Title: Big Green, Little One

Paring: Bruce Banner (The Hulk) X Reader

Warnings: none, unless you're afraid of Hulk. And if you are, then watch out, Hulk is here.

Spoilers: none! All good.

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There's one thing about unpredictable situations.

You can be sitting down, like you were five minutes previously, calmly enjoying a hot beverage, reading Saturday's newspaper or scrolling down a newsfeed, listening to the sounds of the apartment in Stark Tower and city surrounds, and the next - being thrust toward the emergency safety room because something had snapped in him.

He had been sitting right beside you, head messy from the bed, eyes bleary with sleep and that shy smile of his that always grew when he was around you. You'd made coffee this morning: that was what set him off. Two months without an incident; no wars, no need for the Other Guy. And then, Bruce burnt his tongue and dropped, the cup over his front, the china on his foot.

Tony had been so prompt to appear, you almost wondered if he had a medi-alert for Bruce's episodes. Now, in the suit, he stood in front of you as if to protect you from seeing the transformation of man into monster.

Not all monsters can hurt others.

But Hulk could.

"______, if you could, step away, we can handle this situation easier," his voice hummed through the suit.

You felt so sad.

If only you hadn't made the coffee.

Now Bruce would take at least a day to return to his small form, his head of curls, and a week before he let himself near you. Maybe a month until he returned to the sweet disposition he had been in. Now the morning had been soured by your choices. Damn coffee. Now your phone could get broken in the melee. Maybe even his trust in you.

"Bruce," you whispered, reaching to him as the green spread from his hands to his face, growling, growing taller, larger, angrier.

As much as you wanted to deny that this creature before you was not the man you loved, you couldn't. In choosing him, in loving him, you loved all of Bruce Banner, all of Hulk - why couldn't he see it? Why couldn't everyone else?

A pair of hands stopped you from rushing in to his green side. They grabbed your wrist gently, resting another hand on your shoulder. "_______, I don't want to remove you with force," the voice of Clint Barton reasoned.

You nodded softly, feeling tears prick in your eyes.

Your fault. Your fault. Not his. Yours.

"But I have to," you whisper.

"Time to go," Hawkeye reasons.

You walk slowly, carefully retreating with Clint, making it to the custom elevator that went straight to the street for times like these. An emergency route. A get away plan. To get away from your Bruce. But just as you turned to see him, one more time, you froze.

There's one thing about unpredictable situations.

You can be standing in a room of Avengers, one of which being your big green boyfriend who becomes an indestructible monster when angered, about to leave for your own safety.

He can be staring you in the eye with the gaze of a beast, of a monster who can tear your body easily at his own will.

And the next - you're twisting out from Clint's grip.

You're walking slowly, aware of the broken glass on the floor, aware of your sleep footwear, aware of your heartbeat, racing almost too fast, racing as if to get out from your chest.

You're ignoring the pleas of Stark because he knows of the dangers of approaching the Hulk.

You're keeping your eyes on Hulk - no, Bruce - wanting to wipe away the tears that you can hear fall because it's suddenly so deadly silent in the apartment. But you don't. You keep still and slow in your movements not to surprise or upset him.

He's a dangerous animal, waiting to strike if threatened. You're no more than a mouse. A bunny. Prey.

No. Not prey.

You're Bruce's partner. His equal. Hulk's equal.

Hulk watches you, and you can't help but feel like the poor goat in Jurassic Park, the one the Tyrannosaurus Rex made fine dining of. But you know inside, in the pit of your stomach, in the depths of your heart - a once racing heart, that has stopped beating for fear of the unpredictability of Hulk - that you won't die.

"Bruce?" You breathe.

He flinches.

"Hulk," you amend.

Tony raises his hands higher.

Clint knocks in an arrow.

"I'm sorry, it was just coffee." You start, remembering to keep breathing in and out to repel the shakiness from your words, "I know I hate it when I spill hot things on myself. It hurts like hell. But I think you're not angry about that, I think is isn't -," you glance to your feet briefly, and back to Hulk, "I don't think you're angry about this, it was a shock."

"_______, what are you doing?" Clint hisses.

Somewhere nearby, sirens blare. Hulk piques at their sound, eyes narrowing.

"Bruce, please come back," you whisper. "It's my fault you're like this right now. There's no need for a fight. I won't fight you."

He exhales, a grunt that hits you like a gale force wind, and slowly, the Hulk sits. Unfortunately, on your dinner table.

"Is this actually working?" Tony the disbeliever comments disbelievingly. "Where were you when we were in Africa?"

You take a step toward Hulk, your palms outstretched, meaning no harm.

One step.

Two.

Three.

And then, your fingertips are here, close enough to feel warmth radiating from him. You've never come this close to Hulk. It was always at a distance, or from the safety of a TV screen.

"There," you murmur. "You know I'm not going to hurt you."

At that, you raise a hand a little. And you to touch him.

The noises of the apartment still. The creaks of the floorboards and the hum of the fridge are quiet. The entire city holds its breath, silences the sirens, tells the yapping dogs to hush.

Your fingertips brush over his smooth skin, then your palms rest, staying on his bicep.

"Sorry," Hulk grunts.

If you were any less terrified, you would be crying. But you aren't. You have to be strong for him.

"It's okay, it isn't your fault." You tell Hulk quietly. "I love you."

Hulk lowers his head.

And slowly, you feel the skin, the bulk, the Hulk change under your hand. In moments, he's shrinking, loosing the green hue, twisting. Returning to himself. Becoming Bruce once more.

His eyes blink. Brown.

"Did I - did I hurt you?" He whispers. There's urgency in his voice. There's love and regret and a will to do all to make things right.

You shake your head. "I'm fine. I'm sorry for causing the incident. The table's broken, but we can fix it. We're fine." You tell him.

"We're fine?" He repeats.

You nod.

"So Big Green and little one here hit it off really well, minus the hitting," Tony's mask pops up to reveal a smirk. A concerned smirk, but nonetheless, a trademark Stark smirk. "All's good? Can I go back to blueberry pancakes and iced mochas now?"

Bruce fits himself into your side. Even if he's larger than you, as himself, he still manages to snuggle in.

"Maybe send a cleaning crew up. We'll stay out of the way." Bruce nods.

Once the two avengers are gone on their way, you turn to him. "So, what would you like for breakfast? I can do not-hot stuff if you like."

He scrunches his nose. "How about we skip breakfast," he kisses your neck, "and go back to bed?"

You're not arguing.