Chapter Text
2.
Bruce had honestly believed that nothing would ever be worse than waking up after a Hulk-out surrounded by the wreckage of his rampage.
As it turned out, though, waking up after a Hulk-out stranded in the middle of a frozen wasteland was at least as bad.
Gritting his teeth in a vain attempt to keep them from knocking together, Bruce staggered forward through the snow, arms folded tightly against his chest. There was a high likelihood that he was walking away from the others, but it didn’t really matter; he just had to keep moving. Keep his blood pumping.
This only ended in one of two ways―the Avengers tracking him down themselves, or the Hulk emerging once the cold finished him off. Which direction he was wandering in wasn’t particularly relevant.
He laughed on an inhale, drawing stutters of frigid breath into his mouth.
At least the wind wasn’t strong.
Only vaguely could he remember the preceding battle. There had been some kind of… sea monster? Something had emerged from the water, for sure. But it might have also been flying? Whether it was a monster or some kind of automaton or ship, he couldn’t recall.
He remembered clambering into the Quinjet and chasing something big and wet and airborne all the way across the Canadian border; he remembered using their own ship as bait to lure it as far away from civilization as possible; he remembered Natasha squeezing his shoulder before he stepped out onto the battlefield, a familiar rage already boiling over in his chest.
Then… nothing. Not even a faint feeling of satisfaction from the other guy.
Hopefully they had taken out the… whatever-it-was. If the Hulk had to come out yet again, particularly in this weather, he was going to be even more volatile than usual.
This wasn’t the coldest place he’d ever Hulked out in, mind you, but a double transformation strained him at the best of times. The added complication of a low body temperature would only exacerbate the situation.
Not that it would be his problem if that happened, he thought sardonically. He was the only person who would be completely safe.
God, it was cold.
Past the sound of his teeth chattering, Bruce could barely make out the all-too-familiar sound of a rapidly-approaching engine. A very rapidly approaching engine―one second, the noise was indecipherable from the wind, and the next, it was right beside him.
“Yeah, I’ve got him,” he heard a voice say, and that was what it took to snap him back to attention. “Coordinates coming your way.”
Bruce’s head jerked up, half-expecting to see Ross’s men rappelling down from a helicopter―but there was no vehicle and no soldiers. Just the Iron Man suit hovering a few feet before him, its colors bright and conspicuous against the vast white landscape.
“Hey there, stranger,” Tony said dryly, his voice distorted through the external speakers of the suit. “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”
He had never been―and, good Lord willing, would never again be―so happy to see Tony Stark.
Blinking rapidly against the dry air, Bruce poked his tongue out of his mouth to wet his chapped lips and tried to formulate words. “D-don’t supp-p… ppose y’brought a-any sp-p-pare c-clothes?” he eventually managed to spit out.
His hopes weren’t high, but―oh, thank God― Tony landed in front of him and swung a duffle bag down off of his shoulder. “Not much point in fishing you out of the snow if I’m gonna let hypothermia get you,” he said casually, holding it out like an olive branch.
Too relieved to bother coming up with a response, Bruce practically lunged for the bag, yanking the zipper open as fast as his numb fingers could manage. When he found himself with a fistful of unfamiliar fabric, he shot Tony a confused look.
“My spares,” Tony answered his wordless question. “You only have one suitcase, and Thor and I split up to cover more ground, so…” He shrugged; what usually would have been a casual, nonchalant motion looked utterly ridiculous while he was inside a mechanical metal suit. “We’re all men here. Figured you wouldn’t mind a little sharing and caring.”
Oh, Bruce had gotten over the indignity of ill-fitting clothes long, long ago. Without further question, he yanked on a pair of very expensive-feeling boxers, hopping on one foot in the snow to step into them; no time to waste on modesty.
For once in his life, Tony remained mercifully silent. Further evidence towards Bruce’s hypothesis that, despite what he tried to project, Tony didn’t actually gain any pleasure from other people’s discomfort. Not unless he was already annoyed at them, at least.
As it turned out, Tony’s clothes actually fit him quite well, although the pants were a bit tight. He grimaced as he struggled into them. “Th-think I’ve f-figured out y-y-your―c-circulation problems,” he muttered peevishly.
“Oh, can it, Banner. They’re comfortable. And I look damn good in ‘em.”
That remark didn’t warrant wasting breath on a response, but Bruce did grace Tony with a very dubious once-over.
Tony placed a gauntlet against his breastplate with feigned indignance. “Wow. And after I came all this way just for you.” Shaking his head, he turned his back as if to leave. “Keep that up and see if I give you a ride back to indoor heating.”
Choosing to ignore Tony’s theatrics, Bruce shoved his feet into a pair of loafers that looked and felt obscenely expensive. “A ride? Yeah, I th-think I’ll pass. It’ll be even c-colder up there, espec-cially with w-wind chill.”
That seemed to offend Tony much more genuinely, judging by the way he whirled back around. “Excuse you. I included wind chill in my flight calcs, and you’re better off bearing with it for a minute forty-five rather than waiting ten more for the jet to get here.”
“Easy for y-you to say.” Now fully dressed, Bruce felt only marginally less like he was about to shake to pieces. For lack of anything better to do, he rubbed his arms fretfully, although the friction barely helped and mostly just irritated his skin. “D-doesn’t feel so b-bad when you’re in the s-suit.”
Tony considered this for a moment, then acquiesced with a tilt of his head.
“Well, unfortunately, there’s only room for one in here,” he said, and then he popped out of the suit without further preamble, stepping into the snow at Bruce’s side. He immediately winced at the cold. “Christ, Banner, how are you not a Hulksicle yet?”
Bruce blinked at him, his brain half-frozen and foggy with exhaustion. The image of Tony Stark standing in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, shivering in his civvies with the Iron Man suit standing empty behind him, was too incongruous to comprehend.
Without waiting for a response, Tony strode up to him and struggled out of his suit jacket, though he immediately looked like he regretted it. “Here,” he said, thrusting the jacket out in front of him. “As much as Rogers might appreciate the company, let’s leave freezing to death to the professionals.”
That broke Bruce out of his thoughts. Frowning, he opened his mouth to politely decline, then remembered that Tony had the Iron Man suit to keep him warm in his jacket’s absence and swallowed his pride. “Th… thanks,” he croaked instead, accepting the proffered jacket and shrugged into it, savoring the protection from the wind.
Instead of hopping right back into the insulated gold-titanium suit, though, Tony just stood there for a moment, tilting his head and watching Bruce pull on the borrowed jacket with keen eyes. “It’s for my benefit as much as yours,” he deflected, but his heart wasn’t in it. “You’re supposed to be turning green, not blue.”
Bruce huffed, squirming a little under Tony’s scrutiny. “H-how about n-neither?”
For some inscrutable reason, that made Tony relax—as if Bruce’s subpar rebuttal had made up his mind for him. “That can be arranged,” he said, and he stepped aside, gesturing towards the open Iron Man suit with a grandiose flourish. “But you’d better get warmed up quick, ‘cause I’m gonna need this bad boy back once the Quinjet gets here.”
For a humiliatingly long moment, Bruce could not grasp Tony’s meaning even slightly. All his frostbitten brain could muster up was a confused, silent stare.
“…What?” he eventually managed.
Rolling his eyes, Tony circled Bruce like a shark and pressed a hand to the small of his back, herding him towards the suit. “Come on, Banner. Chop chop.”
Banner stumbled dumbly forward. “Wh―b-but―I th-thought no one else c-could pilot the―?”
“You’re not piloting it,” Tony cut in, “you’re standing there and looking pretty while J defrosts you. Easy job. Practically effortless. And judging by how that jacket fits, you’re just the right size for it. Now quit wasting power―it can’t run without the Reactor for long.”
Finally, Bruce got with the program enough to dig his heels into the frozen dirt, halting their progress. “Tony, you c-can’t… just… l-lend me Iron Man,” he said, aghast.
Tony leaned over his shoulder to give him an affronted look at point-blank range. “Uh, first of all, it’s my suit. I’ll pass it around like a blunt if I feel like it. And second of all, you can barely string a sentence together right now, Banner, so how about you cut the shit and save me the trouble of chipping icicles off the Hulk. And mourning my favorite shoes.”
Bruce shifted his weight uncomfortably. Replacing a set of spare clothes was one thing, but he doubted Tony would be so cavalier about replacing the Iron Man suit, if it came down to that.
Admittedly, though, it was much less likely to come down to that if he warmed up a little.
With a sigh, Bruce gingerly extracted himself from Tony’s grip and stepped towards the suit. “…Alright, alright. Th-thanks.”
“Sure thing, Brucie-bear. Now hurry up,” Tony said impatiently, beginning to rub his arms in earnest now. “You’re letting the cold in. JARVIS is gonna come down with something.”
Feeling a bit like he was sticking his foot into a bear trap, Bruce turned around and awkwardly shuffled back until he was standing inside the open suit. At some point, he must have gotten close enough, because the metal abruptly snapped shut around him. He jumped, hissing when his sore shoulders bumped against the pauldrons.
“My apologies, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS murmured into his ear, and he flinched again. “I would have given you some forewarning, but my speakers are disabled while the suit is open.”
Bruce opened his mouth to tell him it was alright, but the words died in his throat when the suit came alive around him. Dozens of tiny holographic displays popped up around his field of vision, ranging from his own vitals (flanked by a red blinking rectangle warning him of his low body temperature) to the ETA on the Quinjet (still several minutes out).
His train of thought lost, Bruce let his eyes meander across the sea of colorful lights, taking in all the data. How did Tony fight without constantly getting distracted by all this information?
Then the heaters whirred to life, low enough so as not to shock his system, but warm enough that Bruce immediately sunk into the heat with a relieved groan, data forgotten. It took every ounce of his self-control not to flatten himself against the front of the armor in search of further warmth.
“I will monitor your temperature and inform you when it’s safe to increase the heat,” JARVIS said, and Bruce nodded thoughtlessly. His chin banged against the bottom of the helmet, and he hissed, rearing back.
Immediately, his eyes flew to Tony, anticipating some ruthless teasing for that little slip-up, but Tony didn’t seem to have noticed. He was just watching the armor curiously―unused to looking at it and knowing someone else was inside, Bruce supposed.
After a moment, the uncharacteristic silence got to him. Clearing his throat, he shifted within the metal confines of the suit, trying to find a more comfortable standing position. One where the joint between the torso and arm didn’t dig into his armpits quite so much.
“No jab about th-that one?” he prodded. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to play n-nice now that I-I’ve got the missiles.”
Not only did Tony not respond, but he made no indication that Bruce had even spoken. Bruce’s brow furrowed.
“External speakers are off unless otherwise requested, Doctor,” JARVIS informed him gently. “I’ve also locked the suit’s motor functions to conserve power. Sir cannot see or hear you.”
Bruce had never been claustrophobic before. Yet, as soon as JARVIS spoke, he could have sworn that the suit shrunk closer to his skin; close enough that his own breath being shunted back into his face became stifling, like smoke.
“Oh,” Bruce said, sounding about as stunned as he felt. He quickly cleared his throat and tried not to move―he didn’t want to bump up against any part of the suit until he got his emotions back under control. “I, uh, I see.”
“I apologize for not informing you sooner. I can unlock the joints if you wish, although I’m afraid that will burn power much quicker, since the armor is too heavy for you to move in it unassisted.”
“No, no, that’s f-fine,” Bruce said quickly. “Uh, can you―t-turn the external speakers on now?”
“Of course.”
There was no auditory indication that anything had changed, but a tiny loudspeaker icon appeared in the corner of his vision. “Tony?” Bruce said immediately, glad that his shivers masked the hint of distress in his voice.
“Still my name,” Tony replied, and Bruce sagged, the motion invisible within the armor. “Problem?”
“Not anymore,” Bruce said, reassured to find that he mostly meant it. “Just, uh, d-didn’t realize the speakers weren’t on at first. Thought you were giving me the c-cold shoulder.”
Tony sighed, hand on his heart, as if Bruce had just hit him right where it hurt. “Puns are the lowest form of humor, Shrek.”
Bruce huffed. “Lower than the p-pop culture references you specifically choose to fr-frustrate Thor and Steve?”
“Much. Thanks for asking.”
Put at ease by the familiar banter, Bruce breathed deep, leaning a bit more of his weight against the back of the suit. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but his legs were aching fiercely enough to make the trade-off worth it.
“H-how do you stand this th-thing?” he asked, only willing to complain now that the issue was less dire. “F-feels so… claustroph-phobic in here. Not to m-mention all the unnecessary fl-flashing lights.”
Tony hummed. “Not as much of a problem when you’re in motion. And all the ‘flashing lights’ are very necessary, thank you very much. I need that data in battle.”
Bruce squinted dubiously at the screen. “I-including the Steve swear counter?”
“Especially the Steve swear counter. Gotta keep track of how much he owes the jar when we get back home.”
It was a good thing they didn’t actually have one of those, Bruce mused to himself. Clint didn’t really cuss much, but he’d turn into a sailor instantly if Tony tried to make him fork over his hard-earned cash for what few vulgarities he did let slip.
“I-it’s still a little… c-cramped in here,” he muttered softly, flicking his eyes from side to side. Besides the holographic displays and the view of the outside world through the visor, he could also see more of the internal workings of the suit than he’d ever expected to be privy to. There were no exposed wires or chips, of course, but there were a great many panels which he surmised had wires and chips hidden away behind them.
It only made sense, he supposed—the Iron Man suit was famously smooth from the outside, giving little to no indication of where various components were located. That was one of the many reasons it was so hard to disable the suit without destroying it entirely.
“It’s not that cramped,” Tony argued, looking about as personally offended as Bruce would expect, given how well he tended to take criticisms of his creations. “Besides, if it were any larger, it would be much, much more unwieldy, and motion inputs would be considerably less analogous to real movement. Trust me; it’s that size for a reason.”
“I’m sure it is,” Bruce appeased him, amused at the predictable overreaction.
Cupping his hands around his upper arms, Tony began to briskly rub up and down. “Not like I designed it with m-mass appeal in mind,” he muttered peevishly, beginning to tremble himself. “No one else is ever gonna pilot the thing.”
Bruce was once again struck by the magnitude of trust that Tony had placed in his hands. He’d read in some SHIELD file that there had been a few borderline-successful attempts to steal the suit, but, putting those aside, he might be the first person other than Tony to ever stand inside it. Even if he wasn’t flying in it, that was still… hard to wrap his head around.
Especially when the suit’s rightful owner was shaking in the snow in nothing but a button-up and slacks while Bruce enjoyed the suit’s toasty warmth.
Only when the Quinjet appeared on the horizon did a thought abruptly occur to Bruce, and it was so stupidly obvious that he couldn’t restrain a bark of laughter. When Tony quirked an eyebrow at him, he shook his head, no longer bothered by his hair brushing against the top of the helmet.
“I should’ve given you back your jacket,” he said ruefully.
For a moment, Tony just stared at him. Then one of his hands stopped chafing his arm and flew up to cover his mouth, stifling a snort.
“Two geniuses,” he said, clearly choking back further laughter, “with how many PhDs between us? A-and we couldn’t figure that out.” His grin was still visible behind his pale, trembling fingers.
Bruce couldn’t help but grin, too. “Well, none of our degrees are in wilderness survival.”
“Clearly.”
Oblivious to their realization, the Quinjet glided towards them, though, as it approached, it slowed to a wary crawl. When it reached the outskirts of the clearing they were standing in, JARVIS spoke quietly into Bruce’s ear: “Pardon me, Doctor Banner, but I’m receiving a communication request from Agent Barton.”
Ah. Of course. “Patch him through.”
Clint didn’t beat around the bush. “Why do I see two Starks? Am I being punked? Please tell me the other guy is just a lookalike.”
Bruce quirked a smile. “It’s, uh, it’s me in here,” he said a bit awkwardly. “Still only one Tony.”
“Oh, thank God.” Then, after a moment: “I thought only Stark could pilot that thing?”
“I’m not piloting it. I’m looking pretty and getting defrosted.”
“Huh. Fair enough, I guess.” Only then did the Quinjet pull in close for a landing, though it was still moving much more slowly than normal in order to kick up less wind. “Tell Stark not to scare me like that.”
“Tell him yourself,” Bruce said dryly, and any further dialogue was lost to the roar of the Quinjet’s engines.
As the gangway lowered, the front of the Iron Man suit spread back open, releasing him; despite the biting cold, he relaxed a bit as he stepped out into the open air. Hopefully this claustrophobia wouldn’t stick with him. The Hulk, in particular, did not need any more reasons to hate small spaces.
Just for comedy’s sake, he shrugged off Tony’s jacket and pressed it back into his hands as they passed one another. Tony accepted it with a smirk and climbed into the suit behind him, then followed Bruce onto the jet with loud metal footsteps.
There were blankets waiting for them both on board anyway, so he hardly needed the extra warmth.