insurgents | OPEN POST.

Everyone has a camera phone and internet service now. [Which is a yes. It just hadn't really made any sense - she wasn't even sure what the Avengers had been doing there at all.] I don't really remember the first time, but it was like that, wasn't it. You were gone.

[She touches his face while they talk, fingercombs his hair, not really to distract him or herself but as some sort of absentminded comfort. Her tentative theory has been that he was experimenting on himself again. With the resources that she assumes were at his disposal, she doesn't imagine he wasn't developing at least one anti-Hulk measure, and maybe one had gone wrong.]

Right. [ He nods. It doesn't make it easier, knowing that she saw the whole thing, but he should've known that. He knew it had been all over the media at the time, with people crying out left and right for imprisonment and worse. ] Yes, it's... it was like that. It wasn't me. I was trapped.

[ That's one way to put it. It doesn't explain everything, he's not even sure it's really how it was, but the sentiment was close enough to it. ]

We were on a mission, and there was a pair of twins there, with these... abilities. They'd volunteered for an experiment, and got some unique powers. They were working with... with someone we were trying to stop. The girl used her powers to get into our heads, make us see things, render us virtually useless. [ A pause. ] Well, most of us, anyway. She had other plans for me.

[ Or maybe not, hell if he knows. It's not like he ever thought to ask, when he could barely look at Wanda in the eye, let alone tell her anything that wasn't bitter, aggressive, angry beyond any measure of what he's even used to anymore. ]

She tore me apart. She pushed me in deep and she dragged out the monster. She made us both see things, she just... [ He grits his teeth a little, lifts a hand to cup his own forehead, then cover his own eyes. The memory of how it felt assaults violently now, and he has to take a moment to swallow it back down again. ]

I couldn't stay. Not after that, I couldn't. I could barely look at the rest of the team, and I don't think they wanted me there either. I just had to... I had to leave.

[It's... a lot. Psychic twins or whatever Bruce is describing, sightings of the Hulk in Sokovia, what Betty doesn't know about Ultron or Vision or the Black Widow or the Scarlet Witch - the details aren't important compared to what he tells her and what it means to him. As he speaks, sometimes sounding clinical, sometimes excruciatingly emotional, Betty has to struggle to keep her own feelings under wraps enough to let him finish. It's not a stretch to assume that this is the first time since the events of last year that he's said any of this to anyone, that he's had anyone he trusted enough to tell. It means he isn't holding back from her either. So she doesn't interpret, doesn't interrupt, doesn't do anything more than listen and try to take in what he's giving her, as much as he can stand.]

You were hurt. Badly. [And he's still hurting, and she isn't sure if it's the things he was made to see or the things he was made to do, just that she can't take either away.] And then you were forced to hurt all those other people. Bruce, that isn't your fault. That wasn't his fault. But... it happened and it was horrible... no wonder you left.

[What else was there to do? There's a fleeting thought - that he came to her, and she can't keep him safe any more than she could the last time. That for all his power, the Hulk couldn't either. ]

You don't have to face them. You don't have to do anything. Just stay here. Just stay with me.

[ It's difficult to sound detached about it, to tell the story and not feel the lump in his throat tighten, his voice lilting and his calm tone slipping away from him. He hasn't told anyone about this, she's right— more than that, he didn't even talk about it with the people who already knew. And after he left, keeping all of that bottled up and buried somewhere deep and dark seemed like the best option.

Except now that door's opened again, the walls fall apart like they're made of cards or sand and Betty barely needs to nudge him just so. He's a little close to crying, but not really, there's the urge but his eyes feel too dry. ]

It doesn't matter. It always feels like it's my fault.

[ And that's it, fundamentally. That it doesn't matter what Bruce knows rationally, how he feels about it doesn't necessarily follow logic. And he feels responsible, he feels like he's at fault. He blames Wanda too, for the record, and he'd likely throw that in her face if he ever saw her again, but he still doesn't feel innocent in the middle of all this. He's not. ]

I wanted to... I want to. [ He drops his head a little, and his eyes close heavily, leaning in closer until his forehead rests against her shoulder. ] I missed you so much. I needed you so badly.

I know. I know it does. It's okay. You'll be okay.

[She's holding him a little tightly now, but he can take it. And she can take this. He'd always been good at hiding his feelings even from himself, although once she'd learned to guess them and he'd allowed her in. He isn't hiding now, so even through all the things she's putting off feeling - outrage, disgust, sadness, probably guilt - she's happy too. Or relieved. It had been a year - it had been years - of being apart, and it's like cleaning out a wound she didn't even know she had to at least be able to offer some support, to be able to hold him again. And he'll still give her himself, she can still reach him, and all amorphous misery they've gathered apart can still be pinned down between them.]

You're a good person, Bruce. It wasn't your fault. [There's a choking quality to her voice - maybe she'll start crying again, if he doesn't. God, she hopes not. ] I'm glad you told me. I'm glad you're here. It's okay. It's okay now. [I'll take care of it. Whatever's next.]

[ It doesn't really feel okay, but at the same time, it kind of does. This isn't what he came here for, though— not that he had any plan past not running like a coward, but he still wasn't planning on talking about this. Not so soon, anyway.

But she asked, or she didn't but she wanted to know, so he had to tell her. Even if it means that once that dam breaks, he can't hold any of it in anymore, and he's just a tiny little existence drowning underneath the weight of all he's had to live with over the past few months.

Her words don't help. She tells him he's a good person and all he feels is a pain to his chest like he's just been stabbed, and when she chokes up a little, he fails completely to bite back a sob, even if he immediately lifts up a hand and covers his own mouth in a feeble attempt to not let her hear him cry. ]

Shh, I've got you. I've got you.

[She's dragged him into her home, cried on him, made him cry too, and she still wouldn't want anything else. She has him now - she'll keep him safe, even though there isn't really any way for her to do that. She'll find a way. She'd fistfight Captain America now if he showed up at her door. She would kick the Army's collective ass. Instead she rubs circles into his back and pets his neck and just keeps hanging on, keeps him pinned to her couch and murmurs comfort into his hair. It's repetitive, a soft litany she has to force past the tightness in her throat. She's not even sure he's listening, but she doesn't need him to listen, just to let her keep him.]

You didn't- [clears her throat] you didn't deserve to be hurt. You didn't do anything wrong. You don't have to believe it, you don't have to be okay, but don't cry, Bruce. My one. My love. I've got you. Don't cry.

[The effect is a little ruined because she thinks she might be crying now too. The emotions she had on hold are finally trickling back in, but how furious she is with the world for using him is secondary and distant; it just makes her cling to him more ferociously. She only wants to be here with him now, when she couldn't have been before.]

[ She could be the most stoic woman right now and he still would cry, so long as she held him this close, gave him an ounce of the gentle tenderness he hasn't felt in so long. Softer touches make him fall apart much more easily, and each stroke of her fingers through his hair draws a quiet sob from him, given away mostly by the way his shoulders shake just so, and his figure coils and releases immediately after.

But he doesn't care. It feels like he's been holding onto these tears for years now (and maybe he has), and was only waiting for the perfect time to break that barrier and let them flow. And Betty's that perfect time, of course— she always is, the perfect time, the perfect place, his perfect everything, and he doesn't know how he ever thought he could live without her.

But then he was only focused on making sure she lived without him. He never really cared about himself much. ]

I'm sorry. [ For staining her shirt with tears, for making her cry too, for practically curling up in her lap until he feels like he's tiny and insignificant for anyone but her. That's sort of nice, though. He feels small but safe in her arms, like it's alright to cry here, like it's alright to feel, and to express it wholly.

He turns his head further towards her, face burying into the nook of her shoulder, a more audible cry slipping past his lips. ]

I know. Me too. [For wholly different things.] I'm so glad you're here. [She sniffs, blows on,] You're so good. I love you. You make me... so happy. [...This is what happiness looks like, okay. Before it gets a chance calm down and settle itself in. Like waterworks and Bruce pressed against her. She's many many things and at least one is happy.

If she's going to miss him ferociously, and she does, she'd rather do it while she can actually have him, warmer now and soft and damp and as safe as she can keep him. There are hot tears streaming from her eyes but between her anger and concern and what she knows of the things he's been through, she's just so grateful he's made it back to her.

She loves him as he was and as he is, but it's frustrating, how he usually won't show himself the same compassion he would show even a complete stranger. He's always been kindhearted but it's hard to make him take things for himself when he knows he can get by without them, because he has. Touch, companionship, even the space to cry - in spite of his words, those things include her. But just because he can survive without them doesn't mean he doesn't need them. She survived without him; she still needs him almost more than she can bear.]

[ He nods, the only sounds coming from him the faint sobs he still lets out. He'd say she makes him happy too, but it seems a little stupid when he's crying his eyes out in her arms, when he looks this miserable and broken. He couldn't look any farther from happy right now, but he does feel relieved. Relieved and safe and loved, and he may not be happy right this moment, but he'll get there eventually. He just needs a little time.

It feels like it, anyway. Like her holding him for long enough could heal any wound, dry any tear, shine a light on any dark corner in him. Sometimes he thinks it should take more than that, but then he feels like this is enough, she always has been. Enough, and so much more, and he doesn't need anything else to be fine again.

But for now, he cries and he cries and she'll have a wet stain on the shoulder and front of her shirt that may as well be Bruce-shaped. He doesn't know how long it passes but it must be a good few minutes until he finally manages to calm down and actually take a breath without falling apart all over again. His eyes are a little drier too. ]

I stained your shirt. [ Said softly, but evenly, as he lifts a hand up and dries his eyes the best he can, sniffling a little. ] I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— that was a mess. I'm kind of a mess right now.

[She can't do much more than hold him, mess and all, hands rubbing absent circles as much to soothe herself as him. When he seems a little more in control now, so she loosens her hold, gives him a little more space without letting go. He's scrapped raw and hurting and his voice is so gentle, and as long as he's letting her touch him, she can't really stop.]

It's okay. I don't care about the shirt. I don't- it's okay. Let me- c'mere, just let me... [She kisses his still damp cheeks and the corner of his mouth and tries not to set either of them off again.

Firmly, to hear herself say it,] I'm fine. You're okay. We're both... [She exhales, not quite a sigh.] Let's go get cleaned up and we can deal with everything else later.

[If he's amenable, she'll pull them both up on their feet and shuffle them into the bathroom. It's definitely a single person's apartment so it's not far.]

[ The words ring a little hollow, because he's not really okay. But he will be, he'll have to be eventually, so he files those words and saves them for another day. A day when he manages not to feel scared or desperate and makes it to the end without crying all over her.

He's very much amenable, and it takes no effort at all to get him to stand up and guide him to the bathroom. The moment he sets his eyes on his reflection in the mirror he feels even worse, and he quickly turns on the tap so he can wash his face. Which won't change the fact his beard and hair are still an overgrown mess, but at least his eyes are clearer by the end, if slightly red around the edges. ]

[There are about half a dozen things she could be doing that aren't hovering by the doorway watching Bruce wash his face like she's never seen that before. It's not like she thinks he'll vanish when she looks away or that he can't take care of himself or anything like that; she just can't bring herself to leave him. So she just stands there and thinks about going to change, setting up the apartment, checking the windows and doors, checking the news, and in the end, it isn't until he's about done that she shakes herself back into her body and moves - not away, but toward him until she's too close.

She hip-checks him at the sink, tries to catch his eye.] Hey. [It comes out watery and gentle so she clears her throat and tries again, firmer and fond and probably still a little false.] Hey. Shove over, water bear. Go shower.

[He's opened a lot of himself tonight and, honestly, so has she and she's feeling a little raw for it. If it's overwhelming for her, she can only imagine how it is for him. Even if it's him. Even if it's her. This isn't a motel in the middle of nowhere and they're not about to run. Anything he might need, except maybe those hair shears, is only a few steps away, including a little space for however long he needs.]

[ Bruce looks up when she moves closer, water still dripping down his face, and he manages a half-smile as he scoots over and grabs the hand towel to dry his face off. ]

I probably should. [ He could stand to feel a little more human right now anyway, and he hopes that the water from the shower will help in washing some of this sadness away, this trauma. It's just an illusion, he knows, but it's an illusion of lightness and peace of mind he can live with.

He starts unbuttoning his shirt without caring much that Betty's still there. He doesn't even think about that, never thought twice about being completely bare in front of her, either figuratively or metaphorically. He does look up and glance at her for something else, though. ] Do you have those razors I can borrow?

[She returns his smile and copies his actions when he makes room for her at the sink, splashing water on her face and reusing his towel when she's done. Good enough. His shirt is open by the time she looks again, and it's surreal. Bruce undressing in her bathroom. Bruce staying the night.]

Hmm? Oh, yeah, they should be down here somewhere. [From the cabinet under the sink, she digs out an opened pack of women's razors, still in their cardboard and plastic packaging, and passes over one.] The rest of the stuff you'll need should be in the stall.

I'm going to go [re-center and satisfy my paranoia] do a couple of things while you do that. Are you good to go?

[ He shrugs off the shirt and sets it down on the toilet, accepting the razor from her with a nod. It's not ideal, but he's not going to shave too short anyway, not when he doesn't have proper shaving cream and more padded razors. He doesn't want to risk cutting himself on accident. ]

Thanks. [ He smiles, stepping closer to the mirror again. ] I'm good, yes. I'll, uh... let you know if I need anything.

[ Once she's out of the bathroom, he gets to cleaning himself up, starting with that messy excuse of a beard. Shouldn't be long until she hears the shower turning on. ]

Don't be afraid to dig around.

[Even if his smile is more punctuation than anything, it's good enough her and she leaves him to it. When the door clicks quietly shut behind her, she lets out a long breath probably loud enough enough for him to pick up before she puts herself to work.

The TV runs the news in the background, volume set low, while she moves around her small space - invasively sorting through his bag, finding clothes, laying out food, sometimes straightening clutter, and compiling what cash she has around the house, just in case. She's poking around for clean bed-sheets when the sound of water runs out.

His change of clothes are already by the door and there is no reason to rush over, so she can and should just keep doing what she's doing.

She keeps that up for a little while, then gives up and gives in and goes to crowd him.]

[ There's that whole idea that showers cleanse people on a metaphorical level, but it doesn't particularly work right now. Bruce doesn't feel lighter, he's still tired and worn and too raw to feel like anything has truly healed by the time he turns off the water.

What he does feel is clean on a literal level, and that's good enough. It also helps when he shaves off most of his beard, cutting back to a much shorter stubble, then uses the same razor to trim some of his longer curls, not too short but into something more tamed and decent.

It takes him a few minutes to clean up the mess he makes with that, but once he does, he steps outside, smiling when he sees the pieces of clothing she dug out of his bag. Anyone else probably would've minded her going through his things, but he doesn't even think about the supposed invasion of privacy, because as far as he's concerned, there was none.

When she comes back he's in a pair of boxers, tugging on a loose t-shirt, glancing at her once his head pokes out of the neck hole. ]

I made a bit of a mess in your bathroom, but I cleaned it up. Mostly. Sorry for any stray hairs.

[Our bathroom.] That was fast. You look nice.

[She gestures with both thumbs up, hoping to make him smile, cheer a little forced. At least on the outside, he looks more settled than she's seen him in a while - not that she has seen him in a while. A little less like he swept in on a stray breeze or like he'd crumple from one, and she'll take it.

She's changed into something less soggy and the time to herself has pretty much reset her to rights. Only the extra looseness in her steps and lingering red around her nose and eyes suggests that tonight has been exceptional.]

I set out some leftover egg parm. You wanna watch a movie and go to bed?

[Let's pretend we didn't both melt down and just rest for the rest of the night, is the silent corollary.]

[ Well, for now it's still her bathroom. At least as far as he's concerned. ]

Had to make do with what I had, but thanks. [ The thumbs up do get a small smile from him and an arched eyebrow. He may be tired but he's not tired enough to not be amused at Betty's playful antics, forced as they may be. They've both cried enough as it is, panicked enough, suffered enough, in such a short while too— and Bruce finds it rather easy to move on from that and into something a little more casual and homely when he's around Betty.

So when she mentions food and a movie, he's all too prompt to lean into the comfort of that plan. ]

Sounds perfect. [ He gestures to where he thinks the kitchen is. Not like the apartment is huge but he doesn't want to go wandering off in the wrong direction. ] Lead the way.

[When he smiles, she automatically reaches for his face, freezes, then resumes until she can feel his scratchy stubble with her fingertips. Fondly, absently,] Don't worry about the hairs. Maybe I'll start a collection.

[Instead of leading him to the kitchen (which is exactly where he thinks it is), she urges him back toward the living room, specifically the coach, before going to the kitchen herself although if he opts to follow her anyway, there's nothing stopping him especially not her. The eggplant parmesian is waiting and still warm under a paper towel in the microwave. The living room is a little tidier than it was earlier and the television is still on, now quietly relaying the local traffic. It's not a large living space, decent for one and a little cozy for two.]

Water? Juice? Something else?

[ He pulls a face at her, though mostly amused. ] Ew. That's kind of gross.

[ Bruce sits on the couch as urged for a little while, glancing at the TV briefly, then the space around him. He stands up eventually, looking at the plants she has and smiling fondly, then making his way to the kitchen where she is. His eyes land on the fridge, the drawing tacked on it with a magnet, and he steps closer to it, his answer a little absentminded. ]

Water's fine. [ He points at the drawing of her, the one he'd sent her last Christmas. ] You kept it.

[ Not that it's much of a surprise, but. It's still nice to see it there. ]

Yeah, it is. Nevermind.

[She takes a little longer than she means to in the kitchen, but since he's here now, he can help her.]

Hm? [She barely needs to glance over to know what he's referring to, busy loading him down with plates and utensils to carry and balancing cups and heated dish.] Yeah, of course. It was from you. You should draw me another one of you so I can put it up there.

[So small objects tend to cycle into storage or get thrown out, but she's kept every single item she still has of Bruce's since that time he came back ~~from the dead~~ to campus, including what remained from before. Her precious orchid may be long gone but the things he's sent her since have been a lot easier to preserve.

But gross and creepy hair collection comments aside, she's not obsessive, just sentimental. At least it wasn't a wall of crazy with his emails printed out or a giant map tracing his progress around the world or something. Some things are Leonard's too, but you could argue that's less to do with hanging on, and more an inevitability of cohabiting for years.

For example, if he looks, Bruce would find a bunch of his old books in boxes or shelved.]

[ He doesn't need to be told twice to help her, reaching out and taking the plates and utensils, balancing them in his arms with relative ease. ]

Of me? God no, I'd just ruin your fridge decoration.

[ Jokes aside, though, of course she'd save it. Once he feels more comfortable looking around he also probably won't be all that surprised to find out just how much of his stuff she still has around (possibly more than he owns at the moment, even), but it still gives him something of a pleasant feeling to see it.

Not that his drawing's a work of art or anything, he knows that. It's mostly the sentimental value.

He steps back out to the living room, putting the plates down on the table and setting it up for the two of them. ]

Come on, Banner. I'll trade you for it.

[Bruce sets the table and she lays out their food, and the rhythm between them has changed but it's still easy. Even after the night they've had, the lives they've had, it's still easy and she bullies him into taking a seat first and serving the cheesy goo while she tries to figure out how to navigate selection menus to the movie section.]

Here. [Bruce gets the remote and both of her feet in his lap. Before he can even start scrolling,] Anything except Bladerunner. Oo, do Kate & Leopold. No wait, what was that one you just passed? [Backseat driving.]

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