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Blood, there's so much blood, but Bruce doesn't see the red, doesn't see anything but the white of a rage that feels like terror, the white of a terror that tastes like rage, both things very dangerous to him.
Natasha see his eyes cloud for a moment. She can read the shock as he looks at the state of her.
The cut above her eye, her arm. Her arm. Bruce can't br–
`Don't worry about it, doc,´ she says. `Looks like a mess but it doesn't hurt a bit. I'm fine.´
She hopes to deflate him with a light tone but it doesn't work. It doesn't work.
He stares, doesn't even register her words.
She sees the horrible, inconvenient possibility of Bruce losing grip. She is better than most at predicting it; she is not proud of this, her own selfish fear is partly to blame. She panics a bit. The chances of this mission are bound to the element of surprise. The enemy can't know they have the Hulk. Not yet. The whole thing would blow up in their faces if Bruce were to lose control now, and Natasha thought he had more restraint than this, she can't imagine that he would falter over a small matter of–
Blood. So much blood. He freezes. He is unable to stop staring. He should be helping Natasha. He knows this. He can't look at her. He knows this. Not at her face which he imagines pale with all the blood she's lost –so much blood, so much red he can't see– and pale with danger and pain and death. Bruce who is used to being around death, Bruce who contains so much death, who has lost so many things, now confronted with something unimaginable. Inside him a beast making him imagine, pushing dread, dread, dread into Bruce's mind, teasing at the truth out of that fear, the meaning of it just about to break free from under layers and layers of security.
Natasha knows Bruce doesn't lose control just when he is angry, it's when he is frightened, too. And now he looks frightened. So frightened. It throws her off balance because–
He is not frightened for himself. There's a kind of horrifying precision to that thought, and Bruce can feel the Other Guy pressing at the center, mocking him with the irony of it because he knew, he knew, before Bruce did. He is not frightened for his own safety, there is no threat to him, no impending catastrophe Bruce cannot deal with himself. This is different, this is new. He can hear the scorn in the Other Guy's private voice as Bruce tries to clear his head enough to put it into words...
Natasha. She has seen him begin to spiral enough times to know there's a moment when the process can be stopped, reversed. But she only has one shot at this.
`Bruce, look at me.´
He doesn't. His gaze is fixed on the wound on her left arm, a cut in her clothes in the shape of an L, blood spreading under her sleeve.
She reaches one hand to his face. Slowly. Her fingers cup his chin with a slight, tentative touch. Barely making the connection. She knows he doesn't like being touched, is not used to it. She makes him look up at her.
`Look at me, Bruce. I'm all right. We are going to be fine. But I need you to be you and on top of this.´
Her voice reaches him, somehow. Her voice. Sure and authoritative and kind. Natasha. Pierces the fog of terror choking his thoughts. He can hear her. The beast inside retreats.
The coils of fear in his eyes begin to fade, subdued. Natasha watches until it feels safe to break eye contact, until she is sure Bruce won't slip away if she loosens her grip on him.
When he focuses his gaze again it's like he hasn't seen her in a long time. Her features, the colors around him heightened, more real. Now he can see the red of the blood, not just the white of his fear. The red of her hair, her pale face. Her face seems like a stranger, like somebody switching a light on a room he thought familiar and now he realizes it's not. Because now he knows. He can push the Other Guy back into rest, but he cannot erase the realization those moments have brought.
`What do you need?´
His voice breaks a bit but he sounds like himself again and Natasha breathes, draws a long, deep breath, feels like she has missed him. It's a relief that comes not from fearing the Hulk, and not entirely for the sake of their mission; part of it comes from this overwhelming want for Bruce to stay. It's almost ridiculous, and it's currently useless so she forgets about it and concentrates on his question.
She holds out her hand, tugging herself at the sleeve of her jacket.
`Help me tear this – I might need something to stop the bleeding. And you are kind of a doctor,´ she smirks at him.
He touches her wrist gingerly; he knows she could do this alone. He knows Natasha could do almost anything alone and he shouldn't have worried in the first place. He should know better and he does, but it doesn't matter. He brushes his thumb across her pulse, this instinctive need to check. But she has given him something to do, and even though he knows she did it for him, as a distraction, the least he can do is follow her orders.
His fingers around her elbow to steady her, there's a solidity to Bruce's touch that makes Natasha want to just lean into it. Now she can admit to herself that she has been worried too. That it was a lot of blood. She is glad she's not alone. Bruce looks at her as she imagines he would look a child patient when he treats the wounds: it's selfless. Natasha is too used to tend to her own pain, doesn't know how to accept this kind of generosity.
A drop of blood falls from the tip of her finger. But it's okay now, Bruce keeps his eyes on her face.
`You got it, Agent Romanoff.´ And he smiles at her. `Trust me, I'm kind of a doctor.´
The gentleness in his eyes is also back. Natasha relaxes in his hands and thinks we are going to be fine.
She believes it, too.