Bruce couldn’t decide whether to be happy or to be sad.
He awoke just moments ago, brain still fuzzy and eyes heavy, feeling relaxed. Feeling drool dry on his cheek and silky sheets wrapped loosely around his torso. Feeling the warmth of dimly golden light fixtures on his back and face.
Feeling safe.
It was off-putting at first; his last cognizant moments were flinging himself out of the Grandmaster’s ship and then blinding pain upon impact with the rainbow bridge.
Huh. Bruce hadn’t really had any time to take in and appreciate the landscape before the whole battle had quickly turned into a classic ‘save-the-world’ shit-show. Unfortunately, trying to hold on and grasp at the quickly fading memories of his friend’s home were swiftly dissipating. He remembered Valkyrie (Bruce is almost positive now that isn’t her name, but a title Thor kept referring… guilt was probably the most familiar and welcome emotion coming back now. They should really have a proper introduction after he’s found some pants; because him being in this room is a positive side that they won and that they all made it out alive. Hopefully.) with her great big gun, the blurred blue of Asgard’s limited ocean, and a horrendously giant dog.
A sharp twinge from his calf was another oddity, for Bruce never sustained injuries from the Other Guy’s bouts of fighting. A rare memory accompanied the focus of hurt. That wolf had pierced him.
Slowly, so as not to risk familiar nausea, Bruce slid up the bed to rest against the headboard and put aside the bed sheet covering his legs.
A large white dressing was secured his right calve, as already suspected, and he noticed he wasn’t wearing the tattered remains of his jeans (as per usual after changing back). Instead, what appeared to be overly large sleep-pants were barely staying on his hips from turning in the bed for however many hours Bruce lay unconscious.
A loud sigh and the bed dipping from beside him reminded Bruce as to the most likely reason he was cocooned in such a lavish bed, wounds tended to and at peace.
Thor sat hunched in an ornate chair (most likely stolen from the desk in the corner of the room) with his back bent over the bed, head nestled in his enviable arms, most likely dreaming pleasant dreams from the small smile hiding beneath his beard.
Bruce wanted nothing more than to wake his friend; ask him where they were, who was still alive.
But not after seeing that smile. Bruce couldn’t bear being the one to take it away if the only thing Thor had to wake up to was only puny Banner and none of his friends.
God, he hoped Valkyrie, even Loki, was still alive if just to spare Thor more heart-ache. Bruce would wait until Thor woke up on his own, the anxiety over disturbing Thor outweighing his anxiety to learn hard truths. Besides, Bruce decided right then, I’m going to have a more positive outlook if we’re together, relatively unharmed.
It was certainly a novel experience, waking up unafraid of his actions whilst under the Green Influence, and… with somebody, he cared for waiting beside him.
Those moments of clarity with Natasha came back to him rather passively.
Bruce acknowledged that she still held a good portion of his affections (taking the time to train with Hulk and make him feel secure after changing was, of course, a big part of it) but he could also acknowledge that most of his memories of her- of them together- were romanticized.
Their thing had been a series of instances of relief and camaraderie and comfort, with a swift right turn in lust, and halting breaks into attempted romance. Neither lust nor romance was ever reached in their abrupt end to a confusing relationship, and Bruce still feels remorse over his lack of strong anger over it. He feels, understandably (hopefully), hurt over the last push. Literally and figuratively.
But… enough of that.
Optimism, buddy, c’mon optimism. Bruce huffed out through his nose as if the releasing of breath would expel his pessimism over the past. Apparently two years in the past.
Optimism was surprisingly easy to welcome back once Bruce settled down into his position he had woken up in, and noticed his position- or rather- Thor’s position.
They’d been facing each other. Thor had put his chair to face Bruce’s natural sleeping position (on his chest, facing left), with one hand reaching out.
Had Thor held his hand?
Bruce’s gut filled with a warming coil of… happiness?
Thor curled his legs almost to his chest and tentatively reached out his own hand, but stopped short before even their fingers touched. What was he doing?
Thor was here, with Bruce, after fighting together for Asgard. After fighting against each other on Sakaar. After Bruce fled Sokovia and left his friends to Ultron.
Thor never judged him for his anger; never judged the other guy for his impulsive violence.
Never judged either for their fear. His fear.
Here he was, with Bruce after everything. No forcing Hulk away, and no forcing Bruce to be somebody else. Thor accepted both and respected Bruce truthfully. The same couldn’t be said for Natasha, and Bruce was becoming okay with that.
Bruce decided then, that instead of being sad that this was his first ever time waking up safe and happy… to be happy about it. Why should he be sad waking up to this, even if it took years to get here?
Bruce reached out and held Thor’s hand, letting sleep overcome him once more.