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"It has to be me," Bruce says. "I have to do it."
Natasha watches him carefully from across the table. "I can – "
"They know you, Agent Romanov. They have SHIELD's personnel manifesto," Fury interrupts her. His eye stays locked on Bruce.
"No one who's a public superhero, no one who works for SHIELD or the military," Bruce says, forcing himself to make eye contact with Hill, with Thor and Steve, with Clint and Natasha and Rhodey and Pepper. "They don't know my face."
"Probably." Natasha says. "They probably don't know your face." It's delivered in her standard neutral monotone, a simple statement of potentially relevant intelligence, but Bruce could almost smile at the worry he knows it's meant to imply. Standing behind her, Clint paces in short, controlled steps, as if actively communicating all the emotion that Natasha doesn't.
Hill grimaces, and her tone is far from neutral. "These guys are new. We're not sure what they know. Anything could happen."
"They've recruited from all branches of the military. If they have anyone from the Hulkbusters, they'll recognize you on sight," Rhodey puts in. "And then we'll have two assets in enemy hands." He's standing next to the table, arms crossed over his chest; it would look imposing and controlled if it weren't for the white knuckles half-hidden by the sleeves of his dress blues. He was with Tony when he came back from Afghanistan, Bruce remembers. He saw the fresh cuts, the layered bruises, the raw edges around the newly implanted arc reactor.
"I don't tend to stay in enemy hands," Bruce offers. "But let's call that plan B."
There's a tense silence. Bruce has never liked being on the helicarrier, not even that first time before he made bad memories of the place. The space is too open, too well observed. Usually he ducks into a corner, tries to stay unobtrusive, but he can't do that this time. He spreads his hands over the table in front of him, resting his palms against the cool surface.
"There's another reason," Steve says. It's not a question, though it should be. Bruce and Tony never kept their relationship a secret, not from the other Avengers, but this part of it shouldn't be common knowledge.
Bruce never wanted it to become common knowledge. He hates knowing it himself.
"Yes," Bruce replies. "There's another reason." Helplessly, he looks toward Pepper, who holds his gaze for a long moment, then nods slightly.
"Dr Banner can do this, Director Fury" Pepper says, without looking away from Bruce's face. "Tony will trust him."
"If he gets the chance to trust him," Hill demurs, but it's obvious that she's coming around to the idea. "There are a lot of things that have to go right just to get Dr Banner in the room. A lot of people to pay off, for one thing."
"Stark Industries will obviously provide any required resources," Pepper says coldly. She reaches across the table then, suddenly, and covers Bruce's right hand with her own. Her grip is hard and dry, bruising. "Just bring Tony back home."
-
In the end, it's their best option for getting Tony out alive. Bruce doesn't know all the details – who gets waylaid, who gets paid to take a walk, who gets killed so that Bruce can take his place. Natasha, Clint, and Pepper, along with Fury and Hill, all clear the field for him. All he does is walk into a nondescript looking warehouse hidden in the desert somewhere outside of Tucson, not far from the place where the Hulk was first born.
"I hear you've got a superhero to break," he says, setting down his leather doctor's bag and holding out his arms so that the goons can pat him down. It all looks exactly like the sitrep Clint had given him: tight security, multiple checkpoints, combinations of highly trained human guards and technological barriers: electronic card readers, thumbprint pads, retinal scanners. The outside of the building is run-down and falling apart, but the inside is new and gleaming, every door made of heavy steel, every wall reinforced.
Whatever else this new anti-SHIELD outfit is, it's not sloppy.
Bruce holds his breath as the light passes over his eye at the outer door. Fury and Steve had both insisted that he avoid hulking out unless absolutely necessary, and that if he can't gain initial entrance he should allow himself to be captured rather than trying to batter his way through the whole facility. Still, the military atmosphere makes him nervous, and he finds himself reaching inside his mind for the green, angry place where the Hulk lives, reassuring himself that he'll be able to get away if he needs to.
But Hill's hack of their security system doesn't let him down, and he's buzzed through immediately.
"Welcome, Dr Miller," the man on the other side of the door says. He's not wearing a uniform, but he might as well be; the haircut, bearing, and gleaming polished shoes mark him as military in spite of the cargo pants and leather jacket that he's wearing.
"Colonel Fitzpatrick," Bruce nods. SHIELD had only known a handful of the identities of the people in this unit, but Fitzpatrick, their leader, had been one of them.
He holds out his hand to shake, and Bruce remembers just in time not to take it. The Colonel hesitates, then drops his hand back to his side. He gives Bruce a curious once-over, taking in the unassuming button-down shirt and slacks, the reading glasses perched on Bruce's nose.
Probably wondering whether someone like Bruce could truly be a monster inside.
"Just Fitzpatrick will do. Or Fitz," he says, after a moment.
Bruce scrambles, trying to think of what a sadistic professional torturer would say when invited to make small talk. He defaults to cold and disinterested.
"Uh-huh. This is a waste of my time."
While they wait, one of the soldiers comes up behind them carrying Bruce's bag.
"All checked out, sir," the man says to Fitzpatrick. "No listening devices or other unknown technology." He's blushing as he hands the bag back to Bruce, though, and Bruce offers him a smirk.
"See anything in there you like?" he asks, and the soldier looks away. Bruce wishes that he could scream at him, feels the scream building inside for these cowards who blush so innocently at the torture they've ordered. Hulk could pop their heads between thumb and forefinger; Bruce knows exactly how it feels to do it, remembers the sensation of blood and bone and brains on his skin.
His smirk drives the soldier back to his station. Fitzpatrick seems amused.
"If you'll follow me, Doctor," he says, and leads Bruce on through the hallways. He keeps track of their progress, though they pass through so many doors that Bruce doesn't know how he could possibly escape once the place was on lockdown.
Well. He knows one way that he could escape. Imagines the walls parting for his body like tissue paper, Tony cradled safe in his arms. But he hopes it doesn't come to that.
"We've had him for just over a day now," Fitzpatrick reports, taking them through a last set of doors and into an observation room. "But we haven't done much to him yet. Thought we'd leave it up to the experts, especially since we don't know how long it will be before SHIELD calls in a strike. We need you to get this done as fast as possible."
"Everyone always wants a rush job," Bruce replies absently.
He takes a deep, quiet breath before he looks through the window, bracing himself, and sure enough when he does look up the Hulk-feeling roils within him, simmering under his skin. Tony's tied to a chair in a bare room, hands cuffed behind him, his clothes ripped and dirty. Blood is drying on his skin. He's been someone's punching bag, no matter what Fitzpatrick says. Probably during the abduction. Bruce forces himself to catalogue the injuries in case he has the chance to treat any of them. Phrases like contaminated laceration and possible fracture of the right distal ulna slip through his mind, distracting him from the dark rage that wants to tear his skin apart.
Mostly superficial, he tells himself. Physically, at least; the psychological damage is, of course, unobservable from here.
He takes another breath.
"You hit his face," Bruce snarls, letting his contempt show through.
Fitzpatrick looks surprised. "Yes, we – in the struggle – "
"Goons," Bruce interrupts. "You understand that his head is where he keeps the information you want, right? And where he keeps his pain responses? His fear centers? Idiots."
He hefts his bag and indicates his impatience with a wave of his hand.
"Well?" he asks.
Fitzpatrick is well-trained, smart, and extremely competent, but he almost stumbles over his feet letting Bruce out the door. Bruce doesn't have to act to portray his smug satisfaction at that.
"Give me the key to the cuffs, and leave me alone with him."
"I'd recommend at least one guard in the room – "
"It's like you know nothing," Bruce growls. He takes the proffered key and pushes through the door to Tony's cell, closing it behind him.
-
The first few seconds are critical; Bruce keeps his head down and strides quickly to Tony's chair, hoping that Tony takes long enough to raise his head to keep him from recognizing Bruce immediately and giving some sign of surprise or welcome.
Bruce crouches in front of Tony, so that, if nothing else, Tony will be looking down and away from the cameras and the observation window.
"Mr Stark," Bruce says quickly, as clipped and impersonal as he can be. "I'm Dr Miller."
To his credit, Tony doesn't betray a thing; his eyes are alert and intelligent – a very good sign – and while Bruce is able to read the subtle signs of shock on his face, he's pretty sure the cameras wouldn't be able to.
"Doc," Tony greets him brightly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Bruce heart rate picks up; in the old days it would've been cause for alarm. He forces himself to breathe through his nose and remember the scripts he and Pepper had worked out, the phrases that will clue Tony in to the game and to his options. Rummaging in his bag, he pulls out some cotton swabs and ointment and starts lightly daubing Tony's cuts.
"I'm here to let you out," Bruce says conversationally, beginning with the small scrapes on his face. "You can leave anytime you want."
"Really." Tony's eyes are searching Bruce's face, waiting for more data.
"Really." There's a particularly nasty cut on Tony's upper arm, jagged enough that it probably wasn't made by a knife. From falling against some rough piece of metal or concrete, maybe. It could use a couple stitches, but for now Bruce just cleans it. There are bits of grit inside, and Tony flinches as Bruce works them out.
"And yet I still seem to be handcuffed and tied to a chair, which is in turn bolted to the floor, sitting behind god knows how many locked doors and armed guards, probably in the middle of nowhere so that even if I did escape I'd have nowhere to go."
"Mmmm," Bruce agrees. "But none of that matters, since you know the magic password." Gently, Bruce runs his fingers along Tony's ulna, prodding gently; the arm is badly bruised and was obviously twisted at some point, but if the hurt goes down to the bone it's a hairline fracture at worst. Good. Better than he'd hoped: no major physical damage, and Tony's conscious and talkative.
"The SHIELD codes. The helicarrier." Bruce looks up and meets Tony's eyes, and the fast fevered understanding there nearly takes Bruce's breath away. It's just like all of their best moments together in the labs, the times when sudden insight had unfurled between them to reveal the fabric of the universe. The times when they would speak in unison, completing each others' sentences, both overwhelmed and elated by the glowing promise of a breakthrough.
He and Tony have always worked well together.
"You can leave anytime you like," Bruce reiterates, standing up from his crouch and holding Tony's gaze. "The walls and the doors and the guards are all meaningless." For a moment, Bruce wishes that Tony would choose that option so that Bruce could just let go and wreak his vengeance on this entire facility. It'd be so easy, so simple.
But if you're up for it, Bruce thinks, knowing that Tony understands this now, is with him now, we can really fuck these bastards over, once and for all.
His cold, calculated rage wins out over the hot green pulse of violence under his skin, and he's darkly satisfied when Tony gives him two slow, deliberate eyeblinks: the sign they use sometimes, when Tony's gagged, for keep going.
Tony says his next line: "If I give you that information, they'll use it to attack SHIELD bases. Destroy the helicarrier."
Bruce shrugs. "I suppose. I don't particularly care what anyone does with the information I extract." He reaches back into his bag and pulls out a syringe and an ampule. He takes his time preparing the shot.
"Then I guess I'm going to be here a while, because I'm never going to give you that information." Tony's expression is all blazing defiance, and Bruce wants to laugh with joy, with the feeling that they're in this together and that it's going to work. He knows it will, the way he always knows when one of their designs is going to work; it feels right, like their result already exists and they just have to work their way toward it.
"I can't say I'm all that disappointed." Bruce allows himself a small smile and swabs Tony's skin with alcohol before pushing the needle into him.
-
It's hard to begin. It's always hard to begin. But Tony is looking at him with absolute trust and so Bruce pushes the plunger on the syringe down and starts talking to get himself through it.
"This is a partial paralytic agent," he says. "It'll slow your body down, make it hard for you to react or get away. Doesn't do anything for pain, though, I'm afraid, and doesn't impede cognitive function, so you'll be able to feel everything and be conscious of everything that's being done to you."
It's a placebo, of course. He doesn't know or care if such a drug even exists, but Tony's terror looks real, skin pale, eyes wide. Bruce has no way of knowing whether it's just for the cameras. He hopes that it isn't.
"I'll just patch this up while it takes effect, shall I?" Bruce gets a needle and some suture thread from his case and starts stitching up Tony's cut. The needle penetrates Tony's skin easily, threading through the jagged bloody flesh. Bruce's hands don't even shake, and Tony doesn't flinch away from the pain.
"I hope you don't think this Stockholm Syndrome bullshit is going to work on me," Tony says, after the first two stitches go in. His breathing sounds labored. "Sewing me up."
"Stockholm," Bruce repeats, as if he's never heard the word. "That's where prisoners fall in love with their jailers, right?"
Tony snorts.
"I don't need you to fall in love with me," Bruce says, putting away the suture kit again. Only three stitches after all. He pulls out a bottle of water and opens it, taking a long drink.
His next words come out of his mouth before he can think about them, before he can stop them.
"I just need you to realize that your body is entirely under my control."
It's everything Bruce never wanted to say out loud, everything he'd tried to keep from Tony and Pepper: everything that lurked in the back of his mind as he told himself that it was Tony who liked being tied up, Tony who liked being gagged, Tony who wanted to be hurt. That maybe Pepper liked hurting him, and that was fine for her, but that Bruce had no particular desire for it.
"I decide when you hurt, and when you don't," Bruce breathes, half to himself.
Tony's eyes go wide with shock and his chest rises and falls quickly as his breathing speeds up. Lust looks so much like fear sometimes, like pain, like panic. Bruce's mouth is suddenly dry, so he takes another slow sip of water, wondering if this is it, if this is the end of everything they have together. He waits to hear it, some version of the magic words – fuck this, Bruce, how about you just hulk out and get us the hell out of here – signaling that Bruce has gone too far and asked for too much.
Tony says nothing, just squirms against the ropes and gulps air through his mouth and –
Blinks. Twice. Slowly.
The relief washes over Bruce, flooding through his body and actually making him a little dizzy. He opens his mouth again, because Tony said keep going, and he almost doesn't recognize his own voice as he speaks.
"I decide when your body closes," he says, crouching down again to run the base of his thumb over the cut on Tony's arm, discovering that he likes the feel of his own careful stitchwork in Tony's skin. "And I decide when it opens. It's mine." He lifts the bottle of water to Tony's lips. "Open for me."
Tony's mouth, for once in his life, remains stubbornly shut. Bruce doesn't stop to second-guess himself, just lashes out, fast, holding Tony's nose. Tony struggles against him, trying to get his head free, but he hasn't got the leverage to break Bruce's grip. It takes almost a minute before Tony finally opens his mouth to gasp; impressive, given the rate at which he's using oxygen. As soon as his mouth opens, Bruce pours the water in, over Tony's tongue and down his throat. Predictably, he coughs, spitting water all over himself, and Bruce ducks back.
"There's no need to fight it," Bruce admonishes him. "I know you're thirsty."
Tony spits his mouthful of water onto the floor.
"I'm fine," he says.
"Hmm. How's the paralytic working?"
"Don't feel a thing."
"Right." Bruce pulls the hunting knife from his bag but turns to face Tony before he unsheathes it, making sure to give Tony a good view of the blade as it's slowly revealed. It gleams in the semi-dark of the dusty little room.
He hears Tony's gasp, feels it all the way to his spine. For a moment he pretends to be inspecting the blade so that he can give himself time to try to find his equilibrium again.
He can do this.
He wants this.
"I know what you're thinking. Yes, I'm going to put this in you." Tony gives him his best defiant prisoner glare. "Though not right away."
He uses it to cut through the ropes, one by one, starting with the ones around his middle. The ropes, Bruce notes, are the wrong kind to use for tying someone up; where Tony's struggled against them there are rough abrasions and rope-splinters marring his skin in angry red lines.
Bruce wants very badly to hulk out just thinking about the fact that someone else, some random ex-soldier, could mark Tony so carelessly and so unthinkingly. Could make him feel pain without meaning it or wanting it. Grimacing, he squeezes one of the rope burns, pinching it hard, eliciting a cut-off grunt from Tony. Fascinated, Bruce scratches his fingernails into the abrasion as hard as he can, and this time what Tony has to bite off is a scream.
"I love those noises," Bruce says, trying for flippant. He's amazed to find that it's true, that he does.
"Fuck you," Tony gasps. Bruce digs in again, scratching hard, and this time it's a string of curses. Blood oozes under his fingernails.
When Tony's legs are freed he aims a kick at Bruce's face, but he's slow and off-target, as if he really were drugged; Bruce catches his leg easily, then shoves Tony down onto the floor, onto his knees. His hands are still cuffed behind him. Bruce grabs a fistful of his hair, holding him in place.
"You can leave anytime you want," Bruce says softly, to remind him, "but you can't escape. Up now."
Bruce hauls him to his feet and half-carries him over to the prison-style bed in the corner, manhandling him down onto the thin mattress and then shoving him into position, mindful of his bad arm. Tony bucks against him, still acting slow and clumsy, letting Bruce pin him with a knee to the upper thigh. It's hard work, keeping Tony still enough to undo the cuffs and then get the manacles on his wrists so that he's chained to the metal slats of the bedframe. By the time Tony's secured again, Bruce is breathing hard with the effort of immobilizing Tony's body with his own.
"Let's see what we have to work with," he says, and opens Tony's shirt, pulls off his shoes, takes off his pants and underwear. Stupid of them to leave Tony with anything of his own; the tracking devices in Tony's shoes, in his tie pin, sewn into the lining of his underwear, and god knew where else were how SHIELD had found him in the first place.
Bruce contains another slow, ineffectual kick by grabbing Tony's ankle, and Tony snarls at him. When Tony tries to twist his hips away Bruce forces him still again, and this time Tony spits in his face. Bruce looks up, shocked.
"Disgusting pervert," Tony snarls. Bruce backhands him across the face. Careful to hit the right part of the cheek. It feels good to do it, like a release. When Tony's eyes snap back to his they're shining brightly, wet with tears and elation and wonder. Breathing hard, holding Tony's gaze, Bruce slaps him again. On the other cheek. Harder this time. Tony groans in pain, and this time his eyes stay closed, his head turned away from Bruce and pressed to the mattress. He's beautiful.
Bruce wipes his face on his sleeve.
He manacles Tony's ankles so that he can't kick anymore.
Next he pulls out the telescoping cane, opens it with an easy flick of his wrist. The soft shiiick sound it makes as it expands is satisfying, the weight of it good in his hand.
"You can make this stop anytime," Bruce tells Tony, tells himself. "This is all up to you."
"Fuck you," Tony grits out. Two slow blinks.
"All right." He starts on Tony's right thigh, short sharp blows designed to leave a mark. He lands ten strokes all in the same four square inches of skin, falling into a rhythm. He concentrates on the motion of his arm, on his breathing, on the red welts that he raises on Tony's skin. He loses himself in it, a little, in the good feeling of his muscles moving, the solid reverberation of each blow as it connects.
"You don't have to tell me anything, Mr Stark," Bruce says, pausing after ten. "But you're welcome to do so."
No answer.
Tony stays silent for the eleventh blow, and the twelfth, but on the thirteenth a groan begins to build behind his teeth; Bruce watches as the fourteenth stroke opens Tony's mouth to let the sound come out, as the fifteenth forces his eyes closed and his head back, as the sixteenth and seventeenth raise him up from the mattress and arch his back elegantly, as the eighteenth and nineteenth draw his blood out of him. On twenty Tony is screaming, a taut arc of pain under Bruce's hands, like a live blue bolt of electricity jumping from one electrode to another.
"Shhhh," Bruce says, after the twentieth. "Shhh, it's all right, that set's over." He sits on the bed beside him, and, reaching down, runs his rough palm over the bloody abraded skin of Tony's thigh, a soothing gesture that he knows will hurt. "Take a breath."
Tony does, panting harshly.
"What's your name?" Bruce asks softly.
"Fuck you," Tony gasps. Bruce twists the bloody skin viciously.
"What's your name?"
"Tony Stark!" Tony yells, like the name itself is a threat. Bruce twists again, scratching, tearing. Tony's skin is under his fingernails.
"What's your name?"
"Anthony Edward Stark," Tony whines, closing his eyes. "Anthony Edward Stark, Anthony Edward Stark, Anthony Edward Stark," murmured fast and desperate like a penitent prayer.
"Better," Bruce praises him, and stands to give him another twenty strokes on the other leg.
-
"I know what you fear," Bruce says softly. He does, because Tony's told him: a bucket of water and a hand on the back of his head.
He fucks him instead, shoving his face down into the mattress, hard and rough, with no prep and hardly any lube, making sure to drive the tender skin of Tony's abused thighs against the rough mattress on every thrust. Tony sobs, and says no, and says please, and scrabbles at the mattress as Bruce pins him, holds him, forces him. Bruce calls him a faggot; Bruce calls him a whore. Bruce holds him by the hair and grits his teeth and makes his strokes brutal, his pace unforgiving. Bruce comes inside him, his body making bruises on Tony's thighs and upper arms, his teeth sinking into one of the rope burns on the soft tanned skin of Tony's shoulder, and Tony comes against the stiff material of the mattress without being touched.
Bruce keeps him on his stomach for a while afterwards, giving Tony time to get soft again for the cameras. He strokes Tony's back gently, palm against his spine.
"It could go on like this for days," Bruce offers quietly. "You don't want that. You want this to stop. I can stop it if you let me." Slow, rhythmic strokes. Tony's body warm and aching under his touch. When he heard the news of Tony's abduction, Bruce had been so afraid that he'd been hurt, that he'd been killed, but he's here, bleeding, alive to every pinch and every scratch, twisting with life under Bruce's hands.
Tony doesn't answer, just keeps his forehead pressed to the mattress and breathes raggedly.
"What's your name?" Bruce asks softly.
"Anthony Edward Stark."
"Good," Bruce soothes, keeping up his stroking. "What's your address?"
A pause. "I – I don't – "
Bruce lets his hand still, and beneath him Tony tenses up, muscles cording in his legs, shoulders drawing upwards, bracing for a blow. Conditioned so quickly to Bruce's reactions, bending to fit himself to Bruce's desires. A dark, secret pleasure rolls through Bruce at the sight of it.
"What's your address, Mr. Stark."
"200 Park Avenue," Tony breathes. "Please. Anthony Edward Stark, 200 Park Avenue, New York, New York, 10166."
"You're getting better," Bruce says, and bends to kiss Tony's shoulder, one of the red places that's going to come up in fingerprint bruises. "It won't be much longer now, I promise."
This time, when he offers Tony the water bottle, Tony sucks at it eagerly, drinking deep.
-
He uses heat next, a simple barbeque lighter held near the skin, pushing closer and pulling away at random intervals. He gets fascinated with the way he can make Tony's skin redden and even blister, the way he can enforce a permanent flush to each little circle of flesh. When he brings the flame near to one of Tony's rope burns he squirms and cries even more. Bruce likes the way Tony's wounds have begun to layer on top of one another, mapping out their time together.
It's realistic enough now, Bruce thinks. Pain, rape, humiliation, degradation. Fitzpatrick and the others would buy it now, if Tony gave up the information. They can stop.
"Tell me the codes," Bruce says. "Tell me about the helicarrier defenses."
Tony could tell him, and they could be done. The lighter cools in his hand as Tony meets his eyes, blinks twice, and says, "No."
There's a stinging at Bruce's eyes, unshed tears. He wishes badly, very badly, that he could kiss Tony now, could fall on him and take his mouth, could whisper in his ear and hold him while he scratches at Tony's sore places, bites at his wounds. It's more than he could ever have asked for, more than he ever thought possible, for Tony to want this – to want all of this – from him. For Tony to give this to him, like he was just waiting all along for Bruce to ask for it.
"No," Tony says again, clear and firm and full of resounding, beautiful yes; yes, as he looks at Bruce and sees all of him.
Bruce can't kiss him, so he clicks the lighter back on and puts the flame to Tony's skin. Tony's scream makes Bruce want to cry, to fall apart maybe, but he keeps his hands steady.
-
The knife is last; Bruce should've known the knife would be last. They've never done anything like this before today; paddling, flogging, some pinches and clamps, but never any blood, never any wounds.
Never any marks, not like these. Tony's skin is covered with them now, mottled with bruises and burns and abrasions, shaped by Bruce's hands.
Bruce imagines keeping Tony this way, always bearing fresh and fading marks, cuts and burns and old scars. He shivers at the thought.
Now Bruce decides that Tony's body will feel pain, that Tony's body will open up, so he sits astride him and presses the knife to Tony's skin, shallow cuts along his arms and chest. He knows where not to cut, thinks about the life pulsing through each vein and artery and organ as he passes over it, as he spares it the edge of the blade.
Inside him, for the first time in a very long time, the Hulk is silent.
"Your name," Bruce murmurs, slicing just under Tony's left nipple. The skin parts for him, blood wells up for him, all of it so easy.
"Anthony Edward Stark," Tony replies, and Bruce wonders if he even recognizes the sounds of his own name anymore. He's hoarse from screaming, lost now in the pain. Broken. Perfect.
"Your address," Bruce asks, and before Tony even has a chance to answer he squirts a little capsaicin ointment into the cut, rubbing at it curiously with latex-covered fingers. The scream it produces is impressive; Tony writhes against the mattress for a good two or three minutes before he's even able to form words again, tears sliding down his face, wetting the hair at his temples.
"Should I do another one?" Bruce asks, raising the capsaicin.
"200 Park Avenue," Tony cries. "200 Park Avenue, please, please, I can't tell you, please stop, I can't – "
Bruce fucks his dick against Tony's raw body; he's hard again, so hard from this, from seeing Tony broken into pieces underneath him. He rubs the capsaicin into another cut, then ruts against Tony's bloody thigh as he howls and twists beneath him.
"It's not going to stop," Bruce breathes. Blood trickles from half a dozen places on Tony's body, oozing over the burns and bruises. There's no part of his body that Bruce hasn't marked.
"You – fucking – sadistic – bastard." Tony's breathing is hard and labored as he sobs; Tony's eyes squeezed closed against the tears that spill from him.
"Yes," Bruce says, before he can even think about it, and bends over to put his mouth to Tony's tears, taking them onto his tongue and into his body. When Tony's eyes open again, he's looking up at Bruce with awe, pure emotion shining from his eyes, refined and perfected by the pain and the fire.
"I want to make you scream. I want to make you hurt." The words tear free from him and shock the air around them like the cold clear peal of a church bell. "I love every moment of this, every moment you don't answer my questions." He leans in then, breathes his words against Tony's ear. "I could do this to you forever. Could you take it forever?"
Beneath him, Tony's body shudders. "Please," Tony whimpers, and the raw need in his voice is like a balm, like a benediction.
Another cut, and more capsaicin, but then even that isn't enough; Bruce puts his finger in the wound instead, probes into Tony's body. He fits perfectly, intimately, within the shallow cuts he's made for himself.
"You know how to make it stop. Make it stop, Tony." Bruce's voice breaks, and he spares a fleeting thought to hope that no one watching them notices. "Make me stop."
Tony's hand twitches upwards and is stopped by the manacles and chains, but Bruce recognizes the gesture anyway. He can feel the caress as if it happened, as if Tony's palm had cupped his jaw to offer comfort. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, tears slipping down his own cheeks now.
"Helicarrier defense net code, authorization Hill epsilon theta three foxtrot charlie eight eight nine kappa," Tony begins, his voice soft, and Bruce opens his eyes, meets Tony's gaze, and comes against his body, pouring himself over all the scraped and tender places he's made on Tony's skin, seeping into the cracks.
As he recites the information, Tony starts crying again, stumbling over the words. His breath hitches in his chest. Bruce puts a hand on Tony's sternum just to feel it.
When Tony finishes reciting all the codes to all the SHIELD bases, they're both silent for a long moment, and the silence is empty, complete. Unable to help himself, Bruce bends over again and kisses the last tear from Tony's eyelash, catching it before it can fall. Tony sighs softly and closes his eyes, pressing the side of his face into the mattress.
Expecting a knock on the door at any moment, Bruce does up his pants and puts himself into some semblance of order before quietly tucking his instruments away in the leather doctor's bag. By the time Fitzpatrick comes in he's sitting next to Tony on the bed, stroking his hair and rubbing ointment gently over his burns.
"I trust you got what you needed?" Bruce asks, cold and disinterested as he can manage.
"Yeah," Fitzpatrick says, then clears his throat. "You too, I guess." The thick contempt in his voice doesn't bother Bruce at all, just buzzes around the edges like an annoying fly. Bruce is grounded by his hand in Tony's hair and by his marks on Tony's willing body; nothing else can touch him.
"When you've paid me, that will be true. Shall I stay until you've checked the information out?"
Fitzpatrick grimaces. "It's going to have to be a simultaneous assault on all their bases," he says. "You're not going anywhere until it's over. Neither is he."
Bruce nods, accepting this. "I'm sure that the information is real. I can tell." He tucks a strand of hair behind Tony's ear. "When will this attack take place?"
"We move out in half an hour."
Bruce doesn't pay much attention to time, floating through it with Tony lying dazed in his arms, but it's an hour later by his watch when the cleverly concealed transponder in one of the eyelets of his leather case starts flashing. The attack has begun, and SHIELD will take down this entire organization when their codes fail and every advantage that they thought they had dries up before their eyes.
Bruce gives it another five minutes, then frees Tony's wrists. As Tony rubs at them slowly and begins to dress himself, Bruce stands to take off his shoes, his clothes, and his glasses. Everything is tucked neatly into the leather bag, which he hands to Tony. He leaves the transponder on the floor, a beacon for the air strike that will turn this building to ashes.
"Ready to go?" he asks. There's already some banging around outside, the skeleton crew of guards panicking, either because of what they've seen on the cameras or because of what they've heard over the radio from their fellow soldiers. They'll be in here soon, though it probably won't take them long to realize their mistake and turn around.
Tony gets his shoes on and stands, a little wobbly, but smiling. He limps forward and takes Bruce's mouth, kissing him deeply. Bruce kisses back, hungry, amazed. When it's over he rests his forehead against Tony's, closes his eyes, and breathes shakily. Tony's strong arms wrap around his back and hold him steady.
The noises outside the room get closer.
"I guess we should get going," Bruce says, opening his eyes. Tony's are already open, his gaze clear and unwavering. Bruce hopes, desperately, that he can be worthy of the trust he sees there. He swallows hard.
"Take us home," Tony murmurs, planting one last soft kiss on his cheek before twining his arms around Bruce's neck. The leather bag knocks against their sides, heavy and annoying, but very soon it won't seem like much of a weight to carry.
As the first soldiers burst into the room, Bruce reaches inside his mind and finds the Hulk waiting, just like always, ready to wake up and stretch out the edges of Bruce's existence. Bruce gives up his control and turns himself inside out, becoming huge, powerful, angry. Cruel. Sadistic.
Tony's grip on his shoulders never falters, and when Bruce is done becoming himself they leap free together, up out of the dark, still room and into the dazzling light of a clear bright Arizona dawn.