Chapter Text
TED Talks. Tony didn’t quite get them. Of course, yes, he understood the general idea of them- informal lectures about breakthrough ideas in the scientific community and beyond. Fancy power point presentations, really. He knew, because Pepper made him at least look at the website, that TED Talks could be about anything, really, but they all aim to shed some kind of light on the nature of humanity in relationship to science. The science of earth, space, art, the body, invention, emotion, love, etc, etc, etc. It’s some kind of honor to be asked. Bono did one once. “The world’s leading thinkers”, that’s who got invited. They just seemed like flashier versions of university lectures to Tony. But he could talk about almost anything for 90 minutes, so he said yes.
He told them up front he didn’t want to talk about Iron Man. Or the Avengers. And he could tell from the awkward pause on the phone with the very polite booking intern that this wasn’t what they wanted to hear. He told them he wanted to talk about sustainable energy and the science of the arc reactor. That was Tony’s own work, something he found accessible and immediate, something that had little to do with spending one month in a cave or hurtling towards the sky with a nuclear bomb tucked under his arms. It had nothing to do with “the alien thing”, a neat, dissociative nickname Tony’s gave to what was nearly the end of the city, and maybe the world, and almost certainly his own life. That was what he wanted to talk about, something he had engineered himself. Not because of vanity (well, maybe) but because it was safe. It was his work. Not his life. Tony liked to pretend that they hadn’t become irreparably similar.
Tony knew it was a cheat. Like watching Paul McCartney talk about anything but his time with The Beatles. Plus, the talk was set to be held in Bangalore. As in India, at the Indian Institute of Science. He imagined the western press wasn’t going to appreciate being dragged across the world and not get to hear a single thing about, say, working with someone who was supposed to be long since dead or the reappearance of a certain green leviathan in New York. He actually thought it was kind of funny. He’d been dealing with most of the press since the “thing”, mostly because he was good at playing the game, and now the Avengers press archive was filled with half-answers and deflective jokes, giving them just enough of what they wanted, but nothing real. Nothing that could put anyone on their scent. Nothing that could hurt the ones that had scattered. It’d been six months since the battle for New York. They were a team and then, just as suddenly, they weren’t. “Anticlimactic” was the word he’d used at the time. “Disappointing” would have been more accurate.
He didn’t like how often those people, those outright nutcases, popped into his head. They were everywhere; see a particularly taught black dress in a Saks 5th Avenue window and Tony would flash on bright red hair and bow-shaped lips pursed in annoyance. Hear a motorcycle rumble past Stark Tower, expect to see Old Glory himself with his parted boy scout haircut. See an ad for the upcoming season of Shakespeare in the Park and, well, that sentence finishes itself. But they were gone. Gone back to SHIELD, back to Asgard.
Rogers stuck around because he was a New York boy born and bred but he was using his time to reestablish his uprooted life, get reacquainted with the forward motion of the universe. He assumed that Thor was up in his own galaxy or “realm”, busting up orcs. Whatever they had for orcs up there. Barton and Romanoff returned to their duties, but occasionally managed to keep in touch, mostly as a friendlier front when Fury wanted to get in his business. And then there was Banner. Tony supposed that he should have been glad that Banner stuck around in any capacity after the battle. He’d been given the whirlwind tour of Stark Tower and, just as Tony had promised, gotten to fool around. Scientifically speaking. But after a few weeks, Tony noticed Bruce’s reticence to even speak, let alone join him in a round of ‘let’s see if we can make this blow up.’ Bruce mentioned something about wanting to go visit a cousin somewhere and Tony, wanting to be polite, offered up the private jet. But he had to settle for giving Bruce a ride to the train station. There was a phone call when Bruce arrived at his supposed destination, and then complete radio silence. Tony had come this close to a screaming match with Fury before Pepper quietly reminded him that 24/7 surveillance was the exact opposite of what Bruce wanted. And he supposed she was right. Maybe he was just out there, experiencing life as a free man. Tony would never admit to himself that what he really wanted was to be part of the experience. He felt strangely left out. That was new. He didn’t like it.
These thoughts barreled through his mind uninvited, and he took a step out into the humid night air, walking through the courtyard garden. Inside, the post-talk reception raged. Apparently his appearance had outsold both Bono and Bill Clinton and the entire event was being treated with the same amount of care and preparation as, say, the Olympics. In the main hall behind him, paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and beautiful girls in saris wandered around serving champagne and hors d’oeuvres. He’d asked the head of the university if this is how all TED talks were treated with this much pomp and circumstance and the man just laughed. “Of course not.” But the frequent application of his cheshire cat grin threatened to tear the muscles of his mouth apart, or at least it certainly felt that way, and he continued to retreat, hiding himself between the rows of manicured ornamental bushes.
The campus was a green oasis in the middle of a hive of modern living, almost overgrown, the kind of garden allowed to run a little wild. Night-blooming jasmine wove itself among the ivy that overtook the high brick walls surrounding the courtyard, the fragrance hanging heavy in the air, almost tangible like incense smoke. He shed his blazer, shoving up his shirtsleeves and letting the fresh air run over the exposed skin. His phone was on silent, probably short-circuiting with the burden of a million “so how’d it go?” messages. I should call Pepper. That’s how these things went- do something big. Call Pepper. She was stuck in New York, doing the dirty work on the DC branches of Stark Tower. Apparently DC still didn’t like the idea of a Stark skyscraper “marring” their non-existant skyline, where nothing soared higher than the somewhat-overrated (in Tony’s opinion) Washington Monument. Big white obelisk. Big white deal.
He huffed a deep sigh, watching the winding traffic patterns in the distance. Something was off. It felt like he couldn’t fully exhale. It wasn’t the event, of course, Tony never found things like this stressful. Things had been so quiet for six months, and you couldn’t just go from the two most eventful days of your life then expect to be emotionally satisfied when you have to go back to staring at blueprints. Maybe that wasn’t fair, though. People had suffered. People had died. Jesus, he had almost died a painful fiery airless death in space. He was still waiting for that to register. Maybe it never would, maybe that was his problem. If you could call it a problem.
He was interrupted by a low rustling, the source of which he couldn’t quite pinpoint. His head snapped up glancing around, his brown eyes narrowed, alert. Geez, it’s probably some drunk kids making out. You’ve let those leather clad super spies get to you. Vigilant assholes. But he continued to hear it, rustling, the sound of vegetation moving, slight scuffling. For a moment, he flashed back to the brief tour he’d been given by an extremely enthusiastic biotechnology professor, who lovingly mentioned the twelve different species of snake the campus was known to house. They even had a special team (an elite task force, Tony liked to imagine) to remove the snakes so people didn’t try to kill them if they wandered in to a lecture hall or dormitory.
At this point, having consumed so much champagne, Tony could make absolutely no promises on the not-killing-a-fucking-snake front. But the scuffling and rustling continued, soon partnered by the sound of heavy breathing and before Tony could add the “fuck” on to his “What the-“, a figure dropped down over the garden wall, landing on his knees, his hands splaying out in front of him, trying clumsily to break his fall.
Well. Tony had to hand it to them, the security surrounding the pavilion rivaled a president’s secret service, and he probably should have alerted someone, but damned if he wasn’t a little curious. The stranger was wearing a black sweatshirt, the hood pulled up to obscure his face. He pulled himself into a sitting position, examining a tear in the knee of his jeans, and Tony could see dark blood seeping through the worn-out material. He could hear the man swearing under his breath, the strange familiarity of the faint, low voice making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The man didn’t get up right away, catching his breath and rubbing the dirt off of his palms. What was he doing? Tony finished the warm champagne and set aside the plastic flute.
“Lemme guess,” he called, throwing caution to the wind. “Bribing the doorman didn’t work?” The man’s head snapped up and it looked like he was about to make a break for it, scrambling to his feet when he halted. Tony shrugged, watching the man’s every move while pacing back and forth.
“I mean, what are you, press? Tabloids?....eBay autograph seller?” The man didn’t say anything, slowly backing himself up against the garden wall. His posture was strange, kind of hunched over and his left arm was wrapped around his stomach. Tony sighed.
“Well come on, get what you want before they throw you into the university snake pit. I’m feeling ultra-generous.” He said flatly, approaching the man slowly. It probably should have occurred to him that someone who had to sneak his way in, dressed like he was in the middle of a Mission Impossible plot, might have been, you know, not exactly a savory character, but after you stare an entire alien army in the face, clumsy guys in hoodies don’t exactly screw up your calm.
“Here I’ll make it easy for you: Am I engaged? No. Are the Avengers recruiting? Absolutely not. Is Stark Industries working on-“ Tony could have rambled on for hours if the man hadn’t held out a hand, as if to say “please shut up” and surprisingly, Tony did.
“Christ, you’re so loud.” The cadence of his voice was unmistakable, that low, gentle half-mumble, as if he were too nervous to open his mouth all the way. Tony peered a little closer and now he could see dark brown curls peeking out from the hood, those nervous hands worrying the pockets of his jeans.
Tony’s jaw fell open more than slightly and he found himself walking forward faster than his lubricated brain was willing to process. “Banner?” he asked, feeling just so stupid that he didn’t recognize him right away.
Bruce yanked the hood off of his head and finally made eye contact, the corners of his mouth twitching in a hesitant, nervous smile. Tony’s feet halted suddenly, about a foot away from him. The first time he’d ever met Bruce Banner, he looked like your run-of-the-mill college professor- as clean cut as the man could manage, clothes ill-fitting but professional, trying to look as “together” as humanly possible. The version of Bruce Banner he was currently staring at had at least a week’s worth of stubble on his face, streaks of dirt swiped across his cheeks and forehead and painfully dark circles under his eyes. Tony, for once, had no idea what to do. What was the saying? Of all the gin joints in the world…
“What the fuck are you doing here?” the words fell clumsily out of Tony’s mouth as he stepped closer, trying to examine Bruce without touching him or alarming him. His knees were still bleeding and Tony could see raw patches on his palms, and he just looked bad but hell if Tony could put his finger on why. Bruce shrugged his shoulders, swallowing hard before speaking.
“Couldn’t afford a ticket.” He said, laughing weakly. Tony rolled his eyes and Bruce winced.
“Flattering. I mean in Bangalore, thought your...deal was on the other side of the country.” He couldn’t help but sound a little bitter, and when Bruce looked up at him, sheepish, almost embarrassed looking, Tony’s jaw clenched because those goddamn awful big brown doe eyes of his I could punch him it would feel GREAT. Bruce sighed, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead, avoiding Tony’s pointed stare.
“It’s…complicated.” Bruce’s voice was tight and fragile and if Tony hadn’t been too busy trying to verbally flagellate him, he might have recognized it as a symptom of pain.
Tony choked out a laugh and shook his head. “So what, you fall off everyone’s radar for half a year and then just drop out of the sky? Literally? Ever hear of a text message, Banner?” He held up his hands, obnoxiously mimicking texting with his thumbs. “Dear Tony. In India. Not Dead. Xoxo, Bruce.” He threw his hands up in the air, waiting for Bruce to say something.
“Would you just….shut up for a second-“ Bruce muttered, running his hands through his hair and clenching his eyes shut. “And let me explain.” He opened his eyes and focused on something past Tony, who was almost sputtering with indignity.
“Explain away, I got all night.” Tony spat back, wishing he had more champagne. But Bruce’s eyes were wide and his hands were shaking and Tony couldn’t even get another word in before Bruce pulled the hood back up and pushed past him, hurrying further into the garden. “What-Hey"! Tony called after him before looking over to see two men, in nondescript dark outfits, scanning the area. He could see the outline of a utility belt on one of them, with some sort of radio and a holstered gun. Tony’s eyes narrowed and all of the sudden it hit like a punch to the gut- this had absolutely nothing to do with him. Tony turned and followed after Bruce, searching for him in the dim glow of the lantern light.
He found Bruce crouched underneath the bridge leading from the garden to the campus quad area, one hand clutching the railing next to him, the other pressed against his side. His eyes were shut and his head hung towards his chest, breathing hard. Tony approached cautiously, not sure of how he should be handling this situation, of how he should be handling Bruce, but he was now involved whether the scientist wanted it or not. After parties could wait.
“Hey-“ he said quietly and Bruce’s head snapped, like a deer after it hears the sound of a cocked rifle. The look on his face almost halted Tony's steps altogether. He was terrified. Tony held his hands up in surrender and continued his slow approach. “Easy there, big guy.” Bruce exhaled sharply and let Tony kneel down next to him.
“I’m sorry.” Bruce said faintly, and Tony’s lips thinned into an incredulous line. “Don’t be.” He said, brushing it off. Bruce always had a "sorry" prepared, whether it was deserved or not. Tony wondered if Bruce knew he often acted like a kicked puppy, he was the team's champion apologist.
“Who are those guys?” Tony said, holding Bruce’s eye contact and not letting it drop. Bruce shook his head. “Didn't exactly stop to ask.” Well, it was good that he still found the strength to be sarcastic, Tony noted. He clamped his hand to his mouth, trying to think. He didn’t exactly feel prepared for this situation.
“How long they been following you?” The worry line in Bruce’s forehead creased heavily as he thought, and Tony realized with mute horror that he was calculating the time in his head because he’d lost track of it altogether. “Four days. Maybe five.” Tony’s eyes narrowed and he couldn’t help but think of the choice words he was going to have with Nick Fury, mostly to the tune of “I told you so.”
Before Tony could begin to strategize, Bruce’s knuckles went white across the rail and he pitched forward, his bloodied knees threatening to give out entirely and Tony was on him in a second, slipping one arm underneath him and wrapping it around his waist, holding him up. Tony was absolutely silent, mostly to keep from spewing a million expletives and catching the wrong kind of attention. He guided Bruce to a set of concrete steps and eased him down.
“You don't look so hot, Doc.” He said gently, kneeling down next to him. In the harsher light of a street lamp, he could see how pale Bruce was underneath his dark clothes. Tony swallowed the lump in his throat and snapped his fingers in front of Bruce’s unfocused eyes. Bruce shuddered slightly and looked up at Tony. It looked like he was putting all his effort into staying awake.
“Banner, give me something. Don't fall apart on me.” He said insistently, trying to keep Bruce’s attention. "I need to get out of here…" Bruce’s dazed voice trailed off and Tony felt as if his heart was lodged in his throat.
He looked down, noticed the odd placement of Bruce's hand and delicately pulled it away from his stomach. “Don’t touch me, I'm fine.” Tony just gave him one silencing raised eyebrow.
He couldn’t see anything through the thick black jersey and he touched the area lightly with his fingers before pressing down. Bruce lurched forward, a weak, wrenching cry escaping his lips as he tried to move Tony’s hands away. Tony flinched, waited for the emerald shock to hit Bruce's eyes, but it never did and so he inched forward, awkwardly trying to comfort him.
“Hey. Hey hey hey hey…” Tony hushed him softly and grabbed his hands, Bruce's dirty calloused hands, big for such a small guy, and forced them to his sides, gently pushing back his shoulders so he was reclining against the steps. Not comfortable, but Tony was assessing him in the only way he knew how, splayed out like a piece of machinery on the workbench.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Just...stay with me, okay?” He managed to smile reassuringly at Bruce, squeezing his shoulder gently. Bruce just stared back, listening to Tony but also somewhere distant, trying to keep the big guy on his mental leash. It was the first time Tony had even given thought to Bruce’s verdant alter-ego. In better circumstances, this would have been the least of Tony’s worries, but this was neither the time nor the place for Bruce to lose it.
Tony bit hard on the corner of his lip before unzipping Bruce’s sweatshirt. "Gonna get a look under the hood, okay?" He said with a slight smile, completely ignoring the fact that he was so panicked. "Did you just compare me to a car…" Tony looked up to see the faintest smirk on Bruce's face. "Had to made sure you were paying attention." He deadpanned, pulling the sweatshirt aside Underneath, he found a blue button down shirt, about a size too big- always too big, the man couldn’t dress properly if it killed him- with a hole in the side, stiff with old dried blood. He gingerly unbuttoned the shirt, pulling it aside, and cursed aloud, despite himself. The wound in Bruce’s torso was about the length of his palm, poorly held together with butterfly strips. “Jesus.” Tony gasped.
It was horrible and dark and exposed, and when he held a hand to it, there was a weird sort of heat coming off of it. Little red lines were starting to form around the edges, running under his skin, like horrible little veins and the familiarity of the image made Tony want to throw up. Not palladium poisoning obviously, but just as alarming This is so bad, how did he let it get this bad. He pulled the shirt back down, leaning back and dragging a hand over his face. This didn’t make sense, Banner didn’t take damage, he didn’t get hurt, the big guy was supposed to take over, because whether he liked it or not, what Banner had was the world’s strongest self-preservation failsafe and why wasn’t it fucking working?
“Bad, right?” Bruce’s voice sounded so little distant and Tony looked over at him, suddenly very angry.
“What the hell happened?” he hissed at Bruce, his fear venting out in frustration. “I mean, what the hell kind of doctor are you, Banner? Jesus-“ He put a hand to his temple and tried to think-how to get him out of here, where to take him, how to keep him safe, and god help him, Bruce was just laughing. It was usually a sound that Tony liked, that he had welcomed from the moment he met Bruce, but now it just sounded so bitter and resigned and just the saddest damn thing Tony'd ever heard and he wanted it to stop.
Tony glared at him, feeling ten different kinds of helpless. “I’m fucking serious, what happened?” The sick smile disappeared from Bruce’s face and he took a few shallow breaths.
“They cornered me. Tried to sedate me.” He said, pawing feebly at his neck and Tony could see a faint red scratch where Bruce must have pulled away from a needle. “Made a break for it…one of ‘em nicked me while I was out in the open, think they wanted me to give them a reason to take me down…” Like pulling the pin on a grenade, Tony supposed. "Bled all over 'em. Radiation exposure. Their loss." Bruce’s head lulled to the side and his eyes rolled back a bit.
“Hey-“ Tony blurted out, his voice strained and anxious, reaching out and turning Bruce’s head back towards him, trying to keep him awake, exhaling in relief when his eyes fluttered back open. “Why didn’t you-” It was a natural question. They’d been willing to hurt him this bad, why hadn’t he tried to defend himself?
“Couldn’t. Airport. Too many people.” Tony’s jaw clenched. He supposed he could live with that answer. Hell, maybe he should have been happy for him. That wasn't a level of control he'd had six months ago. But now, he just shook his head. Be selfish for once, you sad bastard. “He would’ve been too riled up…could’ve been bad.” Bruce’s voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, and it seemed he was drifting off again. Tony leaned in and carefully pressed the back of his hand to Bruce’s forehead, a motherly gesture that felt weird, almost silly. A soft string of expletives escaped him. He was burning up. “Well, lucky for you, it doesn't matter.” Tony said, forcing his voice to sound casual and upbeat, more for himself than anything else. “Cause it’s gonna be fine.”
“C’mon sunshine.” He grabbed Bruce’s arm and gently pulled him into a sitting position, getting under one of his shoulders so they could get walking. Before he could stand him up, Bruce slumped against Tony's chest, his head resting against the base of his neck. Tony tensed briefly before wrapping his arm tighter around the man's shoulders, holding Bruce against him. Bruce shuddered and twitched slightly, trying to shake the constriction of Tony's arms, trying to shake the feeling of being trapped. But Tony held tight.
He wasn't an idiot, he saw a debt to be repaid when he saw one. Six months ago, Tony Stark had fallen from the sky only to be caught, only to be saved. Maybe now was when he returned the favor. He certainly couldn't leave Bruce as he was. His skin was unbearably hot and Tony reached his free hand to Bruce's neck, feeling the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath his fingers. That was an explosion waiting to happen. Unless he did something.
How do I even do this. Tony never considered himself a particularly gentle person. Gentle didn't befit "Iron Man", scourge of terrorists, aliens and Norse Tricksters everywhere. Of course, it didn't suit enormous green rage monsters either. Tony never understood how Bruce managed that side of his demeanor- painfully gentle. Someone so thoroughly screwed over shouldn't have to be like that. It was tragic.
"Bruce..." he murmured softly in his ear, staying with the "keep calm" philosophy. Bruce mumbled something Tony didn't understand, and nuzzled his cheek against the cold skin of Tony's exposed collarbone. He couldn't help but shudder slightly. Tony usually loved being right. This wasn't one of those times.
"C'mon buddy, we gotta get moving." Tony took a deep breath and then pulled the both of them up. For a second, Bruce was almost deadweight on his feet and Tony was terrified he wouldn't be able to pull this off, but he seemed to regain a bit of sense, able to shuffle along with Tony underneath him. They hobbled along the garden path together.
"I ruined your party."
"Are you kidding me? This place was beat hours ago."
-------------------------------------------------------------------
It turned out that leaving was the easy part. A.) He was Tony Stark and did what he wanted. B.) He was able to pass off Bruce as some drunken friend who needed to spend a night on his couch in order to avoid a few of his own in the metaphorical doghouse. A few words to security about the men in black wandering around and they had a good head start. Tony's driver in the accursed limousine the company had sent was an elder Indian man with a poker face that Natasha would have found breathtaking. Tony gave him a, well, call it a "healthy" tip in advance and told him to drive as fast as he could take that oversized slab of metal and upholstery. He hated limousines. Too slow. Too cliche. He unceremoniously shoved Bruce into the back seat and gave the outside crowd a curt wave and smile.
"Home" was a villa tucked away on the outskirts of the city, secluded and quiet. Howard Stark purchased it in the late 60's for as a love nest for mistress, the daughter of an Indian tech magnate Howard had buddied with in order to expand Stark Industries into Stark Enterprises. For it's time, it was a modern marvel, all glass and steel and straight lines and primary colors- high contrast to the stone, wood, silk and mirrors of it's surrounding architecture. Cold. Just the way he liked it. The lovely woman had no kids, so when she died, the house passed back to the Stark estate. A few years ago, Tony came in and gutted the place, and rewired it to suit his needs. He'd grown pretty accustomed to having his living spaces talk back to him. And he put in a pool. Because pools are important.
Trying to get Bruce to go to a hospital was a sad joke. He resisted, at first verbally, muttering something about how he'd just poison anyone who tried to help and then physically, grabbing for the handle on the car door, forcing Tony to yank him down into his lap, holding him down at first and then, really, just holding him. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, and Tony closed his eyes against the bright lights that seemed to penetrate the tinted windows, trying to ignore the mounting fear that he wouldn't be able to do anything to help Bruce, who shivered underneath his arms despite the fact that Tony could feel his body heat through his clothes. No hospital then. Poor bastard might as well get what he wanted, for once.
The door to the house all but flew off the hinges as Tony nearly kicked it down, pretty much dragging Bruce in a half-assed sort of bridal carry. Before JARVIS could finish the "Welcome back, Mr. Stark" and read his list of over 70 messages, Tony cut him off.
"JARVIS, anything comes within 50 yards of this house, I wanna know about it, I don't care if it's cats in heat or goddamn Genghis Khan." Not his best. He was distracted.
He shoved a splayed-open suitcase off of his bed with one hand, wincing as he heard a bottle of good scotch, congratulatory present to himself, breaking, probably ruining the remaining clothes inside. Bruce fell out of his arms, against the mattress, and Tony tried to ignore his faint whimper or the way he seemed to immediately assume the fetal position. Leaning down, he pulled the hood back off of Bruce's face, looking for signs of life.
"Banner, you still with me?" He said loudly, too loudly, almost startling himself in the too-quiet house. Bruce didn't respond. He barely moved, and Tony was already more than certain that he was the worst person that Bruce could have run into in this state. Tony Stark could do a lot go things, some of them considered miraculous and impossible and flashy and genius, but he really doubted that taking care of people, in any way that didn't involve signing a check, was one of them. He reached out and brushed some of the damp, grey-streaked hair away from Bruce's forehead, his expression still lined in pain, half-awake, his eyes darting under the bruised skin of his eyelids. Be okay, he willed quietly, hesitating before resting his hand against Bruce's face, brushing his thumb against the curve of his cheekbone.
Be okay be okay be okay be okay.
He seemed to respond to the touch, lips parting slightly, eyes opening, bloodshot and half-lidded, for a fraction of a second before closing. Tony sat up with a deep sigh, and began removing Bruce's clothes, tossing the dirty, threadbare shirts aside and swallowing the bile at the back of his throat when he saw that horrible, angry cut in Bruce's side staring him in the face. After a rummage through his thoroughly understocked medicine cabinet, he found himself armed with little more than some hydrogen peroxide and acetaminophen. Fucked, basically. He could get Bruce to swallow the pills and try to flush the wound out with peroxide but it basically felt like trying to throw a teacup of water on a house fire.
He watched with a numb fascination as the peroxide reacted to the dirt in the wound and fizzled quietly, hopefully doing good. He had one hand resting against Bruce's chest, in case he tried to move around, but Bruce didn't do anything. Barely moving, barely breathing and his skin was bruised and gray and hot and for a moment Tony looked at him and was terrified that Bruce had it all wrong, that maybe he really could die. Would die. That maybe putting a gun in his mouth was just too… ostentatious.
"Sir, you have a call on line one."
Tony's looked up, his hand unconsciously and protectively rising to Bruce's shoulder.
"JARVIS, this is not a good time, this is the direct opposite of a good-"
"Sir, they say it concerns Doctor Banner."