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Bruce opens his eyes, and the world comes back to him slowly, then all at once.
He squints against the too-harsh evening light piercing his frontal lobe and barely contains an instinctive wince. Nausea builds, churns his stomach, and saliva pools in his mouth. He turns his head, swallows painfully, because the last thing he needs is to aspirate on his own vomit. By some miracle, he doesn’t, but the harsh, bitter taste on his tongue is enough to make his stomach roll.
A headache pulses ruthlessly through his overstimulated brain, beats against the sides of his skull like raging ocean waves against the sides of a ship.
Bruce wonders briefly if waking up in this body will ever get any easier.
Someone is speaking to him in a low voice, but the words are too muffled for him to properly make out, made of wool. The cadence of speech and tone are familiar, at least, and a voice in the back of his mind tells him that sound means safety , so he allows himself to sink back against the rubble trying valiantly to bruise the soft flesh of his back, to find his bearings.
As his other senses quickly return, he begins to wish he could fade back into blissful numbness.
He can feel every bit of debris beneath him, every jagged edge of rock jabbing into his back. The comforting pressure of his pants help neutralize the overwhelming sensation, in part, and he makes a note to thank Richards for his help in developing pants capable of both stretching to accommodate the Other Guy’s impressive size while also providing him with a fair amount of compressed pressure against his aching skin.
Smell comes back to him next, the musty but familiar scent of sweat assaulting his nose, pungent enough to make his eyes water. He attempts to hold his breath for a moment, to keep the worst of the smell at bay before his senses have the opportunity to settle and his brain feels less like it’s on fire, but he quickly realizes that not breathing is making the deep ache in his newly-not-broken bones and the stinging heat of his skin stretched too tightly over cramping, taxed muscles nearly unbearable.
So he sucks in a pained breath and allows his eyes to slip closed as he slowly exhales, waiting for the worst of the discomfort to fade again, enough for him to finally think .
He’s laying in a crater, that much he’s certain of. He recognizes the familiar, muffled sound of ambulance sirens wailing in the distance, and he concludes that someone must be hurt nearby.
So, a transformation then. A mission. Yeah, that makes sense.
He remembers the mission briefing, of Maria’s confident, clipped tone as she gives them details that Bruce is only half paying attention to. It’s not as if it would matter much anyway, not like he had control of his body when it was actually useful to the team. There were more important things to focus on, like the project in the lab he was itching to return to, like the familiar bands of anxiety twining around and twisting up his insides.
And of course, a not insignificant portion of his brain power was devoted to watching his teammates. Or one in particular. To watching the way Steve kept his posture absolutely pristine, gaze twitching up in interest when Maria addresses him. To examining the way Steve’s skilled fingers wrap around the e-pen while he neatly scrawls a note on the Stark Tablet in front of him. To noting the way Steve fights to maintain a stoic expression, to the curl of his lips as he fails and smirks at one of Clint’s jokes from across the table. To the way Steve’s shoulders suddenly tense, and his eyes dart up to meet his.
He heaves a sigh, one he can feel deep in his aching bones. Finally, he fully returns to himself, and he muses that being more cognizant and aware isn’t all it’s cracked up to me. Words, spoken in the same soothing voice from moments before, come into focus.
“...ch okay? Bruce?”
Bruce hums in both question and acknowledgement, and he makes out a familiar shade of dark blue through the fiercely bright light of the setting sun behind it.
“Think you can stand any touch right now?” Bruce can detect a small smile in the other man’s voice, and Bruce’s own tilt at the familiarity of it. He considers the question for a moment before nodding.
Bruce remains limp as Steve gently brushes a gloved hand against Bruce’s rubble-caked dark curls, and the pleased hum it elicits earns him a soft chuckle from Steve in response. The physicist feels his heart flutter against his battered ribs at the sound, and he clears his throat as he feels himself being hauled carefully into Steve’s capable arms.
“Hur’ anybody?” Bruce grimaces at the sound of his own voice in his ears, his vocal chords still adjusting to their smaller form.
Steve’s smile grows, despite the roughness of Bruce’s voice, despite the pain he knows Bruce must be feeling. Talking isn’t always possible for Bruce after a transformation, and Bruce isn’t the most talkative person to begin with, so hearing his voice always manages to warm something within Steve’s broad chest. “Only who you were supposed to,” he answers, voice soft. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
Steve walks carefully back to the Quinjet, bracing their combined weight on the balls of his feet to absorb as much shock as possible, and Bruce hums quietly in gratitude for the tender treatment. Every step still manages to send shocks of pain through his trembling form, but the pain is far more manageable than it would be otherwise, is downright pleasant in comparison to the countless times he was forced to push himself up onto weary bones and tense, cramping muscles to run from the distant sounds of helicopters.
He allows himself to doze as Steve boards the Quinjet, sets him into his designated seat in the darkest corner of the aircraft, and dresses him in a soft cotton sweater. The fabric calms the harsh buzzing of bees beneath his skin, dulls their angry stinging, and he sighs in relief at the comforting pressure it provides. The extra fabric of the sweater pools and folds in his lap, and he allows the long sleeves to slip over his hands in short, practiced movements to rub at the fabric between his fingers. Noise-cancelling headphones are slipped over his ears next and switched on, and the scientist eases back further into his seat with another contented sigh.
He opens his eyes to find Steve unlatching and discarding his helmet and tactical belt, and he takes a moment to appreciate the view of Steve running fingers through sweaty blond locks. His appreciative smile falls, however, when he spots the dark red stain blooming across Steve’s right thigh, and he feels the familiar ache of guilts squeezing his organs, the bands of shame tightening around his chest. Steve, ever the martyr, had carried him to the jet despite sporting a leg injury.
Bruce jerks his head away, searching for a distraction, the looming pressure behind his eyes building, the voice telling him to get up right now and tend to Steve’s wounds he’s hurt he needs you now Banner get up growing louder from the backseat of his mind.
He spots Clint sitting against the bench across the aisle and to the right of himself, one leg propped up, elbow resting against his raised knee as he attempts to adjust one of his hearing aids before inevitably removing both of them with an irritated huff. Bruce makes another note to himself to ask about them later, offer to make any necessary adjustments. Natasha approaches after that and offers Bruce a small, but friendly nod of acknowledgement before joining Clint on the bench and pressing a first aid kit into the archer’s hands, insisting he take care of the minor abrasions adorning his exposed arms and face before they arrive back at the Tower in curt hand movements.
He imagines Thor will take the opportunity to make the short trip back to Manhattan by himself, as he’s wont to do after missions like these, taking full advantage of the rare opportunity to spend some time alone with his thoughts before the inevitable adrenaline crash.
Bruce flinches, jumps when he feels a light tap on his shoulder. He turns his head, eyes wide, but quickly relaxes upon seeing that the person crouching in front of him was Tony, having been the first to board after shedding his suit. The engineer mimes Bruce removing his headphones, and Bruce complies after mentally preparing himself for the rush of auditory input that’s to come. He allows himself a few seconds to adjust to the subdued sounds of the Quinjet’s interior. His gaze briefly flickers to Steve at the back of the jet, who offers him a tiny, pained smile, the ever-present worried crease between his brows deep and pronounced. Bruce refocuses on Tony, gaze locked onto the weeping cut beneath Tony’s eye.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, Green Bean. Just wanted to check in with you before we took off, see if you needed anything.” While Tony was known for his distant, arrogant attitude around others and his scathing sarcasm, Bruce has noticed Tony’s softer side emerging more in the years they’ve lived together, especially in times like these, when Bruce felt most exposed.
“You should get the cut taken care of,” comes his blunt reply.
Tony smirks and straightens with a soft pop of his spine. “Yeah, you’re alright. No worries, Brucie Bear, as soon as Nat’s done convincing Clint to stop bleeding all over the floor of my jet, I’ll grab a band-aid.” He startles when, unexpectedly, a box of Iron Man band-aids are hurled in his direction, and the mechanic shoots an annoyed squint in the direction of the aforementioned archer. “Watch it, Barton!”
“Just ‘cause I can’t hear you, doesn’t mean I don’t know when you’re talkin’ shit, Stark,” Clint snickers, voice slightly accented.
Tony opens his mouth to retort but is interrupted by Steve. “As much as we’d all love ta listen to you two bicker, ya think we can head on back any time soon?” Bruce thinks he sees Steve’s eyes flash in his direction, but he can’t be sure.
Tony’s spine straightens to an almost painful degree as he shoots Steve a sloppy salute. “Aye-aye, Cap.” The engineer makes his way back to the cockpit to rejoin Sam and make the necessary pre-flight checks, chattering with J.A.R.V.I.S. all the while.
Sans headphones and more alert now that the hatch of the Quinjet is closing behind him, Bruce notices right away when Steve slips into the space beside him. The soldier leans in close enough that only Bruce can hear and murmurs his concern, already pressing a protein bar into Bruce’s lap. “Doing alright?”
Bruce finds himself smiling, even as the Quinjet lurches and begins its ascent. “Alright,” he affirms, voice low and rough, and he carefully shifts closer to rest his pounding head against Steve’s shoulder.
Steve wraps an arm around him, a comforting weight, and presses a kiss to his curls. Bruce’s eyes flutter closed, and a small smile graces his lips. He basks in the feeling of comfort and safety, and slowly, his muscles begin to relax.
. . .
It seems like seconds later that Bruce feels his shoulder being jostled, and he blinks, urging his gaze to focus.
“We’re home. Looked like ya zoned out a little on the way back,” Steve murmurs, something akin to worry in his eyes despite the calm and amusement in his tone. He gently coaxes Bruce to sit upright, rise to his feet, and start the journey up to their shared suite. And Bruce happily leans into the warmth and scent that’s so distinctly Steve as his boyfriend wraps his arm around Bruce’s shoulders.
Steve offers Sam a friendly wave and a promise to catch up with him another time as they make their way inside, but that’s the last he remembers of the evening before he feels a slight chill against his newly bared skin as he’s slowly lowered into a tub of water, so deliciously hot he could moan.
Or, judging by Steve’s amused laugh, he might’ve done that out loud.
Bruce’s cheeks flush, something he’s definitely blaming on the heat of the water, but when he feels Steve’s lips against his hairline, he can’t quite find it in himself to feel anything besides safe.
A pleased hum escapes him as Steve’s fingertips explore his curls once again, and he drifts into the pleasant warmth, painful tension in his muscles gradually melting into the water as Steve scrubs away all evidence of the day’s battle. The scent of eucalyptus and peppermint soap fills his nose, and he finds himself feeling so relaxed that even the normal electric tingle left behind by the lufa swiping across over-sensitized, too-tight skin isn’t enough to rouse him from his half doze.
Soon, almost too soon for his liking, Bruce is being lifted out of the water and bundled in a plush towel. He manages to dry himself almost completely by the time Steve finishes washing the worst of the sweat and dirt from his own skin, and Bruce is quickly herded into the bedroom he shares with Steve and settles against the firm mattress. The solidness of it is comforting, and despite the lack of give, the feel of it pressing against his back is worlds better than some of the surfaces he’s been forced to sleep on over the years.
He lies back, makes himself as comfortable as he can, and before he can part his lips to ask, Steve is there, covering him with weighted fabric. The air leaves his lungs in a rush, and his eyes flutter closed as the buzzing beneath his skin settles under the blankets crushing weight. He feels the slight dip in the mattress as Steve joins him, as well as the familiar weight of Steve’s arm as it curls around his middle, and his toes wiggle in subdued excitement.
As he slips into much-needed sleep, he relishes in the sensation of Steve’s lips against his graying temple, in the sweet words whispered across the short distance between them, in the way each soft exhale of Steve’s breath fills the otherwise quiet room.
Safe in Steve’s arms, Bruce knows the next time he wakes the world will be a softer one. That he’ll be loved.