince; even after all the years that had passed, he could still recall being constantly covered in bruises. It was uncomfortable, to say the least.

Bruce nodded, tangling his hands together in his lap and cracking his knuckles nervously. Xavier scrutinized him closely. "Are you testifying?"

"I have to," Bruce said tightly. His gaze darted from the floor to meet Xavier's for a moment, holding his gaze steadily as he spoke. "I was there. I'm not going to let him get put in prison because my mother tripped."

"Ah, yes," Xavier steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "So you've said. The police, however, seem to think differently."

"They're wrong," Bruce said simply, something in his dark eyes daring Xavier to argue.

Xavier sighed softly and dropped his hands to his desk to rearrange some of the papers in front of him. "I have been at this school for a long time, Mr. Banner, but I have very rarely come across someone who lies quite as well as you."

"I appreciate the compliment," Bruce smiled wearily, a sharp edge to the grin. "But I'm not lying."

Xavier pursed his lips doubtfully. He "Whatever he threatened you with, Bruce, I promise that if you tell the police what he's done to you, what he did to your mother, he'll be locked away for the rest of his life. He can't hurt you."

"He didn't do anything wrong," Bruce repeated stoically.

Xavier nodded, looking slightly disappointed, but not refuting Bruce's statement. "Just know that you can talk to any of the teachers here if you…if something changes. We just want to keep you safe."

"The safest place for me to be is with him," Bruce replied steadily, an undercurrent of honest belief in his voice that shook Xavier to the core. "And he's innocent."

Bruce clutched his t-shirt and sweatpants against his chest and ducked into one of the shower stalls in the locker room, praying silently that Ross wouldn't notice him. He hadn't felt the older man's eyes on him when he'd walked in, and Ross hadn't given any sign he'd seen him, but Bruce couldn't help but be a little wary of him.

Not just because Steve wasn't there.

He could damn well take care of himself; he didn't need Steve to be his guard dog.

However, he had to admit to himself that Steve's steady and protective presence did feel good despite his own ability to handle himself.

He jumped when the curtain was torn open, and clutched his shirt to his chest, gripping the fabric tightly between his fingers. Ross raised an eyebrow and stepped inside, jerking the curtain closed behind him. Through the crack between the ceramic wall and the plastic curtain, Bruce saw the last of Ross's lemmings scuttle out of the room, leaving them alone in the deserted locker room.

"I heard you were coming back today," Ross grinned widely, making no move to get closer to Bruce, but hovering over him threateningly. Bruce pushed himself against the wall, pressing his back against the cool tile despite the shots of pain it sent through his body. "I missed seeing you around. This place isn't half as entertaining without a pretty thing like you around to woo."

"This is wooing me?" Bruce said incredulously, hoping his panic didn't edge into his voice. Since that night, he could feel his control slipping, feel himself losing the tenuous grip he'd managed to keep on his anger and betrayal, and fear that left him paralyzed and sweating when he woke himself up from nightmares. "Cornering me in a shower stall, groping me in the hallways, telling me what you want me to do for you in explicit detail, this is wooing me?"

"I use the term loosely," Ross admitted, his grin growing sharper. He stepped closer to Bruce, still not touching him, but forcing Bruce to crowd into the corner of the showers and glare up at him defiantly. "But it's what I am trying to do, Bruce. I like you. Is that a crime?"

"Liking me is not a crime," Bruce agreed tensely. "Harassing me is."

"You're throwing around some pretty weighty words now that your dad's out of the picture," Ross frowned at Bruce disapprovingly. "What are you going to do, report me? We both know you don't have the balls to go through with it."

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but froze at Ross's next statement. "You would just lie about it anyway. You'd protect me the same way you're protecting your father."

"I'm not protecting him," Bruce said coldly, his heart beating faster in his chest. "It's not a lie. Move out of the way."

"I saw what happened," Ross hissed, closing the distance between them and shoving Bruce against the wall before he could escape. His mouth was so close to Bruce's that their lips brushed. "I heard her screaming from next door."

Bruce's chest heaved against Ross's and he met the larger man's gaze, trying to keep his expression impassive and cold. Ross's knee pressed between his thighs, forcing his legs apart and rubbing the fabric of Bruce's jeans against the burns. Bruce gasped ad shifted uncomfortably, struggling in vain to find a less awkward position. Ross grinned darkly and patted Bruce's cheek lightly. "I'm sorry for your loss. You know what could take your mind off it?"

"Fuck you," Bruce spat, digging his fingernails into Ross's chest and scraping at the skin of his arms, desperate to get out of that small, suffocating space. His vision was white with anger and he had to force himself not to physically lash out. "How about you get the fuck away from me and get your fucking hands off me, you disgusting, perverted sonofabitch!"

"I like you better when you're too fucking terrified to talk," Ross muttered, frowning disgruntledly and shifting to get a better hold of Bruce's hips.

Bruce managed to slide down the wall enough to get an angle to slam his knee into Ross's crotch, but the curtain flew open again before he could.

Steve stood in the opening of the shower, his arms crossed over his chest and glaring threateningly at Ross. He demanded angrily, "What the hell are you doing?"

"We were just having a conversation," Ross said innocently, releasing Bruce and smiling innocently. Bruce sagged against the wall for a moment and pressed his hand to his chest, trying to get his breath without obviously inhaling huge gulps of air. "No need to freak out about it. He just wanted to talk."

"I don't think he wants anything from you," Steve snarled, indignant at Ross's innocent, blameless attitude when he'd just been pinning a panicked, scared seventeen year old against the wall in a the shower stall of a deserted locker room. "The man told you no."

Ross stormed out of the shower, pushing Steve out of his way and striding towards the gym door. He paused at the entrance to the gym and called over his shoulder. "I'll catch you later, Bruce."

Steve ignored him, turning his attention to Bruce, who still stood in the center of the shower stall, half clothed. Steve bit his lip and said softly, trying to get Bruce to snap out of his daze and focus on him, "Bruce."

Bruce started and his eyes focused on Steve for a moment. He blinked a few times and pulled on his shirt again, tugging the fabric to hide the bruises covering his torso. He cursed softly when he realized it wasn't his gym shirt and started to take it off again, but Steve gripped his wrists, stilling his hands. "Wait a minute. I was thinking we could take a walk."

"During class?" Bruce glanced warily at the door to the gym. "I…I've already missed over a week…"

"Don't worry about it," Steve assured him, holding open the shower curtain and letting Bruce step through before him. "We'll be back by next period."

Steve led the way to the cleared path that ran around the outdoor fields, his boots sloshing through the muck the melting snow left behind. Bruce plodded along next to him, his gaze darting around the fields and the snow-covered trees with interest, as if that was the first time he'd ever seen them.

"Where are we going?" Bruce broke the silence of the deserted field, wrapping his arms around himself and rubbing his upper arms in an effort to generate some warmth.

"Just trust me," Steve turned around to smile at Bruce. He noticed the shudders running through Bruce's thin frame and pulled off his sweatshirt to press it into Bruce hands. "Here, take that. I don't need it."

Bruce pulled the sweatshirt on gratefully, shoving his hands into the pockets. He looked up at Steve and stopped walking for a minute, casting his gaze back towards the school. "I'm not sure if this is a good—"

"Don't worry," Steve cut him off, smiling a little bit. "I promise, it's okay, Bruce. You're stressed right now, Logan will understand if you need some time. Don't worry."

"Don't worry?" Bruce repeated faintly, mildly incredulous. His lips curled into a sarcastic grin and he picked up his pace to fall into step with Steve again. "Wow, if only I'd known that anxiety could be immediately alleviated by a few words of wisdom." Steve cocked an eyebrow at him, a little shocked at his sharp tone. Bruce wasn't looking at him; he was staring at the ground determinedly, a small frown fixed on his face. Steve regarded him closely, noting the purple bruise-like circles under his eyes and the still puffy red skin around the healing scratched on his cheek.

They walked together in companionable silence again for a few minutes, before Bruce asked softly, "Do you remember her?"

"Who?" Steve asked, glancing down at Bruce.

Bruce shrugged and a light blush spread through his cheeks. He ducked his head and muttered, "You mom, I mean. I mean, never mind, it's none of my business…"

"It's fine," Steve brushed off his stuttered apology. "I don't mind." Steve dug his hands into his pockets and continued quietly, "I mean, what I remember of her is mostly from after she got sick. I…she used to take me to church on Sundays, even when she first started to feel sick. It was…it was nice. I wish I still…I wish I went as often as I used to."

"My mom was always into that, too," Bruce admitted quietly, scuffing his boot over the ground. "I could never…not with my dad..."

Steve sometimes forgot that Bruce's mom had been religious. He'd seen her at the church fairly frequently, all warm smiles and gorgeous, curly hair that fell to the hem of her flowing skirt and offers to help with washing the dishes after coffee. Bruce didn't bring it up much, but Steve had watched him struggle with the spiritual teachings his mother had imparted on him and the cold facts of science and nature his father had insistently pressed on him since he'd been very young.

He reached back and unclasped the silver chain from around his neck. He paused and reached out for Bruce's hand. Bruce flinched away from the touch reflexively, paling slightly. He paused for a moment, visibly forcing himself to calm down, and set he jaw. He cleared his throat and muttered, turning to face Steve again, "Sorry."

Bruce hesitantly held out his hand again, offering his palm up to Steve. The skin of his palm was littered with scabbed over abrasions and his fingernails were ragged and cracked. Steve cupped Bruce's hands in his own and pressed the small silver cross into his calloused palm. Bruce opened his hand and looked down at it, stricken. He swallowed hard and asked quietly, "What are you doing?"

"When she died," Steve explained self-consciously, clasping his hands behind his back. "My dad gave me that. It was his. She…she'd given it to him, I think, and he gave it to me." He paused for a moment, a lump forming in his throat and making it difficult to speak. "He didn't really know how to help me, he wasn't ever good with feelings, but when he gave me that I realized that he…that he wanted to be." Steve ducked his head and shrugged, red coloring his cheeks. "It's stupid, I'm sorry."

"It's not stupid," Bruce said softly, closing his fingers around the pendant. The sharp corners of the cross dug into his palm. He reached out to take Steve's hand and give it back. "Here."

Steve hesitated for a moment, and Bruce's stomach dropped. It felt like Steve was offering him something, something important and comforting and terrifying, and Bruce wasn't quite ready to make that kind of decision. He didn't feel like he'd ever be ready to make that kind of decision. He tried not to look relieved when Steve took the chain back and clasped it back around his neck again.

Steve gave Bruce a lopsided smile and motioned towards the school. "We should probably get back."

"We shouldn't have left," Bruce pointed out, unable to keep his lips pursed into a frown. The smiled felt unfamiliar and awkward on his face, but Steve seemed satisfied nonetheless.

"Yeah, well," Steve shrugged innocently. "Clint and Tony have corrupted me, and now I'm dragging you down with me."

Bruce gave a short, soft snort of laughter and rolled his eyes.

Steve nudged his shoulder against Bruce's as they walked towards the school, adding more sincerely, "You looked like you needed a minute."

Bruce nodded reluctantly, loathe to admit that Steve was probably right. He "Thanks."

"What are friends for?" Steve shrugged one shoulder. The corner of his lips quirked upwards in a reassuring smile, and Bruce suddenly felt more off kilter than before, yet, in stark contrast, more solidly grounded and in control. He quashed the feeling the moment it began to spread through his chest, picking up his pace towards the back doors of the building, determinedly pretending not to notice the warm brush of Steve's fingers against the back of his hand.

Natasha bit the tip of her tongue and worked through the vicious cramping in her hand as she managed to write the last sentence of her history essay. She tossed the pen aside and set the book and notebook on her bedside table before flopping back onto her mattress, exhausted. She'd gotten out of rehearsal later than usual, and she'd had a ton of homework to finish when she'd finally gotten home. She glanced at the clock, groaning softly when she saw it was midnight.

She stared up at the ceiling, trying to work up the energy to slide under her comforter and finally go to sleep. She had just managed to peel back the covers when a loud crash came from the next room.

She leapt out of bed and darted into the hallway, where Alyona and Rick had already emerged from their room, bleary eyed and frantic. Alyona rubbed the sleep from her eyes and demanded hoarsely, "What happened? Are you alright?"

"It was from the guest room," Natasha replied quickly, striding down the hall without stopping to talk any longer. She flung the door open and flicked the light on.

The lamp that had been on the bedside table was on the floor, its glass base shattered into countless shards and slivers. Bruce was on the floor as well, tangled in the thin sheet and mumbling incoherently as he struggled to throw off the linin.

Natasha stepped over the glass and knelt down next to Bruce, resting her hands on his sides carefully. His sides were still bruised and tender, so she was very careful when she rolled him onto his back to move him away from the shards of glass. Bruce flailed out violently when she touched him, just barely missing her cheek with his fist. She shook his shoulders and snapped gruffly, "Bruce. Bruce. It's alright, you can wake up, you're safe. Bruce!"

Bruce's eyes flickered open and darted around the room frantically until they found Natasha's face. Confusion crossed his expression and he gasped, "Natash…Natasha?"

"Yeah, you're at my house, remember?" she asked softly, letting go of him so he could untangle himself from the blankets and sit up. He crossed his legs and leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees, rubbing at his eyes frustratedly. His chest was heaving, as if he was having difficulty breathing, and Natasha's heart leapt to her throat when she realized he might be having a panic attack. She waited a few moments before she inquired hesitantly, "Are you okay?"

Bruce nodded, forcing himself to steady his breathing and calm down. He was shaking, hard, and violent shudders ran through his thin frame. Natasha caught sight of the sleeve of a sweatshirt hanging off the edge of the bed. She tugged it off the mattress and handed it to Bruce, who, instead of putting it on, bundled it into a ball and hugged it to his chest, pressing his nose into the thick, worn fabric. Bruce let out a deep breath and replied hoarsely, "I'm fine. I just…I didn't mean to…" he blinked at Natasha and his expression fell. "Oh, God, did I hit you? I'm so sorry, I didn't, I wasn't, I panicked and—"

"Don't insult my reflexes, Banner," Natasha's lips quirked into a bare smiled and she stood up, holding out her hand to Bruce. Bruce hesitantly took it and allowed her to help him to his feet. He let go immediately, hugging the sweatshirt to his chest. Natasha caught of glimpse of the logo in the low light spilling in from the hallway; it was the Army logo she was so used to seeing Steve wear. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Are you going to be okay? Do you need something?"

Bruce shook his head, red creeping up the back of his neck. "I'm fine. I'm sorry I woke you all up. I didn't think…"

"It's not a problem," Alyona assured him, smiling warmly. "Rick will just pick up that glass and you can go back to sleep. You look tired."

Bruce tensed at the mention of Rick, his fingers digging into the thick fabric of the sweatshirt. "Okay. I…I'm going to run to the bathroom."

He darted around Alyona and skittered down the hallway, ducking his head and slinking against the wall when he passed Rock on his way by. Rick frowned at Bruce, bemused, but didn't comment. He exchanged a look with Natasha, who shrugged helplessly and watched Bruce duck into the bathroom, pressing the sweatshirt to his mouth and blinking back tears of panic.

Tony bit back a wince when Bruce's iron grip on his wrist tightened painfully. He followed Bruce's gaze to where Brian Banner was sitting next to his lawyer, flanked by two officers and his hands cuffed behind his back. Brian's sharp gaze flickered around the room every couple of minutes until he found Bruce, and his lips turned upwards into a small smile that made Tony want to throw something at him. When Brian looked at him, Bruce's fingertips dug into Tony's arm until he was sure they'd leave bruises. He turned to ask Bruce to loosen his grip, but the words died on his lips when he saw that Bruce looked like he was going to be sick. Tony dropped his free hand on top of Bruce's and squeezed his fingers briefly.

Tony didn't bother to pay attention to what the judge was saying, or what any of the state appointed attorneys were bitching about. He watched Bruce watch his father, noting the fear and resignation flickering behind Bruce's dark, troubled eyes.

He started when Bruce tugged away from him and stood up. Bruce made his way to the witness stand with his head ducked so his thick curls hid his face, and determinedly not meeting his father's gaze. He slid into the chair and rubbed his hand over his mouth nervously, his eyes flickering up to look at his father's lawyer.

Emil Blonsky stepped out from behind the podium and leaned on the edge of the empty jury box, giving Bruce a warm, reassuring smile that oozed confidence.

Tony resisted the urge to cross the room and punch the guy in the face.

"Please state your name for the court," the Blonsky said, grinning at Bruce darkly.

"Br—Robert Bruce Banner," Bruce replied. Tony was struck by how steady Bruce managed to keep his voice when his hands had been shaking so hard moments ago. It never failed to amaze him (and piss him off) that Bruce could look completely put together while he was having a complete mental breakdown.

"Do you know the defendant?" Blonsky asked, motioning towards his client. Brian quirked his eyebrow slightly at Bruce, almost mockingly, but his expression remained stoic.

Bruce ran his tongue over his bottom lip and nodded, replying softly, "He's my father."

"And, from your personal observations, can you give us an idea of how your father and mother interacted?" Blonsky asked, glancing up at the judge. The judge wasn't looking at him; his eyes were fixed on Bruce.

Bruce shrugged and said, "They've always had a pretty…normal relationship, I guess. I don't…I'm not sure what you want to know, exactly."

"Did he, to your knowledge, ever hit her?" Blonsky clarified, raising his voice slightly, irritated that the judge wasn't looking at him.

Bruce didn't even flinch. He shook his head politely, looking for all the world like he couldn't understand why Blonsky would ask him something like that. "Hit her? He would never."

"And, to your knowledge, did her ever beat her, or act emotionally abusive towards her?" Blonsky asked. The prosecutor opened his mouth to object, but Blonsky cut him off before he could, amending his question quickly, "Only from your own personal observations."

Bruce nodded slowly, chewing on his bottom lip. "I…no, he's never done anything like that. He loves…he loved her."

Bruce's voice cracked when he corrected himself, and Tony wasn't entirely sure he was acting anymore.

"And did he ever beat you, abuse you emotionally, or touch you inappropriately?" Blonsky asked. Brian Banner straightened up in his seat slightly, his dark eyes fixed on Bruce. Bruce's gaze flickered up and caught his father's briefly; Tony hoped like hell that the judge didn't miss the way Bruce went three shades paler.

"No," Bruce replied steadily.

"Now, if I could turn your attention to the night of November 21st," Blonsky smiled smugly and exchanged a fleeting look with Brian. Tony balled his hand into a fist and bit down on his knuckles, not yielding when he tasted blood. This was what Bruce wanted. He had no right to interfere (that alone usually didn't stop him, but this was Bruce, this was important), and he didn't want Bruce pissed at him for stepping in where it wasn't his business. Bruce had enough to worry about without Tony undermining him. "Was there anyone else outside that saw what happened that night?"

"No," Bruce said, swallowing hard. "Only me and him."

"Can you describe what happened?" Blonsky asked.

"My mom was upset about…something," Bruce ran a hand through his hair, pushing the wild curls off his forehead. "And she stormed outside. She said…she said she was going to do some errands and calm down. She was walking too fast, and she stepped on the patch of ice at the end of the walkway and she…she didn't catch herself in time. Her head…her head hit the…the curb and it… it was too late by the time the ambulance showed up."

Blonsky nodded silently, his gaze flickering between Bruce and the judge. "One more question, Robert, and then you can go. Did your father push her? Did he kill her?"

Tony's breath caught when Bruce hesitated for a moment. Blonsky's hand tightened on the wooden partition he was leaning against, but he kept the strained smile on his face. Brian leaned back in his chair and ducked his head to hide the small, victorious grin tugging at his lips. Bruce swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing notably, and said softly into the microphone, "No. He didn't kill her."

Tony tightened his arm around Bruce's waist, the judge's words still ringing in his ears.

See no need for this to proceed to trial…based on his son's testimony…charges dropped…

Bruce hadn't spoken since he'd stepped down from the witness stand. Tony had managed to coax him to make his way into the front hall of the courthouse, but Bruce didn't seem to be aware of what he was doing. He stumbled after Tony down the hall until they came to a stop by the front door and just sagged against Tony's side, staring down at the floor, but not seeing it. His fingers curled into the front of Tony's shirt, and Tony could feel Bruce's chest heaving unevenly against his ribs. Tony looked down at him with concern, startled by the waxy color of his skin. "Bruce, hey, calm down. Do you want to go? Let's go, alright? You don't have to go with him."

"I just lied under oath," Bruce stuttered, his breath uneven and broken. "I lied, I just fucking committed a crime for that bastard…why…why..?" Tony's heart clenched at the helplessness laced through Bruce's desperate tone. He began to reply, but paused when one of the doors on the opposite side of the hall opened.

Brian Banner strode out into the front hall, beaming at Bruce and rubbing at his wrists where the cuffs had cut into them. Bruce immediately detached himself from Tony's side and put a respectable amount of difference between them, because God forbid his father saw him holding onto his male best friend for support.

Brian approached them both and swept Bruce into his arms, pulling him into a tight hug. Bruce froze, his eyes going wide with shock. Brian kissed the top of Bruce's head, pressing his lips into his tangled curls, and squeezed Bruce gently, muttering, "God, I missed you so much, I'm so sorry, Robert, I am so sorry…" Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his father's arms, uncertain of how to respond. Brian just held him closer. "You are so good, Bruce, you are so good. It must have been hell for you, losing her, and I wasn't there to help…I'm so sorry."

Bruce managed to wiggle out of his father's grip. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, looking as confused as Tony felt. "I…it's okay. It's not…it's alright."

Brian bit his bottom lip and gazed down at Bruce, his eyes shining with tears. He nodded stiffly and wiped his hands across his eyes. "Okay. Okay. I…we should get home. I've missed sleeping in my own bed, I'm sure you do, too."

Bruce nodded and allowed Brian to grip his upper arm and steer him towards the front door. Brian suddenly stopped and turned to Tony. He smiled warmly and Tony shivered imperceptibly. "Thank you, for taking care of him these past weeks."

"It's no problem," Tony replied, dropping his gaze from Brian's face to Bruce's. Bruce was looking up at his father with a mixture of confusion and apprehension in his expression. "He's my best friend."

Brian's eyes flicked from Tony's face to his feet, and he seemed to see Tony for the first time. He inclined his head towards Tony and smiled a little bit. "Have a good night."

Tony watched them go, a cold, heavy feeling in his stomach.

Coulson scratched the back of his neck, his eyes flickering from Bruce's medical files to the man himself watching him warily from across the desk. "Listen, I'm not going to insult you by pulling out a doll and asking you to show me where your father touched you. Let's just make this easy on both of us. Did he ever touch you inappropriately?"

"No," Bruce said, shaking his head.

Coulson raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Your medical records say you came in with injuries consistent with sexual assault about a year ago."

Bruce's gaze dropped to the ground and he cleared his throat. "It wasn't…my dad never touched me. What happened…it wasn't rape."

"So you wanted to get torn up so badly you needed internal stitches," Coulson commented doubtfully. He felt a small thrill of victory when discomfort crossed Bruce's face, just for a second. "Is that what you're saying? The blood, the bruises, the bite marks, the marks around your wrists, those were all consensual?"

Bruce nodded without hesitation and said quietly, "I said yes."

"I heard you were back."

Bruce straightened up so fast he slammed his head against the hood of his dad's truck that he'd been leaning under only moments before. He whirled around and found himself face to face with Ross. He clenched the wrench in his hand and leaned back against the car, taking a deep breath to calm his heart rate. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you come out here," Ross replied, motioning to the path between the side door of the Banner's house and the detached garage. "I was surprised."

"Yeah, well," Bruce grunted, turning his back on Ross and returning his attention to the oil pump of the truck. When his dad had gotten back, his truck had refused to start, and Brian had sent Bruce out to figure out what was wrong with it. He wanted it fixed before the funeral. "Here I am."

Ross was quiet for a few moments, just watching Bruce work. When he spoke, he sounded slightly incredulous. "You know what you're doing there?"

Bruce rolled his eyes at the engine and snapped irritably, "Of course I do, it's a car engine. I've worked on things much more complicated than this."

Bruce heard Ross shifting uncomfortably behind him, but didn't turn to look at him. He hunched his shoulders and waited for the insults, and slurs, the suggestive comments, but they didn't come. Instead, the words that came out of Ross's mouth were much worse.

"It's been a year, you know."

Bruce dropped the wrench. It landed inside the hood with a loud clang, and Bruce cursed under his breath. He gripped the edge of the hood and demanded quietly, anger simmering in his tone, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Ross shrugged innocently and looked down at Bruce, exasperation clearly written across his features. "It happened a year ago. I don't get why you're still so pissed. I've been trying to apologize for a year; I've been trying to show you that I'm serious about this."

Bruce held up a hand, conveying that he didn't want Ross to take a step closer. He repeated, incredulous, "What the hell is wrong with you? Apologize? Apologize?! Terrorizing? Yes. Sexually harassing? Definitely? But apologizing? You've got a pretty fucked up way of apologizing."

"I didn't mean to do that to you," Ross snapped, anger creeping its way into his tone. "I was drunk; everyone at that party was drunk. I couldn't control myself. I liked you, I've always liked you, and I thought…"

"Don't give me that bullshit," Bruce said lowly, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. "You knew what you were doing; I told you no, I tried to push you off me, I tried to scream…" Bruce's voice broke and he ducked his head for a moment, taking a deep breath to collect himself. When he spoke again, his voice was firm and steady, "Until you stop treating me like a piece of meat and take some responsibility for your actions, I don't have to listen to a word you say."

Ross rolled his eyes and advanced on Bruce, crossing the garage in a few long strides. Bruce snatched up another wrench from the workbench next to him and held it in a loose fist at his side, ready to defend himself if he had to. Ross stopped a few inches from Bruce and said uncertainly, "You never told anyone."

"Natasha knows," Bruce muttered softly. He paused briefly, considering, before continuing, "I don't want…I don't want people to know."

"Good move," Ross nodded shortly and smirked a little, but was unable to muster the usual cold confidence behind it. "I guess by now you know that if you do tell anyone, I'll make sure the cops find out what really happened that night."

Bruce swallowed hard and clutched the wrench tightly, feeling sick to his stomach. "Leave."

"What?" Ross raised an eyebrow skeptically, mildly amused. "You think I'd do it again?"

Bruce pursed his lips and nodded stiffly, not loosening his grip on the wrench.

Ross sucked in a deep breath and nodded in reluctant understanding. "Okay. Alright. I'll go, I guess. I'll see you at school."

Bruce eyed him warily as he turned and made his way out of the garage and back to his own house next-door. He turned back to the truck and set the wrench back down on the bench with shaking hands, before gripping the edge of the hood to support himself, his chest heaving unevenly.

"I see that your mother recently filed to get you back," Coulson said, fixing Clint with a look full of sad understanding that pissed Clint off.

"I turn eighteen in a few weeks," Clint replied shortly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a frown at the mention of his mother. "By the time Barney can leave, I'll be old enough to take him with me."

"If the court grants you guardianship," Coulson pointed out. "You'll barely be nineteen. It might be difficult, especially with a record."

Clint swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably, and shrugged, trying to look unconcerned. "Only vandalism. It was just a couple pranks; people blew them way out of proportion."

"That wasn't what I meant," Coulson smiled mildly. "It's a crime to lie to the police in this city."

Clint cocked an eyebrow. "I don't see how that affects me."

"You don't?" Coulson repeated, smiling innocently. "Well, if it comes out (and trust me, it will) that Banner is a murderer, and we find out that you lied for him, I'm going to have to charge you for it."

Clint narrowed his eyes at Coulson. "Good thing I'm not lying then."

Coulson pursed his lips into a thin smile, trying to hide his irritation. "Good thing."

Clint couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a church. His mother had been religious before she'd fallen off the wagon and turned to alcohol instead of God for help, so he assumed that he'd been at some point in his youth, but nowhere near often or recent enough to remember when to stand or kneel. He followed the lead of the people around him, watching Bruce out of the corner of his eye.

Bruce didn't seem to know when to stand or sit any more than Clint did (or maybe he just didn't care), because he stayed where he was, hunched over at the end of the pew. Tony was sitting in the pew next to him and stretched his arm across the wooden back of the seat, not touching Bruce's shoulders, but close enough to offer some sort of comfort. Bruce looked almost as bad then as he had the night his mother had died; Clint attributed it to being back at home with his father. There were no new visible bruises, but he knew from experience that not everything that hurt a person left a physical mark.

The service for Rebecca Banner was brief and not well attended. Brian Banner was nowhere to be seen, but Clint had no intention of bringing it up with Bruce. Earlier that day, Bruce had mumbled something about not knowing most of his mother's family because his father had forbidden it, and the sight of the ten or twelve other people in the church made Clint's stomach clench. None of them had seemed to know which person Bruce was when they had arrived.

The final notes of the closing hymn echoed off the high ceilings of the church as the closed coffin was rolled out the side doors towards the cemetery by four men Clint assumed had to be Bruce's cousins.

Clint didn't follow the small procession out to the graveyard. Rebecca's parents waited by the door and made to take over Tony's position at Bruce's side as they passed. Tony glared at them, tugging Bruce closer to his side. Clint almost thought he heard Tony growl a little bit. Bruce shot him a tired, half hearted glare, but made no move to pull away from him.

"Tony's gone into overprotective mother mode," Natasha commented softly, shifting in the seat next to Clint. Steve ran his tongue over his bottom lip and watched them go, clutching the small silver cross around his neck in his palm.

"I don't understand," Thor said. "Tony is not even a woman, let alone a mother."

"Don't worry about it," Natasha's lips curved into a reluctant smile. She looked up at Steve, her eyes lingering on his fingers were they toyed with the crucifix. "Are your parents still out of town, Thor?"

"They are away for the weekend," Thor nodded. "Why?"

"I'm starving," Natasha replied simply. "Clint is always hungry, and I'm sure you and Steve could eat. Bruce hasn't eaten in three days. I doubt he wants to go out today for lunch, and I don't think it's a good idea for him to go home tonight. Usually I would suggest Tony's place, but, somehow, I don't think his dad would be thrilled."

"Of course," Thor agreed, nodding. His solemn gaze trailed across the windows of the church until they rested on the small knot of people in the center of the graveyard.

Natasha set her empty plate on the coffee table in front of her and flopped back onto the couch, stretching her arms out above her head. Clint batted her hand out of his face and continued to shovel the pasta Thor had made into his mouth enthusiastically. Bruce had barely touched his food, and it worried Natasha slightly; she hadn't seen him eat much since his mother's death, and he could barely afford to skip meals. Steve had lent him a pair of jeans he'd had in his truck and Thor had given him an old t-shirt, so he'd be more comfortable than is he'd has to wear dress clothes from the funeral all night. He was sitting cross-legged in the center of the opposite couch with Steve. Steve kept throwing Bruce furtive, concerned glances, trying and failing to be subtle about it. Tony had disappeared a few minutes before to grab something from his car, calling vaguely over his shoulder that he was going to 'liven things up'.

"What does that mean?" Thor asked, intrigued. He sat up a little straighter in the armchair and stared at the door Tony had left though with interest.

"You probably don't want to know," Bruce replied quietly, a grimace briefly crossing his lips.

He rolled his eyes when Tony came back into the room toting a bottle of amber liquid and announcing, "We're playing Never Have I Ever."

"Are we also twelve year old girls?" Bruce inquired, flopping back over the arm of the couch.

Tony jabbed him in the side as he walked by, smirking when it elicited a small yelp of surprise. He blinked innocently at Bruce and set the whiskey down on the coffee table. "Can you please for once try to overcome the very fiber of your being and not be a killjoy for ten seconds? It'll be fun, and we've got nothing else to do."

"I'm in," Clint dropped onto the cushion next to Natasha form where he'd been perched on the back of the couch. She frowned at him slightly, but didn't move away.

"I guess," Natasha agreed begrudgingly. It wasn't as if they had much else to do anyway, and it couldn't hurt to do something stupid and pointless for the night. She needed a break; they all did.

Steve watched Tony gather six glasses from the cabinet on the side of the room, his expression betraying his confusion. Natasha saved him the embarrassment of having to ask. "Basically what happens is we go around in a circle, and each of us says something like 'Never have I ever been on a plane' or 'never have I ever had a pet', and if anyone has done it, they each take a drink. Except the questions are usually decidedly more sexual than that." She shot Clint and Tony an accusatory glare.

Steve raised his eyebrows and glanced back at Bruce, perplexed. Bruce gave him a lopsided smile and shrugged. Thor grinned and reached for a glass. "I think that sounds enlightening. I look forward to getting to know you all better."

Natasha was pretty sure she saw Bruce flip Tony off behind Steve's back; judging by the shit-eating grin on Tony's face, she was right. Tony poured a small amount of liquid into each glass and handed them out. "Alright, it's settled then. Who wants to start?"

"I will!" Clint bounced up and down in his seat excitedly, gripping his glass in both hands.

Steve swirled his whiskey in his glass, slightly hesitant. Bruce stared into his glass for a long moment before tearing his eyes away to stare at the floor, slightly paler than before. Natasha narrowed her eyes at him, concerned. She'd always known Brian Banner was a douchebag, but if Bruce's reaction was anything to go by, he was an alcoholic douchebag.

She sucked on her bottom lip and contemplated coming up with a way to give him an escape, but Clint spoke before she could think of anything. "Never have I ever had to wear clothes to cover a hickey."

Predictably, Tony took a drink. Natasha wasn't surprised. She was a little taken aback, however, by Bruce sipping from his glass. Clint grinned widely at Bruce, impressed. "Betty?"

Bruce shrugged and smiled a little bit behind the rim of his glass, and Natasha could almost see him begging to be let out of there.

"Your turn, Tony," Clint said, throwing his arm over the back of the couch behind Natasha's shoulders.

Tony grinned his eyes flashing with amusement. "Never have I ever been on a date."

"You've never been on a date?" Thor asked, surprised.

Tony shrugged and scrubbed his hand across his mouth. "I mean, not a real one, like, dinner or a movie or anything like that. Just…just sex, pretty much. I have Bruce to do everything else with, he's much more interesting."

"I'm flattered," Bruce said flatly, taking another drink. Steve's expression darkened slightly at Tony's words, and he frowned as he took a sip of the whiskey.

Thirty minutes later, Natasha knew a lot more about Thor's past conquests and Clint's ex-girlfriend than she wanted to, and she was pretty much ready to fall asleep on Clint's shoulder. Bruce had had to refill his glass, as had Tony, and Steve was watching Bruce each turn with increased interest.

"N'vr have I e'vr…" Clint slurred, searching for something they hadn't come up with yet. His head lolled onto Natasha's shoulder and he grinned up at her dopily. "Slept with a guy." He blinked innocently. "Tash?"

She rolled her eyes and didn't take a drink. Clint's questions had been growing narrower and narrower every round in an attempt to get something out of her, but he'd apparently decided to forget about tact and just go for it. She was about to ask her question when she noticed Tony (no shocker there) take a drink, and Bruce hesitantly raise his glass to his lips.

Tony looked just as shocked as she felt when he noticed. Steve, who hadn't had much to drink at all, set his mouth into a thin, impatient line, and asked Tony and Bruce snappishly, "Is there something going on between you two that you haven't told us?"

"What?" Tony blinked at Steve, shocked. He shook his head and stared at Bruce, as confused as the rest of them. "No, we're not…he's my best friend." He cocked a skeptical eyebrow and Bruce and added, "I thought he was anyway…"

"What, I have to tell you everything?" Bruce said sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're not my goddamn caretaker, Tony."

"I wouldn't have to be if you took care of yourself," Tony snapped back, rising to his feet.

Bruce laughed shortly and stood up as well, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "Kind of ironic that you're talking to me about being reckless. You dragged me through hell two years ago when you decided you didn't care anymore, so don't you dare start lecturing me on taking care of myself!"

"We agreed not to talk about that," Tony said, his voice dropping and a wounded look flashing through his eyes. "I just want you to tell me what the fuck is going on with you lately."

"There is nothing going on!" Bruce shouted back, his voice verging on hysterical. He turned from Tony and buried his hands in his hair. "Stop asking me what's wrong because I don't know."

"Stop," Tony said softly, and his voice was as soft and serious and tender as she had ever heard it. It was almost surreal, seeing the way Tony handled Bruce with so much compassion. If Steve looked at Bruce like it was his singular mission to see Bruce feel safe enough to smile, Tony looked at Bruce like he wanted nothing more than to reach inside his mind and pull out the jumbled mess fear and anxiety that kept Bruce from being able to relax. He crossed the room and gripped Bruce's wrists tightly, holding on firmly and waiting to speak until Bruce reluctantly met his sincere gaze. "Just…just stop. You think too damn much, and it's killing you."

Bruce tugged out of Tony's grip to scrub his hand over his mouth and ducked his head, hiding his face with his hair.

Tony bit the inside of his cheek and hesitated a moments before his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "Who was it?"

"What?" Bruce glanced up, his eyebrows drawing together.

"You slept with a guy," Tony waved his hands in the air vaguely. "Who was it?"

Bruce's shoulders tensed and he took a step towards the door to the hallway. He retreated from the room, muttering, "I need some water."

Tony flopped back onto the couch and groaned loudly, arching his back and stretching his arms over his head to crack his back. He plopped back into his seat and pointed at Steve accusatorily. "Don't tell me it was you, Blondie. You always struck me as the wait for marriage type."

"It wasn't," Steve said softly, his warm blue eyes following Bruce out of the room and tugging his lower lip into his mouth between his teeth. "I…he's never mentioned…you didn't know?"

"He never told me anything," Tony shook his head, his dark eyes glazed. He suddenly looked unbearably tired. He sighed and pressed his arm over his eyes. "I…I mean, it wasn't me, or you, or Thor..?" Tony peered out from under his arm at Thor, who shook his head slightly, meeting Tony's gaze with a heavy sincerity that seemed to weigh down his shoulders. Tony pursed his lips. "And Clint's way too straight…"

Steve's expression darkened and a muscle in his jaw jumped. He pushed himself to his feet, slightly unsteady but still able to walk (which was more than Natasha could say for herself). "I'll be right back."

Tony stumbled down the hallway towards where he could hear Natasha mumbling something to Clint in the living room, hanging onto the wall to keep himself upright. He'd managed to make it halfway to the bathroom before he'd promptly thrown up on the (thankfully) tiled floor. It hadn't taken long to clean up, but he'd had some difficulty navigating himself into the shower to rinse himself off. He'd given up on trying to get his long sleeve undershirt back on and just pulled on his damp t-shirt.

His foot caught under one of the hall rugs and he pitched forward, losing his balance. He flailed out to catch himself, but found himself being pulled back to his feet before he could hit the ground.

He found himself face to face with Thor. He smirked gratefully and easily brushed off Thor's hands, patting him on the chest. "Nice catch, Point-Break."

Thor looked down at him with clouded eyes, clearly confused by the reference, but smiled nonetheless. "It's no trouble. It is fortunate that I…" Thor suddenly trailed off, his expression growing pensive, and Tony followed his gaze to his forearms.

Tony cursed under his breath and crossed his arms self-consciously, trying in vain to hide the translucent scars there and feeling suddenly horribly sober. Through the fog in his mind he'd completely forgotten about the scars. That thought made his stomach lurch pleasantly, but it sank quickly when Thor reached out as if he was going to touch the scars.

He jerked back from Thor's hand, glaring at him harshly. "Don't."

"You did that?" Thor asked softly, his eyes still fixed on the scar decorating Tony's arms.

Tony rolled his eyes and snapped, irritated with himself for letting this happen, for letting himself be exposed like this, "Yeah, I did. A long time ago. I'm better now."

"Better?" Thor asked, tearing his gaze from Tony's arms to meet his gaze. "I do not understand. How..?"

"I went through a rough patch," Tony growled, hating how uncomfortable he felt when he was distinctly trying to force himself to remain calm and casual. Thor still stared at him with confusion in his eyes. Tony sighed and continued snappishly. "I was messed up and felt like shit and I needed some way to feel again. I was sick and the doctors told me I didn't have a lot of time. I…I got a little reckless. I talked to someone, I take some meds, it's no big deal." He sucked in a deep breath and continued, punctuating each word with a jab of his finger, "I. Got. Better. It was a low point, I'm not proud of it."

Thor still just stared at him blankly without replying. Tony cleared his throat impatiently. "I…I should go check on Bruce."

He stepped around Thor and steadily made his way towards the living room. He could feel Thor watching him leave, feel his eyes back on his forearms, and he ducked into one of the side halls, deciding abruptly that he needed to find something with long sleeves before he could face anyone else that night.

Steve toyed with his keys absentmindedly, glancing up at Bruce where the smaller man was curled up in the chair across from him. Bruce's eyes were blank and distant, and his fingers were tugging at his bottom lip nervously. Steve could see his hands shaking.

He cleared his throat and said softly, "Come here for a second?"

Bruce blinked and refocused his eyes on Steve, his expression weary and troubled. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and slowly unfolded himself from the chair, biting back a wince when he jarred his fresh injuries. Steve scooted over on the couch to give Bruce a little more room, not wanting him to feel crowded and overwhelmed.

Bruce carefully lowered himself onto the cushion next to Steve, much closer than Steve expected; his stomach squirmed pleasantly, and he couldn't help the small, tired smile that tugged at his lips. He bumped his knee against Bruce's gently, trying to get his attention. "How's it going?"

Bruce hummed softly, noncommittally, and kept his gaze trained on the floor. "You don't have to protect me."

"Of course I do," Steve said softly, slightly hurt. "I—"

"Don't," Bruce's hand moved to grip Steve's thigh tightly. His fingers dug into Steve's thigh. "Please don't."

Steve chewed on his bottom lip and said quietly, "Everyone is saying you're dangerous."

"I am," Bruce muttered, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. "There is something wrong with me."

"There's something wrong with everyone," Steve contested, dropping his hand to cover Bruce's where it was still resting on his thigh.

Bruce's fingers twitched under his, but he didn't pull away. He swallowed hard and shook his head, his thick curls falling over his forehead in tangles. "It's different. I can't be…I'm not…you can't fix me."

Steve watched him struggle with his thoughts for a moment, clearly close to tears, before Bruce choked, "My mom used to say that someday how I felt would change, that someday I would just wake up and be magically better, that I would be interested in... in…" He rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth and shook his head. "I'm not. And I pray every night that that'll change, because I feel like shit because it holds me back, it creates this block for me in letting myself be emotionally connected to…to you…" he swallowed hard and said bitterly, "I was born missing something in my brain, and it screwed me over."

Steve tightened his hand around Bruce's, his mouth dry. "Bruce…you're not…you can't seriously think…" Bruce's eyes flickered darkly and dropped to the ground again. Steve's stomach dropped. He turned towards Bruce so he could look him in the eye and reached out for Bruce's other hand to grip it tightly, minding the bandages over his knuckles. "You're so…so important to me, Bruce. I don't think you understand what I…" Steve bit his lip when Bruce dropped his eyes to the ground again, his neck turning bright red. He squeezed Bruce's hands tightly and continued softly, "It's okay. Don't apologize for that, never apologize for that."

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched into a frown and his fingers flexed nervously. He swallowed hard and began quietly, "That night…"

"You were drunk," Steve said softly, releasing one of Bruce's hands and relaxing back into the sofa again. "I didn't think you even remembered."

"I don't forget anything," Bruce muttered, blinking at his and Steve's hands where they were entwined on Steve's thigh.

Steve found Bruce standing in the bay window of the dimly lit kitchen, clutching a heavy looking porcelain mug in his hands. The moon was out and the night was clear, so its rays spilled across the tile floor and bathed Bruce in a cold white glow, making his skin appear especially pale and his hair and eyes even darker than usual. He stood completely still, gazing out over the Thor's front lawn with that sad flicker in his eye that made Steve's chest hurt, made him feel like he could never really reach that untouchably sad part of Bruce that was ingrained so deeply in him.

"Hey," he spoke up softly, alerting Bruce to his presence so he didn't startle him.

Bruce glanced back at Steve and hunched over his mug a little more. "Hi. Sorry I ran out like that, I just…I shouldn't have said anything."

"Don't apologize," Steve cut Bruce off, shaking his head. He approached the smaller man slowly, giving Bruce time to move away if he wanted to. Bruce glanced at him warily, but allowed him to stand with him in the window. He followed Bruce's gaze to the manmade pond in the side yard. Despite the few feet of snow on the ground, the pond wasn't frozen; it must have been heated. A few stray ducks glided across the glasslike surface, disrupting the pitch black water with small white ripples as they moved. Steve snuck a look out of the corner of his eye at Bruce, trying to be subtle. Bruce was watching the ducks, his expression unreadable. Steve dropped his gaze to the cup in Bruce's hands. "What's that?"

Bruce looked down at the mug as if he'd forgotten it was there. Small tendrils of steam rose from the light colored liquid. "Tea. Thor had it in a canister that I gave him for Christmas. My mom dried out the herbs and made the…the blend…" he trailed off for a moment before finishing quietly. "I figured he wouldn't mind. Do you want some?"

He offered the mug to Steve, who hesitated a moments before shaking his head. "No thanks. I can't fall asleep if I have caffeine this late."

"You're lucky," Bruce smiled over the rim of his mug, going back to watching the ducks paddling around the pond.

Steve swallowed hard, stuffing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on the balls of his feet. He spoke up after a long moment, breaking the calm silence with his question. "Was it Ross?"

Steve felt Bruce's body tense and his fingers tighten around his mug until his knuckles were white. Steve gritted his teeth together. "I swear to God, Bruce, if he touched you and you said no…"

"It wasn't him," Bruce replied faintly, running his thumb up and down the outside of the mug.

Steve gripped Bruce's biceps and turned the smaller man to face him, pulling him closer so that Bruce had to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. Steve looked down at Bruce and said solemnly, his alcohol scented breath ghosting across Bruce's face, "Whoever it was, you don't have to protect them, Bruce. If it wasn't consensual, if this person forced you…"

"Why would you think that?" Bruce demanded, torn between pulling away from Steve and leaning into his touch. "The only way I could have ever had sex was if someone wanted to assert their power over me? Is it really that unbelievable that someone just finds me attractive?"

"No," Steve replied simply. For a moment, Bruce was struck speechless by the solemnity in Steve's expression when he spoke. Steve continued seriously, "You were upset. I drew conclusions. Am I wrong?"

Bruce's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "That's a very scientific approach."

"I have a patient lab partner," Steve said lightly, willing to allow Bruce a moment of relief from the heavy question, but not letting it go. "Bruce. Please, you don't have to protect—"

"Please don't ask me this," Bruce cut him off, pressing his palm against Steve's chest and successfully distracting Steve from what he was saying. His fingers curled into the front of Steve's shirt and he shook his head, his curls brushing Steve's jaw. "I'm fine, alright? Everything is fine, everything is great…"

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," Steve raised a skeptical eyebrow, concern evident on his features. Bruce winced and shrunk away from him uncomfortably; Steve loosened his fingers around Bruce's arms, but maintained a cautionary grip. "You just…you deserve so much more than all this."

Steve almost let out a surprised yelp when there were suddenly lips covering his. The kiss was brief, barely a moment; it was all wrong angles and uneven breaths and it tasted like alcohol, but Steve felt Bruce's heartbeat against his chest and his thigh pressed to Steve's and Bruce's hands on his neck, and Steve had one hand tangled in Bruce's wild curls and the other on his hip and Steve just couldn't bring himself to care about anything else because Bruce Banner was kissing him.

Bruce pulled away first, his cheeks bright red and using his grip on Steve's shirt to support himself. When he spoke, his voice was so soft Steve almost couldn't make out what he said. "You deserve better than what I can give you."

"I'm not asking for anything," Steve grasped Bruce's arm to keep him from leaving, slightly thrown.

Bruce shook his head and pulled his arm away, breaking contact between them. He covered his mouth with his hand and stared at Steve for a few moments, his eyes shining. When he spoke, his voice was harsh and reprimanding. "Don't do that. You need…you're so good, Steve. You're so good, and I'm so…" Bruce ran a hand through his hair, pushing it off of his forehead and smiled, looking ready to shatter into a thousand pieces. "I'm so fucked up. I like you. I…I like you a lot. But I'm not dragging you down with me."

"Don't talk like that," Steve reached out to grip Bruce's hands in his own, but Bruce backed away and shook his head wordlessly. Steve tried to catch Bruce's hands again, this time successfully getting a hold of his wrists. He gently tugged Bruce back towards him. He looked down at Bruce until Bruce was forced to meet his eyes. He squeezed Bruce's arms reassuringly, and said softly, "Please hear me out for a minute. You are going through an incredibly hard time; I understand how it feels. You know that." Bruce dropped his gaze to the floor at the allusion to Steve's on mother, and Steve waited a moment for Bruce to look up at him again before he continued, "And I don't know what you need, or how to help you, but I want to; I want to make things better for you so badly."

Bruce's eyes flickered over Steve's face, searching his expression, evidently confused by Steve's words. Steve sighed and let go of Bruce for a moment to undo the clasp of the cross around his neck. Bruce's breath ghosted over his fingers as Steve slipped the chain around Bruce's throat and clasped it shut. Steve let go of the pendant and let it fall into the neck of Bruce's loose white shirt. His fingers brushed the sides of Bruce's throat, and he felt Bruce stop breathing for a moment. Bruce reached up to undo the clasp, mumbling, "I can't take this, this was your mom's. I'm not…I can't…"

"I'm not asking you for anything," Steve repeated, smiling honestly. He hesitated for a moment, knowing he was getting emotional, knowing he was saying more than he ever would if his tongue hadn't been loosened by alcohol. "And I'm not asking you to decide, or define anything. I'm promising you something."

Bruce's hand stole to his throat to fiddle with the pendant as he scrutinized Steve contemplatively. After a few long moments of silence, he broke away from Steve's grip and disappeared into the hallway without another word, not looking back.

So there it is! Let me know what you thought! Thank you all for your patience and encouragement in the development of this story. Drop me a review if you have a second! I've got a long rest of the week, so they're much appreciated:)

Thanks for reading!