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Yes, it's 5am, no, I should not be awake, yes, I'm posting this anyway. *smiles sheepishly*
Title: Numbered Silently
Rating: PG-13/R
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, brief JARVIS. Bruce & Tony
Summary: Bruce kept a little tally, in his head, of people he thought should meet the Hulk. Those who had made Tony afraid were numbered among them.
Wordcount: 2748
Warnings/Notes: Violence. Attempted murder. PTSD. Fear.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Numbered Silently
Rating: PG-13/R
Fandom: Avengers movieverse
Characters/Pairings: Bruce Banner, Tony Stark, brief JARVIS. Bruce & Tony
Summary: Bruce kept a little tally, in his head, of people he thought should meet the Hulk. Those who had made Tony afraid were numbered among them.
Wordcount: 2748
Warnings/Notes: Violence. Attempted murder. PTSD. Fear.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Numbered Silently
Bruce kept a little tally, in his head, of people he thought should meet the Hulk. He shouldn't, he knew. It was terrible, and wrong, and it came from a part of him that he shouldn't accept.
Not the part that became the Hulk. That was instinct, rage, pain, fear. That was something ... everyone had, even if most people usually didn't turn into literal giant green manifestations of those instincts. Those things were a part of everyone. Things to be controlled, yes, but not necessarily rejected (as much as, oh, he'd wanted to. So many times. He'd wanted so badly to carve them out of himself, throw them aside. But he couldn't, and he knew that, and now, maybe, for the first time ... maybe also accepted it, a little).
The list came from somewhere else. Somewhere darker, and colder, and wholly premeditated. Somewhere that was also a part of many people. A place inside them where they stored things more deadly than rage. Things like hate.
His list, at least, was fairly short. And it was not ... It was never acted on. He had that much control, at least. More. He would never be that thing. He refused it. He couldn't help his monster, not ever as much as he would like, but he could stop it from being used. He could stop it from being a weapon. He could do that much.
But there were some times, some secret times, when he wanted the Hulk to be his weapon. Not to preserve himself, but to ... avenge. To show someone else what it was like, to be afraid. To bow down. There were times when he wished the Hulk was more than instinct, when he wished it was a thing he could command. A thing he could point, and trust that there would be no collateral damage.
It wasn't, so he didn't. So he never would. But he wished. He did wish.
And, perhaps strangely, those wishes only increased, around Tony. Or not so strangely. Those wishes flared and strengthened around the other man. Not at Tony. Not ever against him. But ... for him. More often than Bruce would have believed, before he came to know the man.
Tony ... did not fear him. More than a simple defiance of fear, more than simply a mask across it. Tony didn't fear him. Maybe because Tony knew something about the id, about instinct, and rage, and fear, and the weapons they could become. Maybe because Tony had seen something in Bruce that he recognised, some exposed nerve that sang over Tony's own skin. Maybe because the Hulk had apparently saved Tony's life. Maybe because Tony, for whatever strange reasons that made sense only to him, seemed to trust Bruce.
He didn't really know, found it at best baffling, at worst worrying. But it was a thing he treasured. Something that ... made things bearable, sometimes. Made this new life, this awareness of who and what he was, this knowledge that at least one of his pursuers had never lost him, and could come for him at any moment ... made that easier. A little. Enough. Just the thought that, no matter what, there was one person who grinned, casually and without artifice, when he approached. It was something he hadn't had, since Betty. Something he hadn't dared hope for, since he'd been forced to run from her. And, until it was safe to return to her, until he was no longer pursued, until he was not a weapon or a catastrophe waiting to happen ... Something he had not believed was possible.
So, perhaps not so strange, then. That, somewhere in the dark and secret places in his head, his heart, he should have placed Tony beside his list, and counted him just cause for it. That he should have looked at Tony, at those who hurt Tony, and quietly considered them worthy of the Hulk.
He would not. In some cases, he could not. But the wish was there. In the dark and secret times. The wishes were there.
The first time he understood that, it had been an accident. Something he would never have intended, something Tony would never have shown him, without provocation. Something, possibly, he should not have pulled from Tony, but ... He had needed to understand.
No. He had needed to leave, to run. Tony had needed him to understand. And once he had ... Bruce had needed it, too.
He'd wandered out of his room, somewhere in the dead of night, on his way to the (nearest) kitchen. Stark Tower was ... under construction, mostly. The livable areas were somewhat haphazard, yet. And living in close quarters with Tony Stark, however initially temporarily, had proven to be ... an interesting experience, to say the least. Nothing he couldn't handle, of course. He'd lived in much worse places, in much worse conditions. And his other option had been 30,000 feet up, which made ... many things bearable, by comparison.
But living with Tony, he'd found, genuinely wasn't that difficult, provided you accepted certain things. Like the fact that Tony, despite his reputation, didn't really seem to know what to do with someone else in his space. Aside from his robots, his AI, Pepper, and someone called Rhodey, Tony didn't seem to ... have anyone. Not really. Not someone he would expect to be there. Which made him ... a little strange around Bruce, in places. Like he didn't quite know who Bruce was, at times. Wasn't quite sure why he was there.
It was something should have keyed Bruce in. Something that should have warned him, made him curious. Something that should have told him what would happen, that night.
He'd come out of some corridor. Into the area Tony and Pepper had mostly claimed for their own, while the penthouse was still under reconstruction. He'd emerged, mostly silently (old habits), to the open area where Tony was pacing somewhat frenetically in front of the windows, and paused for a second. To gather himself, to ask if something was wrong, maybe. And Tony had turned, oblivious, and caught sight of him suddenly, and ...
And there had been terror, in Tony's eyes. For just a fraction of a second, before he had it controlled. For just a moment, raw instinct, before Tony snapped himself back. A split second of raw, blind fear, a surge of adrenalin that Bruce recognised so very, very well. For one second, seeing him, Tony had been afraid.
Bruce ... had left. Tried to. Turned on his heel, moved to leave. The room. The tower. The city. Everything. He had stayed, because Tony wasn't afraid. Because that relief, someone who knew and did not fear, had made it worth the constant sense of scrutiny, the knowledge that SHIELD knew where he was. He had stayed, because Tony wasn't afraid. In that moment, that had fractured. He couldn't, not when ...
And Tony had realised what it meant, Tony must have known, somehow, because in the next second there was Tony's voice, crying his name, and then Tony's hand, locked around Bruce's wrist, pulling him back. Holding him tight. Bruce had swung around, a flare of anger in his eyes, expecting Tony to flinch, Tony to let go, but ...
Tony hadn't. For all that a second ago he had been terrified, Tony never flinched. He had looked at Bruce with desperation, with apology, with mute appeal, but not with fear. And Bruce ... hadn't understood.
"Don't," Tony said, low and desperate. "It wasn't you. I know you won't believe me, no-one ever believes that line, but please. It wasn't you."
Bruce had ... closed his eyes. His hand twisting into a fist, his wrist turning in Tony's grasp. He had closed his eyes, avoided that desperate gaze. "Tony ..."
"No," Tony snarled. His grip tightening for a second, then loosening. Apologetic. "Bruce. No. Okay? I swear, I fucking swear, it wasn't what you think. It wasn't you."
"Wasn't what I think?" he'd spat, opening his eyes. Seeing the desperation in Tony's face. Softening, a little, unwillingly, in the face of it. "You think I don't know what fear looks like?" he'd asked, very quietly. Staring directly into Tony's eyes, silent challenge. "After all this time. You think I don't know what it looks like?"
Tony grimaced, frustration, and stepped back. Not quite letting go of Bruce, but backing off a little. More for his own sake than Bruce's. He scrubbed an angry hand through his hair.
"I didn't say I wasn't ..." He stopped. Fought with himself for a second. Shifting angrily under Bruce's gaze. "I didn't say I wasn't afraid. Just for a second! For like, a split second. That's all. I didn't say I wasn't scared. I said it wasn't of you."
Bruce had closed his eyes again. Slumping, abruptly tired. Suddenly ... so very tired.
"You were looking right at me," he said, tiredly. Looking back up at Tony, something bleak and empty in his chest. Something all too visible, it seemed, because there Tony did flinch.
"Yeah," Tony said, hushed. Pained. "Yeah, I was. But I wasn't seeing you."
He grimaced, at Bruce's look of skeptical confusion, and finally let go of Bruce's wrist. Backing up, into the center of the room. Looking uneasily anywhere except at Bruce, for a long few minutes. Shifting nervously, angrily. Jittery. Until ...
"JARVIS!" Bruce had nearly jumped, a little, at the sudden exclamation. Tony ignored him, glaring jitterily at the central window. "JARVIS ... put up the Obadiah footage, okay? Central screen."
There had been a long pause, and when the AI answered, Bruce could have sworn he sounded ... shocked. As much as JARVIS was ever shocked. And worried.
"Sir ... are you quite certain?" Gentle disbelief, an invitation to reconsider. Bruce ... almost spoke, at that. Almost tried to stop it.
Tony ignored them both. "Yes, yes I am absolutely certain. Put it on the screen, JARVIS. And you!" Spinning back to Bruce, angry and ... desperate. Defensive. Afraid. "Just ... Just watch, okay? It will ... I'll explain. But just ... watch."
Bruce had blinked. Shook his head, now honestly concerned. He'd moved forward, maybe to tell Tony that whatever it was, he didn't need to see it, but ...
But Tony wasn't looking at him, and Bruce had turned to watch the footage, playing up against the darkness beyond the windows, and he'd ... forgotten, whatever it was he'd meant to say. Forgotten ... much of anything, really.
As he watched Tony be ambushed. As he watched Tony be paralysed. As he watched someone touch Tony, and hold him, almost horrifyingly gentle. Lower him down. Murmur to him about gifts, and golden geese, and how he'd had Tony killed, and how he was glad Tony had survived just that little longer. Long enough for this. Reaching down, locking something onto Tony's chest. Cutting in, locking closed, as Tony's eyes went dark and shocked and horrified. Pulling the arc reactor free.
Bruce watched, in sick, silent horror, was Tony was murdered in front of him. As Tony stared, frozen and terrified, up at his killer. As Tony fought, agonisingly, once the killer was gone, to save himself. To save Pepper. Bruce watched that.
And then, when JARVIS stopped the playback, abruptly and almost angrily, Bruce turned, white-faced, to the man beside him. And watched Tony.
"It wasn't you," Tony said. Low and desperate. Fingers locked together, looking at his feet. Not at Bruce. Definitely not at Bruce. "I don't ... It's been me and Pepper, since then. Rhodey. JARVIS. There were some parties ... I was dying, I wanted a party ... And I ... tried, a few times, but ... No-one else. There aren't ... people. Not just ... wandering around. Not living. Not with me. So I didn't ... I didn't see you."
He'd seen a stranger. A vaguely familiar shadow, nowhere near familiar enough, behind him in the darkness. And for that blind, split second, there had been fear.
"It was better," Tony whispered softly. "Lately. It's been fading. It was fine. But then ... You know. Loki, right upstairs. Natasha, that was ... something else. She got close, and turns out she was on my side, but I didn't know, not what she was, not until she was stabbing me in the neck, and ... It's been better, but sometimes ..."
Sometimes. Always, sometimes. Sometimes, the control slipped. Sometimes, the fear was too much. Sometimes, it just ... slipped.
"Why did you ask me here?" Bruce asked him, very quietly. Gently. He'd accepted, because he hadn't had much else to go to, and because Tony had seemed so genuine. He'd accepted. Now ... he wondered if he should have. "You didn't have to do that. You didn't have to ..."
... Put yourself through this, he was going to say. About to say. But Tony's eyes flashed up, Tony's head snapped around, and now there was anger. Something dark and savage, something Bruce knew, so deeply. Something that sang inside him every moment of every day, and kept the Hulk always no more than a second away.
"Because I wanted to," Tony snarled, hands snapping apart to clench into fists instead, furiously, shakingly straight. "Because I like you, and I wanted you here, and they don't get to take that from me. Because they don't get to say who I can or can't have in my fucking house. Because they don't get to ..." His voice snapped, cracked, and came back smaller. Quieter. "They don't get to make me afraid," he said, near-whispering, and Bruce broke, a little bit.
"Sometimes you have to be," he said, trapping his own hands behind his back, trapping their shaking behind him. "Sometimes you have to be afraid," he said, so quietly. "No matter how strong you are. Sometimes you need ... to be afraid of them."
Or you destroyed them. You hurt them. You put their names on secret lists, and whispered hate for them in the dark, when you had nowhere else to go. Sometimes, the fear was all that kept you sane, the hurt the only thing that made you real, when there was nothing but the howling things inside you, and the desperate wish for something to snap, to break, and let you go. Sometimes fear ... was all there was. Sometimes you had to be afraid.
"Maybe," Tony said, and he was watching Bruce now. He was seeing Bruce now. "Maybe," he said, leaning close, shifting sideways to touch, just gently, against him. "But I don't have to let it rule me."
And something had flared in Bruce, snapped and twisted free and wished ... God. And wished that were true. Wished it were real.
"I'm not afraid of you," Tony said, leaning into him. Not defiant. Not the flaring, angry thing that dared people to hurt him. Something smaller. Quieter. Real. "It wasn't you, the thing I saw. When I was afraid. And then it was, then I saw you, and ... I wasn't, anymore." He smiled. Darkly, absently, staring blindly out the window. "It's not you I'm afraid of. You know that, right?"
And he had meant Bruce, and he had meant the Hulk, and for the first time, Bruce believed that. Because it wasn't the howling things that frightened Tony, wasn't the roaring things that lashed out in pain and rage that made him afraid.
It was the dark and secret things, the hidden lists that people harboured, that came in the night and cut you open while you stared in horror, with never a scrap of rage, but with a cold disdain, and a judgement that you were worth no better. That, more than anything, was what frightened Tony.
And Bruce had one of those lists. He had one of those dark and secret things, somewhere beneath the anger, beneath the Hulk. Something that looked, sometimes, and judged them worth no better, thought them deserving of no more than the sight, the understanding, of the monster they so disdained, so desired. Bruce had his list, too.
Tony was not on it. Tony would never be on it.
But each and every one that Tony feared, that gave him cause to fear, suddenly was. They were numbered among that silent tally, and marked with that silent, virulent disdain.
Bruce knew the wrongness of that. Knew the darkness of it, knew it was an indulgence he could never, ever allow. But that moment, standing looking into the darkness with that man at his side, so desperately, defiantly unafraid ... he had not really cared.
And even still, even now, for as much of a monster as it made him ... he still didn't.
Bruce kept a little tally, in his head, of people he thought should meet the Hulk. He shouldn't, he knew. It was terrible, and wrong, and it came from a part of him that he shouldn't accept.
Not the part that became the Hulk. That was instinct, rage, pain, fear. That was something ... everyone had, even if most people usually didn't turn into literal giant green manifestations of those instincts. Those things were a part of everyone. Things to be controlled, yes, but not necessarily rejected (as much as, oh, he'd wanted to. So many times. He'd wanted so badly to carve them out of himself, throw them aside. But he couldn't, and he knew that, and now, maybe, for the first time ... maybe also accepted it, a little).
The list came from somewhere else. Somewhere darker, and colder, and wholly premeditated. Somewhere that was also a part of many people. A place inside them where they stored things more deadly than rage. Things like hate.
His list, at least, was fairly short. And it was not ... It was never acted on. He had that much control, at least. More. He would never be that thing. He refused it. He couldn't help his monster, not ever as much as he would like, but he could stop it from being used. He could stop it from being a weapon. He could do that much.
But there were some times, some secret times, when he wanted the Hulk to be his weapon. Not to preserve himself, but to ... avenge. To show someone else what it was like, to be afraid. To bow down. There were times when he wished the Hulk was more than instinct, when he wished it was a thing he could command. A thing he could point, and trust that there would be no collateral damage.
It wasn't, so he didn't. So he never would. But he wished. He did wish.
And, perhaps strangely, those wishes only increased, around Tony. Or not so strangely. Those wishes flared and strengthened around the other man. Not at Tony. Not ever against him. But ... for him. More often than Bruce would have believed, before he came to know the man.
Tony ... did not fear him. More than a simple defiance of fear, more than simply a mask across it. Tony didn't fear him. Maybe because Tony knew something about the id, about instinct, and rage, and fear, and the weapons they could become. Maybe because Tony had seen something in Bruce that he recognised, some exposed nerve that sang over Tony's own skin. Maybe because the Hulk had apparently saved Tony's life. Maybe because Tony, for whatever strange reasons that made sense only to him, seemed to trust Bruce.
He didn't really know, found it at best baffling, at worst worrying. But it was a thing he treasured. Something that ... made things bearable, sometimes. Made this new life, this awareness of who and what he was, this knowledge that at least one of his pursuers had never lost him, and could come for him at any moment ... made that easier. A little. Enough. Just the thought that, no matter what, there was one person who grinned, casually and without artifice, when he approached. It was something he hadn't had, since Betty. Something he hadn't dared hope for, since he'd been forced to run from her. And, until it was safe to return to her, until he was no longer pursued, until he was not a weapon or a catastrophe waiting to happen ... Something he had not believed was possible.
So, perhaps not so strange, then. That, somewhere in the dark and secret places in his head, his heart, he should have placed Tony beside his list, and counted him just cause for it. That he should have looked at Tony, at those who hurt Tony, and quietly considered them worthy of the Hulk.
He would not. In some cases, he could not. But the wish was there. In the dark and secret times. The wishes were there.
The first time he understood that, it had been an accident. Something he would never have intended, something Tony would never have shown him, without provocation. Something, possibly, he should not have pulled from Tony, but ... He had needed to understand.
No. He had needed to leave, to run. Tony had needed him to understand. And once he had ... Bruce had needed it, too.
He'd wandered out of his room, somewhere in the dead of night, on his way to the (nearest) kitchen. Stark Tower was ... under construction, mostly. The livable areas were somewhat haphazard, yet. And living in close quarters with Tony Stark, however initially temporarily, had proven to be ... an interesting experience, to say the least. Nothing he couldn't handle, of course. He'd lived in much worse places, in much worse conditions. And his other option had been 30,000 feet up, which made ... many things bearable, by comparison.
But living with Tony, he'd found, genuinely wasn't that difficult, provided you accepted certain things. Like the fact that Tony, despite his reputation, didn't really seem to know what to do with someone else in his space. Aside from his robots, his AI, Pepper, and someone called Rhodey, Tony didn't seem to ... have anyone. Not really. Not someone he would expect to be there. Which made him ... a little strange around Bruce, in places. Like he didn't quite know who Bruce was, at times. Wasn't quite sure why he was there.
It was something should have keyed Bruce in. Something that should have warned him, made him curious. Something that should have told him what would happen, that night.
He'd come out of some corridor. Into the area Tony and Pepper had mostly claimed for their own, while the penthouse was still under reconstruction. He'd emerged, mostly silently (old habits), to the open area where Tony was pacing somewhat frenetically in front of the windows, and paused for a second. To gather himself, to ask if something was wrong, maybe. And Tony had turned, oblivious, and caught sight of him suddenly, and ...
And there had been terror, in Tony's eyes. For just a fraction of a second, before he had it controlled. For just a moment, raw instinct, before Tony snapped himself back. A split second of raw, blind fear, a surge of adrenalin that Bruce recognised so very, very well. For one second, seeing him, Tony had been afraid.
Bruce ... had left. Tried to. Turned on his heel, moved to leave. The room. The tower. The city. Everything. He had stayed, because Tony wasn't afraid. Because that relief, someone who knew and did not fear, had made it worth the constant sense of scrutiny, the knowledge that SHIELD knew where he was. He had stayed, because Tony wasn't afraid. In that moment, that had fractured. He couldn't, not when ...
And Tony had realised what it meant, Tony must have known, somehow, because in the next second there was Tony's voice, crying his name, and then Tony's hand, locked around Bruce's wrist, pulling him back. Holding him tight. Bruce had swung around, a flare of anger in his eyes, expecting Tony to flinch, Tony to let go, but ...
Tony hadn't. For all that a second ago he had been terrified, Tony never flinched. He had looked at Bruce with desperation, with apology, with mute appeal, but not with fear. And Bruce ... hadn't understood.
"Don't," Tony said, low and desperate. "It wasn't you. I know you won't believe me, no-one ever believes that line, but please. It wasn't you."
Bruce had ... closed his eyes. His hand twisting into a fist, his wrist turning in Tony's grasp. He had closed his eyes, avoided that desperate gaze. "Tony ..."
"No," Tony snarled. His grip tightening for a second, then loosening. Apologetic. "Bruce. No. Okay? I swear, I fucking swear, it wasn't what you think. It wasn't you."
"Wasn't what I think?" he'd spat, opening his eyes. Seeing the desperation in Tony's face. Softening, a little, unwillingly, in the face of it. "You think I don't know what fear looks like?" he'd asked, very quietly. Staring directly into Tony's eyes, silent challenge. "After all this time. You think I don't know what it looks like?"
Tony grimaced, frustration, and stepped back. Not quite letting go of Bruce, but backing off a little. More for his own sake than Bruce's. He scrubbed an angry hand through his hair.
"I didn't say I wasn't ..." He stopped. Fought with himself for a second. Shifting angrily under Bruce's gaze. "I didn't say I wasn't afraid. Just for a second! For like, a split second. That's all. I didn't say I wasn't scared. I said it wasn't of you."
Bruce had closed his eyes again. Slumping, abruptly tired. Suddenly ... so very tired.
"You were looking right at me," he said, tiredly. Looking back up at Tony, something bleak and empty in his chest. Something all too visible, it seemed, because there Tony did flinch.
"Yeah," Tony said, hushed. Pained. "Yeah, I was. But I wasn't seeing you."
He grimaced, at Bruce's look of skeptical confusion, and finally let go of Bruce's wrist. Backing up, into the center of the room. Looking uneasily anywhere except at Bruce, for a long few minutes. Shifting nervously, angrily. Jittery. Until ...
"JARVIS!" Bruce had nearly jumped, a little, at the sudden exclamation. Tony ignored him, glaring jitterily at the central window. "JARVIS ... put up the Obadiah footage, okay? Central screen."
There had been a long pause, and when the AI answered, Bruce could have sworn he sounded ... shocked. As much as JARVIS was ever shocked. And worried.
"Sir ... are you quite certain?" Gentle disbelief, an invitation to reconsider. Bruce ... almost spoke, at that. Almost tried to stop it.
Tony ignored them both. "Yes, yes I am absolutely certain. Put it on the screen, JARVIS. And you!" Spinning back to Bruce, angry and ... desperate. Defensive. Afraid. "Just ... Just watch, okay? It will ... I'll explain. But just ... watch."
Bruce had blinked. Shook his head, now honestly concerned. He'd moved forward, maybe to tell Tony that whatever it was, he didn't need to see it, but ...
But Tony wasn't looking at him, and Bruce had turned to watch the footage, playing up against the darkness beyond the windows, and he'd ... forgotten, whatever it was he'd meant to say. Forgotten ... much of anything, really.
As he watched Tony be ambushed. As he watched Tony be paralysed. As he watched someone touch Tony, and hold him, almost horrifyingly gentle. Lower him down. Murmur to him about gifts, and golden geese, and how he'd had Tony killed, and how he was glad Tony had survived just that little longer. Long enough for this. Reaching down, locking something onto Tony's chest. Cutting in, locking closed, as Tony's eyes went dark and shocked and horrified. Pulling the arc reactor free.
Bruce watched, in sick, silent horror, was Tony was murdered in front of him. As Tony stared, frozen and terrified, up at his killer. As Tony fought, agonisingly, once the killer was gone, to save himself. To save Pepper. Bruce watched that.
And then, when JARVIS stopped the playback, abruptly and almost angrily, Bruce turned, white-faced, to the man beside him. And watched Tony.
"It wasn't you," Tony said. Low and desperate. Fingers locked together, looking at his feet. Not at Bruce. Definitely not at Bruce. "I don't ... It's been me and Pepper, since then. Rhodey. JARVIS. There were some parties ... I was dying, I wanted a party ... And I ... tried, a few times, but ... No-one else. There aren't ... people. Not just ... wandering around. Not living. Not with me. So I didn't ... I didn't see you."
He'd seen a stranger. A vaguely familiar shadow, nowhere near familiar enough, behind him in the darkness. And for that blind, split second, there had been fear.
"It was better," Tony whispered softly. "Lately. It's been fading. It was fine. But then ... You know. Loki, right upstairs. Natasha, that was ... something else. She got close, and turns out she was on my side, but I didn't know, not what she was, not until she was stabbing me in the neck, and ... It's been better, but sometimes ..."
Sometimes. Always, sometimes. Sometimes, the control slipped. Sometimes, the fear was too much. Sometimes, it just ... slipped.
"Why did you ask me here?" Bruce asked him, very quietly. Gently. He'd accepted, because he hadn't had much else to go to, and because Tony had seemed so genuine. He'd accepted. Now ... he wondered if he should have. "You didn't have to do that. You didn't have to ..."
... Put yourself through this, he was going to say. About to say. But Tony's eyes flashed up, Tony's head snapped around, and now there was anger. Something dark and savage, something Bruce knew, so deeply. Something that sang inside him every moment of every day, and kept the Hulk always no more than a second away.
"Because I wanted to," Tony snarled, hands snapping apart to clench into fists instead, furiously, shakingly straight. "Because I like you, and I wanted you here, and they don't get to take that from me. Because they don't get to say who I can or can't have in my fucking house. Because they don't get to ..." His voice snapped, cracked, and came back smaller. Quieter. "They don't get to make me afraid," he said, near-whispering, and Bruce broke, a little bit.
"Sometimes you have to be," he said, trapping his own hands behind his back, trapping their shaking behind him. "Sometimes you have to be afraid," he said, so quietly. "No matter how strong you are. Sometimes you need ... to be afraid of them."
Or you destroyed them. You hurt them. You put their names on secret lists, and whispered hate for them in the dark, when you had nowhere else to go. Sometimes, the fear was all that kept you sane, the hurt the only thing that made you real, when there was nothing but the howling things inside you, and the desperate wish for something to snap, to break, and let you go. Sometimes fear ... was all there was. Sometimes you had to be afraid.
"Maybe," Tony said, and he was watching Bruce now. He was seeing Bruce now. "Maybe," he said, leaning close, shifting sideways to touch, just gently, against him. "But I don't have to let it rule me."
And something had flared in Bruce, snapped and twisted free and wished ... God. And wished that were true. Wished it were real.
"I'm not afraid of you," Tony said, leaning into him. Not defiant. Not the flaring, angry thing that dared people to hurt him. Something smaller. Quieter. Real. "It wasn't you, the thing I saw. When I was afraid. And then it was, then I saw you, and ... I wasn't, anymore." He smiled. Darkly, absently, staring blindly out the window. "It's not you I'm afraid of. You know that, right?"
And he had meant Bruce, and he had meant the Hulk, and for the first time, Bruce believed that. Because it wasn't the howling things that frightened Tony, wasn't the roaring things that lashed out in pain and rage that made him afraid.
It was the dark and secret things, the hidden lists that people harboured, that came in the night and cut you open while you stared in horror, with never a scrap of rage, but with a cold disdain, and a judgement that you were worth no better. That, more than anything, was what frightened Tony.
And Bruce had one of those lists. He had one of those dark and secret things, somewhere beneath the anger, beneath the Hulk. Something that looked, sometimes, and judged them worth no better, thought them deserving of no more than the sight, the understanding, of the monster they so disdained, so desired. Bruce had his list, too.
Tony was not on it. Tony would never be on it.
But each and every one that Tony feared, that gave him cause to fear, suddenly was. They were numbered among that silent tally, and marked with that silent, virulent disdain.
Bruce knew the wrongness of that. Knew the darkness of it, knew it was an indulgence he could never, ever allow. But that moment, standing looking into the darkness with that man at his side, so desperately, defiantly unafraid ... he had not really cared.
And even still, even now, for as much of a monster as it made him ... he still didn't.
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