oh, it's a reasonable sacrifice

PSST come hang out with me in space.

               AFTER BRUCE’S would-be captors were disposed of and she’d made her way back to the room, she tended to his wounds, changed him into clean clothes and laid him up in her bed. Whatever type of tranquilizer they’d used to render him unconscious had to have been manufactured specifically for the doctor. Which was a scary thought, to say the least. Despite the failure, this surely wouldn’t be the last time Ross made an attempt to bring Banner in. 

               WHILE THAT knowledge was exhausting, terrifying, and infuriating all at the same time, she knew there was no point in dwelling on it now. 

               WHEN HE COMES to, she’s laying on her back with her head resting against his stomach and her legs bent at the knee, feet pressing flat on the bed as she sways back and forth just slightly. This is, she’s found, the best possible position to take selfies in while getting Bruce in the shot but still hiding most of his unsightly injuries. A series of photos have been sent Tony’s way as assurance of their current safe and sound state. 

                         ❛ wish u were here xx❜

                         ❛ funny, i do too. is he unconscious…? ❜

                         ❛ he’s fine ❜

                         ❛ i could still catch a flight… ❜

                         ❛ goodnight, tony ❜

                         ❛ ice cold ❜

               SHE SETS HER phone down on the nightstand and turns so she can face Bruce, giving his hand a squeeze when he finds hers. ❝ Don’t force it if you can’t wake up now. I don’t know what they hit you with but it was obviously pretty potent. You’re safe, though. We’re safe. ❞

               His hand stays wrapped around hers, squeezing it back. It takes a moment to process what she says, but the word 'safe' hits him right in the gut and he nods listlessly. She's right, the tranquilizers are relentless, clouding and dulling all of his senses until he's asleep again. Bruce has no idea how much time passes, it could be twenty minutes, it could be four hours. He doesn't dream, at least that he can remember, and he wonders if they had explored every possibility, elimninated any window that Hulk might try to grab and make an appearance.

               The second time he wakes up is, well, different. He feels like he's been pulled from an aquarium, the fuzziness, the feeling of floating, the dullness and the haze, its all gone and a thousand different sensations assault him, the pull of bandages against torn skin, the pinprick ache of fresh bruises- real, normal, human pain, enough of it to elicit a faint groan from him as he stirs, now covered up to the shoulders with a blanket. His lungs are resentful of his near-drowning, and he sits up for a moment, coughing, finally opening his eyes to look down at himself, a patchwork quilt of bandages and blooming purple-blue skin. It's a reasonable price to pay, he guesses, for avoiding capture. Although, after a moment, he honestly assumes he didn't "avoid" anything. He was rescued.

               It doesn't take him long to immediately resume his prone position, shifting the blanket aside, and rolling over to the cooler side of the mattress. He takes a moment, staring into space, listening to (and trying to quiet) Hulk's indignity over being sedated, which he saw as being tricked. He's so tired, emotionally speaking, and the fact that Hulk made him, even in this mild-mannered, easily-bruised human state, a physiological nightmare is hard enough to deal with even without the threat of imprisonment. Confused, overactive metabolism, constantly fighting to keep both a 5'7'' scientist and an eight-foot green leviathan on their feet could be helpful, but not today, and he can tell by how hot the room is (or isn't) that he's running a pointless fever that won't actually fix anything and will flame out when it wants to. Naturally. Bruce found his body liked to hit the panic button on occasions such as this, when it perceived "trauma" despite the fact that it wouldn't actually kill him. For a second, he contemplates going back to bed.

               A pre-Avengers Bruce would have leapt out of the bed and crawled right back out onto the street, in search of a boat or a plane that would take him to a new hideout, come hell or high water, but now he just can't, despite a newly-remembered sense of panic, not the vague idea of being chased, but actually coming face to face with someone who could harm him. The presence of someone else in the bed helps him to still a bit, though, and he realizes that Natasha's still here, hasn't left his side, and that this isn't his room, but hers. From trace memories, it's not hard to piece together what she had to do to get there, and he checks her over, looking for injuries, and he finds some, traces of blood (maybe not her own) and bruises starting to peak through like watercolor paint on canvas. He's lost a bit of his filter in the moment, looking up at her with warm but tired eyes, indescribable gratitude and fondness etched onto his face. Pain clouds his expression after a moment. "We need-" the tongue is apparently the last sense that wants to catch up and he stops for a moment, blinking back his exhaustion before pushing forward. "We need to get out of here." he says, swallowing hard.

Bruce Banner + screenshots of despair 

@scrambledeggsong has 1 friend and 29 books

      Thor could sense his unease, and looking around the room again,       the other Asgardians and warriors quickly adverting their eyes from       Thor’s commanding glares. He could see why Bruce wanted out already,       the welcoming committee hardly did their job. It was embarrassing,       really, and Thor wanted to do his best as a host. “No, no– Please, enjoy       thyself. eat plenty, be merry! This is a time to celebrate, you are my guest.”       Thor forced a smile. He didn’t like feeling like he created the white elephant       in the room.

                Ignoring the rest of his kind, Thor tried to ease himself in his chair, taking a                 long drink of his cup, if not nearly finishing it to take the edge off. “Avengers                 are always welcome in the Golden Realm. We have the same goal, to keep                 peace. If you wish to place your feet on my table and demand a full tankard,                 then do so–” In fact, Thor just did that to prove his point, his fellow warriors                 seeming to follow his lead even. This amused Thor, nodding to Bruce to do                 the same. 

     "It's fine, it's fine..." he tried to protest quietly, wishing there was an easy      was an easy way to tell Thor that his attempts to be warm and welcoming      weren't noticed or unappreciated but sometimes it was just...easier really      for him to keep to his corner of things and this wasn't Thor's fault. Bruce      barely belonged in his own world, it was fair enough that he'd stick out so      badly in another.

               Glancing at Thor with an eyebrow raised, and seeing the expectant looks of                several others, Bruce opened his mouth to protest again but Thor just looked                so hopeful, he sighed and bit the inside of his cheek before slouching in his chair,                attempting to do the same. Thor seems to forget that he's short, but the position                is kinda nice once get gets the hang of it, mindful of his shoulder. "I'm, um..."                he holds the cup up a bit. "Still good. With this one. Thank you." Looking at it,                he gritted his teeth and took another brain-cell obliterating sip.

      Getting things prepped and ready, Thor had himself a flagon of mead,       sharing it with friends and fellow warriors, the night kicking off to joyous       start, as most feasts of the Asgardians tend to go. While Thor clanked       glasses with his people, he finally took a seat at the head of the table,       arranging to his is lady at his side, greeting her with a kiss on the side of       head. He promised he wouldn’t get too out of hand, but he also promised       he’d have the drinks that she couldn’t.

                  As soon as Bruce walked in, the room fell quiet, the other Asgardians not                   quite sure how to react to the mortal walking amongst them. They couldn’t                   be blamed– They normally wished against having 'outsiders, but Thor thought                   differently. “Hail! Friend Bruce Banner! Come, sit!” Shooing away the warrior                   to his left, he opened a chair next to him while Sif sat at his other. “Have a                    cup of our finest mead! Oh– And have a taste of whate’er you like. We                   always provide as best we can for our guests, aye?” Thor took a look around                   the room, eyeing his company to silently threaten them if they didn’t treat                   Bruce with the highest honor.

     Even as the fear of being hated or harmed seemed to wash away through      Thor's welcome, there's something new (Bruce could always find something      to worry about), and that's the fear of expectation. At any party or dinner,      Bruce was the one hanging on the fringes. He was the one who offered to      wash dishes so that he could be helpful but not intrusive. He rarely spoke      unless directly addressed. If he wasn't a threat to Thor's people, then he      could be the next worse thing. A disappointment. He was well aware that      he was representing the human species. And he was barely human to      begin with.

                 He sits down next to Thor, trying to find a point of focus between Thor and                  the food and comes up short, almost thrilled when Thor shoves a cup                  into his hand, taking a distracted sip before nearly choking it right back up.                  Apparently "finest" is Asgardian subtext for "makes you feel like you can breathe                  fire" and the sounds of muffled snickering takes him straight back to high school.                  Moving the cup in front of his mouth, he worried his lower lip before glancing at                  Thor. "I can go, honestly." he said quietly. "If I'm...going to be a distraction."                  But he had the idea that Thor wasn't going to let him off with lingering in the                  background or washing dishes.

     Long talks, chitchats, and any remote form of conversation was hardly      the norm between her and the doctor, whether it was with the man or      with the one inside.  But there seemed to be nothing but talking—      talking about sides and registration, accountability and social reform.

                    ❝ DOCTOR… ❞

            Wanda should have considered themselves lucky that fists             had yet to be thrown, but who knew how long that would             last.  She knew them all, she had seen their minds.  It was             only a matter of time until someone threw the first punch.

                                    ❝ … You’re a little too late to talk about the ACCORDS— ❞

                           An understatement on her part.  For Wanda, it had been less talks and                            more interrogation.  For was she not the one who cast the first stone?

     Bruce knew that the official talks were well over, watching his friends and      teammmates file out of the board room with defeated expressions. Only      one person stayed behind, and for a second, Bruce thought about moving on      until she addressed him. He and Wanda...to say they didn't talk much was an      understatement, but an understandable one. Even if his anger had disappated      with time, he had never felt up to opening the air to potentially talking it out.      Maybe he never would.

           Too late, she's seen him and addresses him quietly             and he stops for a moment, hovering in the door            before taking a seat at the end of the table.

                    "I'm not invited...Not when Ross is on site. They think it's too much of a risk."

                           He smirks and shakes his head. "They're probably right." Rubbing at the                            back of his neck, he sighs. "I sent my questions and concerns along with Tony.                            I'm assuming they're probably in one of these trash cans." he said flatly.

So, I did these four because I’ve drawn Tony in Asgardian clothing a lot already and Thor is, well, from Asgard. So here’s the remaining team dressing up all fancy-like. 

         Standing up, straightening out his trousers, Thor nodded again.           “Of course. You are very welcome.” Leaving Bruce to his rest, he           turned back just before he walked out of the door, then wrinkled           his nose. “See you at supper.” Not that it was a demand, but the           thunderer assumed that Dr. Banner would eventually make an           appearance. Once he was out of sight, Thor gathered his best           cooks and prepped the evening for a hardy feast for himself and           his guest. 

                   Unsure what Bruce specifically liked, a shame for Thor, he decided it                    be best to just make everything in hopes that his guest would at least                    like something. As soon as there was word of Bruce being awake again,                    Thor had an escort fetch him to join the rest for the feast.

         Getting dressed is...an experience. Bruce has been an exceedingly          conservative dresser since he abandoned his grunge phase in grad          school and the clothes provided for him are...well at least he won't          stand out among the crowd. They're beautiful actually, a fine black          tunic and a pair of dark grey pants...are they "pants"? They're much          tighter than he anticipates, and it takes awhile to figure out how          the ornate gold accessories are supposed to work into it. (It turns          out to be a belt, complete with a small knife, and small, sleek          wrist guards. Topping it off are soft black leather boots that           reach his knees. It's all a little much. Bruce had never gone so          far as to start wearing plastic glasses frames, thinking they drew           too much attention to his face and then there he was, looking          like a D&D character.

                   The escort, a quiet and bright young woman, enters to find him fiddling                    with a bolt of dark green (ha, good one Thor) fabric, and he looks at her                    with a deer in headlights expression. "Not sure how this part goes." he                    mumbled gently. With a kind smile, she draped the fabric around his                    shoulders, fastening it with the gold pin that remained on the chair.                    Bruce, admittedly, goes a little red around the corners. Okay. That's cool.                    She led him down a hallway, at a leisurely pace, letting Bruce take in his                    surroundings, not letting him get lost, walking slowly enough to match                    the wounded man's pace. (She was much, much taller than him.) The                    smell of food begins to surround them, and Bruce finds himself in                    an immense, golden hall, already well into feast-mode. Bruce is                    hard-pressed to find table space not bearing some sort of large                    ornate-looking dish. He's also keenly aware of the many sets of eyes                    following him as he enters, some just curious to see Bruce's new,                    obviously human face, but some are much more, suspicious,                    guarded and wary of his entrance. He desperately looks around for                    Thor, who, naturally, sits at the head of his table.

        “As if we had made it easy for one another. We are a team of misfits,          truth be told. Some of our issues simply tend to be more involved than          others.” Thor really wished he could ease his mind, but hopefully being          his friend would allow Bruce that peace, in some shape or form.

               In his quiet presence, Thor could see that there was still more weighing on                 Dr. Banner’s mind. Some things that Thor could not fix. And the thunderer                needed to allow Bruce to heal both mind and body. “If you wish, I will allow                thee to rest a while longer. There is a feast tonight and mead a plenty.”                Pointing to the bedside, there was a display of clothes folded neatly beside                him. “These were made according to your measurements. I hope they suit                you needs.”

        Bruce glanced away, a pang of anxiety making himshift uncomfortably          "Oh, I'm...I should probably just...I can stay here." he nodded, worrying          his lower lip for a moment. Thor didn't need him making people nervous          by being out and about. And truth be told, the terror of being chased over          several days was hard to push aside, although the last thing Bruce wanted          was to seem ungrateful. Also, he was starving. But it was amazing the kind          of things Bruce could sublimate for the sake of being unthreatening.

               Glancing over at the close, visible question marks appear on Bruce's face,                the question clearly being "how did you get my measurements", but he decides                not to ask. "They'll be fine," he said with a small, reassuring smile. "Thank you."

               PERHAPS, IF ANYTHING, a drink and a quick facetime with Tony would ease her troubled mind. Maybe he could share in her misplaced disappointment although he wouldn’t vocalize as much. His support always came in different forms because while talking was definitely his strong suit, feelings were not. 

               SHE GRABS another drink on the way back to her room. It’s fruity and in a hollowed out coconut with a tiny umbrella sticking out of it so she doesn’t expect much except a good precursor to what’s waiting for her in her minibar. This was on Stark’s dime, anyway, so there was no need to consider the bill and her flight back to DC wasn’t until mid-morning. 

               BY THE TIME she reaches her door and pulls out the key, lets herself in, the coconut is bone dry and she drops it on the small table by the entryway. True to her nature (and with good reason) she does a quick sweep of the room before moving into the bathroom to rid herself of her disguise. She sets her phone down on the counter as she pulls her hair free from both the wig and cap, sighing in relief as the strands fall delicately around her shoulders. Her comfort is short-lived, however, when her cell begins to buzz just as she’s tugging on a pair of yoga pants. 

               WITH A SMALL sigh, Natasha grabs the device and accepts the facetime call. ❝ —- I’m a little busy here, Stark… ❞

                         ❝ Yeah, yeah… are you… in a bikini? ❞

               HER EYES ROLL as she changes the camera angle, ❝ I thought we agreed I’d make first contact. ❞

                         ❝ Uh, yeah, we did but that was before Ross had boots on the ground. Where’s Big Green? Is he with you? Also in a bikini, maybe? ❞

                        ❝ No… and no. But he is really tanned. ❞

                        ❝ An orange Hulk is actually kind of frightening to consider. ❞

                        ❝ What’s the ETA? ❞

               ❝ Uh… ❞ Stark casts his eyes to the side, studying one of the several screens surrounding him. ❝ Can’t say. These guys aren’t military. At least not ours. Mercenaries, if I had to guess. That way he can keep this off the books. ❞

                        ❝ Right, well, all that means to me is that I can kill them. ❞

                        ❝ Need my help…? I mean, do ya want me to.. I could just… slip in, slip out – ❞

                        ❝ Bye, Tony. ❞

                        ❝ Okay, okay, but call me after! ❞ is all he manages before she ends the call. 

               She got to find Bruce. And quick.

               Hitting the water feels like falling onto a pile of broken glass, pieces of coral scraping and slicing into his skin like a hot knife and before Bruce passes out entirely, he gasps in panic, taking in a lungful of sea water. After that, all that follows are the brief, sensory details, more like snippets of a dream than anything he could claim to have really happened. The brief feeling of floating, of going numb, before his body is pulled, tugged out of the surf and dragged onto the warm sand.

                        ❝ Bruce, don't you dare- ❞

               The sedatives taper and waver, and for a brief second, he comes to, convulsing on the sand, and coughing up lungfuls of water. A hand smooths away the hair from his face, and a curtain of red hair blocks out the sun beating down on them. He tries to talk and she, (because it's no mystery, at this point, who his rescuer is), she hushes him and tries to get him to his feet before she's halted by the sound of gunfire. It's not flattering to admit but before he can do anything, can think of doing anything to help, he falls back under. It's something he'll want to kick himself for later, despite Natasha's hyper-capability.

                The next time he wakes up, consciousness is much more of a burden, and for a moment, he panics, he's afraid he's become the Hulk without any memory of what happened, or worse, they took him just like they intended- and if he opened his eyes, he was going to see a jail cell or the confines of a laboratory. But the decided...peacefulness of his surroundings dispelled the idea. Everything hurts, his skin feels cut to ribbons, his chest aches and his lungs feel wrung out, weirdly fragile each time he takes in a shallow breath, sweat drifting across his forehead as his body tried to process injury and near-drowning and flush out invasive sedatives.

               Finally, he can't put it off an longer and after a few meager tries, his eyes stay open long enough to catch the lazy drag of a ceiling fan, and the pale, bruised peaks of Natasha's kneecaps. Reaching out with a blind hand, he managed to find her own, and he can't properly express the overwhelming feeling of relief that washed over him. "...Natasha?" he called out weakly, eyes fluttering shut despite his best efforts.

So you’re saying that the Hulk– the Other Guy, saved my life?

         “You have Asgardian medicine with you– You are certain to be fine.”           Thor smiled again. Dr. Banner had dealt with so much unfairness and           torment in his years, it was the least Thor could do, showing him some           bit of kindness. 

                 “Is that so? Then I suppose I should have a talk with our friends.” He even                   chuckled now, knowing that the Avengers would help Bruce, but in truth,                   Thor simply had the right tools, in the right place at the right time. “I know                   for folks like you and Ton Even like this, y, belief in the gods and magic is something that                   is merely fables; my people and I simply are aliens, creatures of time and                   space. But… We hear, we see and we know when we are needed. I will                   always be a force for good– And I shall always be there when my friends                   need me.” Thor nods, taking in a heavy breath. “Asgardia is a place for                    when you need it. The gods hear you, Bruce. Know that and be comforted.”

         Bruce smirked slightly. "In all fairness to them, I don't always make it so easy."          How about never. You never make it easy. Running away usually took any chances          to be hurt or disappointed, but it also took away that sort of proof-of-life in general.          That proof that he had friends. That he mattered to someone. But better to leave that          proof behind than smash it to pieces.

                 He looked Thor straight in the eye for a moment, trying to feel what Thor                  was trying to impart, to believe it, but, well...it's hard. Even like this, at                  his weakest, protected by a friend behind impenetrable walls, he's not sure                  if he can do it. No one has ever heard me, he wants to argue, thinking about                  the long, seemingly endless line of trauma that made up the years of his life                  and how easy it'd been, from early on, to recognize when you were on your                  own. His face pales a bit, and he finds that all he can do is nod. He wishes he                  had a better response to someone's unbridled kindness and attempts at comfort.                  He smiles, quietly and uneasily.

        “I figured as much.” The Hulk was like a walking nuke in human form. The          destruction he could cause, well, Thor saw it first hand. As did much of the          world. For mortasl, he could imagine the fear they had but Thor knew that          the Hulk had enough conscious to not hurt the peaceful. He fought back          against those who fought against him. It just so happened to be everyone.

                    “I think this country would have to consider genocide if they attacked                      Asgardia. We are warriors but not war mongers. Ease your mind, friend                      Bruce, we can worry about what the future holds when your body is healed.”

        The thought of something as heavy as "genocide" makes him dizzy          and Bruce finally settles back into a resting position, body in constant          argument with the mind. If he ended up being the thing that tipped          Asgardia into war, he'd never forgive himself. Only during the battle          in New York had Bruce decided to consciously choose the battlefield          and he still questioned that decision every day of his life. All he wanted          was to feel some kind of peace, but for now, the forced downtime of          recovery would have to do.

                   "I'll be fine." he said quietly. Even if Bruce couldn't access Hulk's healing                    abilities without triggering the rampage, Hulk certainly didn't seem to enjoy                    Bruce sitting things out. "No one's ever done something like this for me."                    he said, staring up at the ceiling, half-awake. Well. Betty did.                    And I paid her in full by running away.

         “I appreciate your concern for my people,” he replied, looking down and           adjusting the bracer on his wrist. “–but ‘tis a matter of politics now. Your           government would not so carelessly attack mine without meeting with me           first. If there is a war to come, it would not be by your doing. I know what           the Americans think of Asgardia here, hovering above these lands. The           people of Broxton have learned to tolerate us. Howe’er, it does not mean           they like us.” 

                      Thor had been dealing with this dilemma since he summoned Asgard to                       Earth. Refugees of cosmic trauma, the thunderer only wished to see his                       people live again. They were a tough bunch, and they would endure. “You                       being here will is not the start of anything. They will merely use it, as they                       say here, add fuel to the fire.”

         Bruce nodded, brow furrowing in thought. He knew a little of Asgardia's recent          and startling existence, hovering over the unassuming Oklahoma plains and          could only imagine how the current tensions could be unsettling them. But still,          Bruce was afraid that if Thor garnered a reputation for harboring the "dangerous"          the more harm that could come from it. "If it comes down to politics, harboring the          Hulk could be tantamount to brandishing a nuclear weapon." he said simply.          "It could be seen as aggressive. I just..." he sighed. "Be careful."

                     He looked away for a moment, glancing back down at his bandages,                      remembering how close he'd almost gotten to losing control, and can                      only imagine what the fallout would have been. "Not to dramatize, but                      you know I'm not only talking about what's outside."