Bruce rolled over. Every muscle in his body shrieked, and a sensation deep in his stomach felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside out. He curled around his midsection, trying to hold himself together. The feeling slowly passed, leaving a heavy ache in its place. His head felt like it weighed a ton. Still, he lifted it, scanning where he was.

It looked like a hut of some sort—it was vaguely familiar. The floor was bamboo, and he was lying on a giant mat of grass and leaves, surprisingly soft and dry. Next to him was a set of clothes—trousers and a white v-neck. The shirt smelled like her. He sat up quickly and doubled over in pain from the sudden movement. Where was she? He searched the room before catching sight of her red hair, right outside the door.

Guarding him. Of course. Out of range in case he exploded again. He sank back down, unable to hold himself up as something shifted inside his stomach. The nausea was quick and intense—he barely had time to lurch towards the window and stick his head out before he felt his stomach contract, forcing its contents up and out. He watched in confusion as what looked like a fish skeleton fell to the sand, fifteen feet below. He tried not to think of why that was there before heaving again. A searing pain scraped up his esophagus and through his throat before launching forward. It looked like a bone, almost needle-like. He tasted blood from where it had cut the back of his throat. He swallowed that, the bitter acid from his stomach driving the pain home more.

With the nausea gone, the burning in his feet took over his senses. He slowly lowered himself back to the ground and examined them—they looked pretty gruesome, the heels split so deep it looked like you could see bone in some parts. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes and trying to separate himself from the pain.

After a minute his sense of propriety overcame him—he was completely naked. He cringed mentally at the thought of Natasha helping him up to the cabana like that. He crawled over to the clothes and pulled the pants on. The sensation of the fabric moving over his feet left him hissing—there was no way to avoid it. He sat and breathed again, trying to block it out.

"I didn't want to tend to those without your consent." Natasha's voice took him by surprise. Instantly he was transported back, back to Avengers tower, to a red-lipped intrigue of a woman behind a bar, so confident and so tentative all at the same time. He shook the image away.

"Where are we?" Bruce asked.

"Somewhere in Indonesia, west of Papua New Guinea. I can get the exact coordinates from the jet."

"Don't." Bruce turned away and laid back down on the bed.

"Bruce. . ."

"Leave me alone."

"Let me just tend to your feet, clean them so they don't get infected."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"Bruce, they look painful."

"I SAID, LEAVE ME ALONE!" He bellowed suddenly, sitting up. He winced and held his stomach, but glared at Natasha anyways. She cowered, crouching in the doorway, her eyes wide. She was afraid. Of course. They stayed there for a moment, both surprised by the outburst.

"I'm sorry," Natasha finally broke the silence. "Let me leave the supplies and if you feel up to it, you can give it a shot." She looked dubiously at his feet—there was no way he'd be able to handle the pain doing it himself.

She padded out and left him. He laid back down. Before he knew it, he was crying. It was as though every ounce of serotonin and dopamine had left his body, abandoned him. The pain radiating from his feet paired with the despair sitting in the pit of his stomach washed over him like a tidal wave of grief.

The disorientation when he came back was always bad, but he had never felt so foggy before. So removed from the world he was rejoining. How many people had died by his hand in Sokovia? In Johannesburg? Wherever he was now? He had no way of knowing. How had he gotten here? Where were the others? His last clear memory was of the fortress in Sokovia. And she had pushed him. . . He rasped at his eyes, trying to dry them ferociously before she came back. He wouldn't let her see him vulnerable again. Ever.

He didn't hear her return, of course. She was too quiet for that, too well trained. He jumped when she spoke behind him.

"Here ya go. Antiseptic, gauze, tweezers in case anything is in there, more gauze and ointment and bandages. I brought all the good stuff," She smiled wryly, setting the kit down next to him before walking across the room and sitting against the opposite wall. Bruce rolled over slowly and attempted to sit up again. Something ground inside his stomach, protesting the movement, pulling inside him in a strange and unsettling way.

"That nanobot should be finished soon," Nat said hesitantly. "I'm sorry, I didn't think about that when I started talking to the other guy right after he ate. I didn't know that he wouldn't have finished digesting yet."

"Go," Bruce muttered. "Get out of here."

"No."

"Nat. . . just leave me alone. Get out."

"I know you're mad—"

"Mad doesn't even begin to cover it. No, mad isn't even right," Bruce shook his head in disbelief. "Just get out."

"I'm not leaving."

"Go!" He sputtered, feeling something in his stomach twist again. He groaned and grabbed at it, toppling to his side as something popped inside him. He knew she heard it too. He vomited again then, right onto the floor, a mix of blood and fish guts, the stink of the it filling the cabana.

"I'll go get another towel," Nat whispered when he finally settled. "I'll also get you some water."

For once, Bruce was silent. He was too weak to protest.

She returned with a water bottle and set it down next to where he was lying. She swabbed the bamboo until the mess was gone and tossed the towel out the window, onto the sand below. She returned and sat across the small room from him. He didn't try to sit up again. She didn't offer to help. He lay on his back, not bothering with the water, staring at the palm-frond laden roof.

"You should drink," she finally broke.

"I trusted you. I opened my life to you." He lay there for a moment processing. "You pushed me into a pit."

"Yes."

"We had an understanding. Tenuous, maybe, but an understanding."

"We had a lullaby," she whispered.

"You ruined it." He muttered.

They sat there in silence for a while.

"How long was I out?" he asked, the anger momentarily gone from his voice.

She sat there for a moment, not responding. He turned to look at her. "That bad, huh?"

"Nine months."

He blew air through his teeth, looking back at the ceiling. After a few more minutes, he broke the silence.

"I'm going to vomit again."

"Please let me help you."

Bruce shuddered once, but didn't protest as she helped lift him, supported some of his weight so he could vomit out the window, into the incoming tide. He grasped at the windowsill, his muscles straining to stay upright, even with her help, to relieve the weight from his raw feet. After, she lowered him so he was cradled against her. He was tense, every muscle taut in his body. She smelled like sweat and shampoo and her. She held the water bottle to his lips and he finally drank. He could feel every inch the water travelled down into him. It was painful, but it was also a relief. As soon as he had finished drinking, he said "lay me down please."

Natasha didn't protest, didn't say a word, just lifted him ever so gently and scooted out from behind him, resting him back on the bed. He tried to stay awake, to stay weary and watch her, but he couldn't keep his eyes open. Natasha sat across the room and eyed his feet resignedly as he slept.

He hadn't let her tend them. If they went much longer they were definitely going to become infected. She figured the chances of him agreeing to get on the jet and leave were slim to none with the way he was treating her, even with his feet being in such bad shape. He'd probably rather go septic than allow her to fly him to a doctor. The question of why injuries had come back with him from the supposedly invulnerable Hulk was bubbling in the back of her mind, but it meant little at that moment.

She sighed. There was nothing to be done for it. She looked at his sleeping face, heavy circles beneath his eyes, sweat at his temples. He didn't have much of a beard coming in, surprisingly. A heavy layer of stubble, sure, but she had anticipated that in nine months he'd have a full beard. Something about the Hulk must have kept it suppressed. Why suppress his facial hair but pass on these awful sores? And why was he so skinny? From what she could remember, the Hulk was supposed to be invulnerable, healing whatever illnesses or injuries Banner received, protecting his weak human body.

She dismissed the thoughts for the moment. They did no good. She didn't want to wake him, but those feet needed tending.

She moved over to his legs and laid his feet in her lap.

"I know you're not going to like this, and I know I said I'd ask for consent, but I guess I'm just really good at breaking promises I make to you." She set up the gauze and antiseptic before giving his leg a gentle shake.

"Huh?" he came to groggily. "What?"

"I have to take care of your feet. They're going to get infected."

"Ok."

"It's going to hurt. A lot."

He didn't say anything, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists instead. When the stinging solution touched his skin he let out a guttural yelp, kicking into the air. Nat's reflexes were quicker than him, however, and she grabbed his ankle and secured his foot with her arm while she cleaned. He bit his lip. He knew it had to happen.

Despite the pain, he didn't scream or make another sound, not even at the worst parts. Afterwards, she spread a thick layer of antibiotic cream on every split and sore, packed the worst with gauze, and wrapped it all up with lengths of white bandage.

"Can I sleep now?" he asked sardonically.

"Don't let me stop you," she set his feet back down on the bed and retreated.

"Wouldn't be the first time," he chuckled grimly. He was asleep in seconds.

She sat against the far wall and thought about that. She had stopped him from sleeping? She tried not to smile as she thought of the reasons why. She quickly sobered when she realized that none of them were relevant anymore.

She sat there for hours and watched him. Watched him sleep, watched him breathe, watched his chest rise and fall. It finally hit her as she sat there watching: she had found him. She had never felt so tense, yet so relieved in her life. Every breath he took she'd hold her own, waiting for his chest to rise again, slowly convincing herself this was actually happening. He was ok. He was here. She had found him. The rest, she could figure out later.