The Shanghai of Bruce Banner
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s begun to hurt, the number of times he’s grabbed in in frustration over the last hour. “Tony—” he sighs. “I just don’t understand what you’re trying to say. Can you run this through to me again?”
“No! I’ve been over this enough, if I have to repeat myself again I’m going to get violent I swear to god.”
Bruce throws up his hands. “I have every right to be curious! You barge into my apartment at 3 A.M.—through the window, I might add— talking nonsense about spaceships and murder, I still can’t—I don’t—” he falls into his sofa, feeling like a distressed Victorian maiden. “Let me get this straight,” he says, producing a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his lab coat and dabbing at his forehead. “So Thor snuck illegally into SHIELD to interrogate Proxima? The Proxima who attacked New York and killed hundreds? That Proxima?”
“Yes.”
“And she told him, what, to go to her father’s spaceship to find her brother—”
“His brother. Jesus Christ Bruce, at this rate it’ll take all day to explain why I’m even here in the first place.”
“Then hurry up and explain! I’m waiting.” Bruce slumps back in his seat to stare Tony in the eye.
Tony places his hands on his hips, leaning on the right one. “I can’t just give you the whole story right now at this very moment. Number 1, it would take way too long, and I’m technically not supposed to be here right now. Number 2, I think Thor should be the one to explain. He owes me that much.
Let’s start with the basics: Thor told me he told you he had a little brother. That true?”
“He did. Why?”
“He tell you he committed suicide?”
Bruce swallows. “I’m…aware. Jumped off a bridge, didn’t he? It’s sad.”
“Yeah, well, he’s alive. Have you gotten that much?”
“But how? He watched him die. I’ve done extensive research on black holes ever since New York, Thor’s given me data, He’s shown me the books. The chances of surviving one are…well, there’s pretty much no chance.”
“That’s what he thought too. But he decided to steal a space pod from his dad anyway to storm some Proxima-daddy space palace, and had the audacity to drag me along.”
Bruce sighs. Then he lunges for the bottle of ibuprofen on his desk. Tony stares, unimpressed as Bruce chokes two tablets down. “Ignoring,” he croaks as he washes them down with a mug of coffee he’d poured precisely five hours ago, “the fact that it’s virtually impossible to have survived that, you’re absolutely right: I gave Fury a direct request to not be bothered . You’re not supposed to be here. Just like how Thor wasn’t supposed to be at that spaceship and Loki isn’t supposed to be—where the hell is Loki?”
“Pepper’s basement. Where are you going with this?”
“Fury strictly forbade going into space without his permission, and you think breaking into the home of the invader of New York was a good idea? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? You could’ve been caught! You could’ve been killed, they could’ve followed you! You’ve jeopardized all of us!
And don’t even get me started on Fury. If the bloodthirsty space nazis don’t get you first, he will. When he finds out about this, he will flay you alive. The word dead won’t even begin to describe you. He won’t listen to whatever reasons you try to feed him, he’ll fire you from the Avengers and you’ll have to live on breadcrumbs for the rest of your life. Oh god,” he shrieks, tugging at his hair, “they’ve probably got cameras on us right now. They’ll think I helped you conspire, they’ll come for my ass again, I’ll have to become a fucking hitchhiker or something—you need to go—”
He stands up without meaning to. Tony looks more offended than Bruce has ever seen. “You better sit your ass down,” he says with an authoritative raise of his eyebrows. Bruce doesn’t, turning around so his back is facing Tony. He mutters obscenities under his breath as he writhes with his handkerchief again.
“He’s hurt,” Tony blurts out. Before Bruce’s blood can run cold in alarm, Tony adds. “Loki, I mean. You’re right, he shouldn’t have survived his fall. We still don’t know how he did, but it messed him up bad. And what, you think he could’ve fallen into the lap of Proxima and Company and escaped without a scratch? Nah.”
He sighs. There’s a mirror on Bruce’s desk. Bruce is facing it directly, and he can see Tony’s reflection behind him. He’s tired. A different kind of tired from his usual “stayed-up-all-night-working-on-a-new-suit” tired, or even the “late night, hitched breathing, eyebags, shaking hands” tired. His eyes don’t even meet Bruce’s in the glass, looking fixedly at a spot on the carpet.
“It’s...well I’ve never seen anything like it. He doesn’t blink, he won’t eat, he can’t talk, nada. His skin’s blue, and he’s freezing 24/7. Thor thinks it’s got something to do with his true heritage, like a trauma response or something. It’s a miracle he’s still breathing, and he’s barely doing that. He’s supposed to have Norse god super healing mojo, but that’s not doing anything. It’s been a week. A week. He should’ve healed completely by now, but his wounds have barely scabbed over.
It's tearing Thor apart. He didn’t want to bother you. He told me not to come—begged me. But I couldn’t take it anymore. I don’t know how much longer the guy can last. But it’s tearing Thor apart, and I know I’m not going to just watch as it kills him.”
Riip. The handkerchief lies in halves in Bruce’s hands. He closes his eyes, willing for the green in his skin to fade. “What does he need?” he asks, teeth gritted, nails digging into his pals.
“Honestly? We just need to figure out what the hell’s going on with Loki. If it’s a trauma response, it sure is a hell of a trauma response. Why he won’t heal? Why won’t he respond to anything? How long can he go on like this? And how the fuck is he still alive? All answerable questions with the combined brains of yo,” he gestures to himself grandly, “and tú.” He jabs Bruce in the back. Bruce hisses.
“Wouldn’t Asgard be a better source of medical experience though? You know I’m not that kind of doctor. There’s bound to be major differences in our human biology compared to theirs. And Thor can only show me so many books.”
“Then figure it out! You’re a smart little nut, it’ll take you no time at all.” He frowns. “Though concerning why Thor won’t just go home and have them figure this mess out, I have no idea.”
“Seriously?”
“Hey, you better believe I asked. He just didn’t seem like he wanted to talk about it, and I most definitely wasn’t going to press an already-aggravated god of thunder.” Bruce opens his mouth furiously. “But! Uh, I too, am a smart little nut. I figure there are one of two possibilities. Either he doesn’t want to endanger his home planet by bringing a prized prisoner of Proxima’s clique to Asgard and thinks the better option would be our possible annihilation than his kingdom’s. Or, B, personal reasons.”
“Personal reasons? What personal reasons?”
“Gee, I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to like his dad much. Maybe he doesn’t trust him? In any case, Asgard’s off the list. Loki is our problem to take care of. If you’ll help us, that is.”
“Do the others know of this?” Bruce asks, ignoring him.
“What do you think? Righteous Steve? Responsible Nat? Jobless Clint? They’re die-hard SHIELD fans, they’ll report us to Fury the moment any of this is mentioned. I know you have the hots for Nat, but don’t go blabbering any of this to her. M’kay?”
Bruce looks at his hands. Not a hint of green, but he can feel that threatening to change soon. “Do you really think we can pull this off?” he asks, ignoring Tony again. “Just the three of us? It seems kind of impossible.”
“Loki’s survival was impossible. Escaping Proxima’s ship was impossible. But we pulled that off, didn’t we?” Tony throws an arm around Bruce’s shoulder with a surprising lack of roughness. “Look, Loki’s immune system just isn’t doing its job. All we need to do is figure out how to give it a little nudge, which shouldn’t take more than a week. Then theoretically he should be back to normal and boom! All parts are working again, no one ever finds out, and Thor owes me about a year’s worth of therapy. Happiness and sunshine.”
“How’d Thor get you to agree to this?”
Tony tilts his head, pouting underneath those stupid sunglasses of his. It’s fucking nighttime, smartass, Bruce thinks. “Do you think I’m an asshole, Bruce? I’m not an asshole. If any of my friends come to me with sob stories, I will always richly, ingeniously, and hotly help them out. Plain and simple. Besides, Thor has a mad pair of puppy eyes.”
“Ah.”
“So it’s a deal?”
Tony sticks a hand in Bruce’s face. Bruce takes it reluctantly, jerking away the second Tony begins a painfully enthusiastic handshake. “Brucie,” he pronounces regally. “I can sense the beginning of something beautiful.”
Bruce rolls his eyes, but says nothing. His mind is racing too hard and fast for him to handle. “I suppose you’ll want me there immediately?”
“If that suits you. My car’s behind that fine grove of sycamores out back. Unless you want to cling to the suit and we can bareback it all the way to the apartment—”
Bruce throws on the closest jacket he can find. On impulse, he sticks the ibuprofen in his pocket. He can tell he’ll be needing it.
-
“Alllright, destination up ahead.”
Bruce fingers the buttons on his jacket. It’s an annoying old habit of his, to fidget with anything that comes his way whenever he’s nervous. It’s too telling. It makes him wary around people like Natasha, people who spot any sign of vulnerability and use it to their own twisted advantage. He forces himself to stop. This isn’t going to make the trip faster, and it isn’t going to distract him from the long week of researching that is to come.
“Hey. You alright there?”
Bruce breaks out of it, but he’s too emotionally drained to answer. He gives a noncommittal shrug.
“You know, Thor only came to me first because he didn’t want to endanger you.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. I think I mentioned it earlier, I just wanted to remind you. I’m completely expendable compared to you, apparently. Just in case you were, you know, feeling bad about not being picked first.”
“Tony, don’t think like that. He came to you at all. That says a lot of what he thinks of you.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you’re his favorite.”
You’re his favorite. You’re his favorite. Something warms curls up in Bruce’s chest and purrs.
“Oh, and I should remind you. Pepper told me Thor used my entire liquor cabinet when I was gone. Add it to the list of things he owes me.”
“That can’t be safe.”
“Nothing about that man is safe, Brucie. Ahh, here we are.”
He parks the car. Pepper’s apartment is not like how Bruce imagined it. It’s smaller, more modest, but there’s a peculiar quaintness about it he likes.
“Pepper’s using the tower as we work here,” Tony says as they walk down the steps to the basement. “I had to pay her so much money—oh don’t worry, Pepper can be trusted,” he adds as Bruce frowns. “I told her all she needed to know. She only screamed at me a little.” He smiles like a lovesick fourth-grader. “What a woman.”
Tony takes him to a room. It’s completely unguarded, but since they’ll only be here for a week it’s the best that can be done, he supposes.
There’s a small mattress bare on the floor. The occupant is far too long to fit the thing comfortably, but comfort is surely the last thing on his mind.
Tony wasn’t kidding. Bruce can barely see any of the body, so covered in bandages and splints as it is. But the blood seeping through them, dying white crimson, is enough to make his stomach curdle. The face is almost purple in complexion. Sweat beads the brow, it’s obvious the temperature is too high for his body.
Cracks and slits disfigure his entire head, from face to scalp, where it looks like a good portion of his hair had been torn out by the roots. His eyes are closed: he’s asleep, but he looks very, very dead.
The stitching is beautiful, Tony did a remarkable job. Bruce begins a mental checklist of things to be looking out for, things to do for the night, and a to do list for tomorrow, when Thor stumbles in.
His hair’s a mess. He’s unsteady on his feet. His clothes are wrinkly, and he smells of a revolting mixture of every possible alcoholic beverage there is. His eyes land on Bruce. With the dullness in them, Bruce is afraid Thor won’t recognize him, or worse, attack.
But he does not such thing. Instead he blunders over to plant his face on top of Bruce’s head, nearly bowling them both over and knocking the air out Bruce’s lungs.
“Banner,” Thor grunts. Bruce can feel him slobbering in his hair.
“Hey buddy,” he wheezes, wrapping his arms around Thor’s enormous torso to the best of his ability.
“What’re you…” his grip becomes suffocating. Bruce doesn’t even try to escape. “What’re you doing here?”
“I’m going to help you out.”
“Nothing can help me.” His voice quakes. His shoulders begin to tremble. “Nothing can help me.”
“I’m going to try. How does that sound?”
“Good.” And a little more certainly, “good.”