Work Text:
“Hey, big guy,” you said, diverting your eyes for just a moment. You didn’t care what anyone said — the Hulk, although an ally, was an intimidating figure of great strength. He was several times your size and could easily snap you in two if he so wished.
Dr. Banner was as mild as they came, more so than the average man, but his counterpart was far more prone to anger and, frankly, had issues with authority.
Good thing you weren’t in a position of authority. That was the Captain’s problem.
But, still, you were charged with bringing the Hulk back down from his fitful rage when the battle was over.
Usually, it was Natasha who had that responsibility, but she was not here — no doubt, Fury sent her on another one of those reconnaissance missions, leaving the rest of you, the not-so-subtle members of the group, to manage things here. You certainly weren’t jealous of Natasha. She was put in the most difficult positions of all, surrounded by enemies whom she had to befriend.
At least, out here, you didn’t have to pretend. If you found an enemy, you were free to run him down.
You were never good at faking it, anyhow. You wore your heart on your sleeve, and you didn’t try to hide it because you knew perceptive others could see right through you. It was fine; it was how the cookie crumbled. You had other talents, after all.
You took a breath, stealing a glance at the Hulk. When you made eye contact, you tried to plead with him again, the same way that Natasha taught you. She called it his lullaby. “The sun’s getting real low.”
He stared at you, recognizing you as a friend, an ally, and he ceased his cry, though he didn’t come toward you.
It must have been difficult being Bruce Banner. All that brilliance and intellect, wrapped carefully in the body of a fighting machine. He was far more delicate than he led others to believe. For all of his skill and genius, he was terrible at understanding himself, evaluating his own needs, and asking others for help.
Absolutely terrible.
That was why, you thought, it came to this. He couldn’t control the Hulk.
Of course he couldn’t control the Hulk.
He didn’t trust the Hulk.
He didn’t even accept him. And, in that way, he didn’t accept himself, an integral part of his existence. It didn’t matter how it happened or where the Hulk came from — frankly, he was here, and that set the wheels in motion.
It was easy for you to observe and offer advice. It wasn’t you who had an alter ego, after all, with a very apparent mind of his own, who could wreak havoc and destruction with each slight of the jab of the fist. You had to empathize.
Still, it frustrated you, his resistance to it all.
This large, green beast standing in front of you was angry. He didn’t have to be. He could use his strength far more efficiently, for good, and without the senseless temper that he carried with him.
Bruce could live a fulfilling life, something wonderful, filled with exploration and discovery, all those things he was so passionate about. He chose not to by denying the reality of the situation.
He spent his life questioning everything, assessing every theory of scientific thought. He would chase ideologies and theses with nearly crazed obsession. He unraveled known doctrine and rationale with ease, inquiring and searching for further answers.
And when it came to himself, there were no more questions. He just locked the Hulk away, treating him as a desperate last-minute solution to an otherwise impossible problem.
Bruce treated him almost like an aged wine, you thought. Instead of learning how to drink responsibly, he merely shoved the bottles into the cabinet, locking them away for eternity, sparing no attention to the craft and wonder that could be found in the fine zinfandels or exquisite pinots. He didn’t see the facets of his other self or taste the deep sorrow that came from a hollow existence of vague purpose and unacceptance from the person who ought to show the most compassion.
It was certainly compassion this fellow needed, and you tried again, this time abandoning Natasha’s method for your own.
“Hey, friend,” you said, offering him your outstretched hand. “All the bad guys are gone now. It’s just me. There’s no more danger. You don’t have to protect me and our friends anymore. We’re safe, see?” You gestured toward the battlefield, strewn with the bodies of your enemies. “Look at all the work you did. I’m impressed.”
The Hulk grunted, asking you a very important question. There were no words, but you understood his meaning.
“You don’t have to.” You seated yourself on the rock, letting your legs stretch out in front of you. Your motions were slow, deliberate, reassuring. “We can stay right here for a little while if you want to rest. We’re in no particular hurry.”
He tilted his head to the side.
“No, I’m not afraid of you,” you said with a short laugh, patting the surface next to you and inviting him to join.
Gingerly, as careful as a beast of his size could, he settled, doing as you requested. He was so close that your shoulder touched his arm.
“It’s a shame these jerks picked such a pretty forest to do their dirty work in, you know. It doesn’t seem right to carry out evil plans out here.” You glanced at the battlefield. “Doesn’t seem right to leave all these bodies out here, either. But don’t worry! We’ll make that Director Fury’s problem!”
The Hulk didn’t say anything, though he seemed to be listening.
You reached out to pat his arm. “You doing okay, big guy? You wanna get out of here?”
He seemed to perk up at your gesture, surprised that you would be so bold as to touch him.
His skin was course against your fingertips, you noticed. He had to be thick-skinned — in both body and mind. When you saw his expression, your heart softened. “Sorry,” you said, retreating your hand. “I should ask before I touch.”
But before you could remove yourself entirely, his hand reached for yours. Despite its size and thickness of the flesh, he was as gentle as could be, thumb on your knuckles, fingers tucked beneath your palm and wrist. He was warm, skin barely grazing against your own.
You looked at him, his eyes trained on your hand. He was focused, probably thinking the same thing you were. His hands were huge, though you wondered if he just thought your hands were tiny in comparison.
He held your hand, even giving you a toothy smile. He didn’t let go. Peace, at least.
And even though this whole lullaby process, this ritual to calm him, was supposed to bring Bruce back, you thought this was okay. Maybe if you could show him that the Hulk could be tamed, brought into a state of composure, he would learn to accept and trust his other half.
It wasn’t everything he needed.
But it was a start.