Dr. Bruce Banner (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
broke_harlem) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2024-09-22 02:47 pm
broke_harlem) wrote in singillatim2024-09-22 02:47 pm
Entry tags:
[open] arrival
Who: Bruce Banner & you!
What: continuing & new TDM prompts
When: Early September
Where: Milton & outskirts
Content Warnings: for Tea Time prompt, child abuse, domestic abuse, domestic homicide
If you would like to plot anything specific, please feel free to hmu on PM or on plurk at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
ladybastet92
ARRIVAL
( Bruce doesn't understand.
It's not that this situation is entirely unfamiliar; he has woken up in the snow-covered woods, naked and alone, more than once since his failed experiment that had created the Hulk. It was practically second nature, the way consciousness pulled him from his blacked-out state slowly and tortuously, the confusion that came with the lack of recognition of his surroundings, the sharp bite of cold wind and snow forcing his groggy mind to focus. None of that was surprising, not even alarming.
But a slow sense of dread trickled down his spine the further he walked into the woods. He was clothed - and that was unusual for this kind of circumstance, since the Hulk usually demolished most of his clothes after a transformation - and while he was grateful for layers between him and the snow, especially shoes, it still signaled to Bruce that he was in a situation that he had not faced before. The fact that he even felt the cold was another clue; the gamma radiation in his body had always kept him running warm, even in freezing environments, but he could feel every slap of wind against his face now, and he could tell that his body temperature was not regulating itself the way it usually would under the Hulk's influence.
Hours pass. He walks through the trees with drooping fatigue, his feet feeling their miles of hard work, and the dread in Bruce's gut only sinks deeper. He pushes past a cluster of dead bushes, and he stumbles. Catching himself, he pushes himself to his feet and looks at his hands. They're bloody and scratched from the earth, and they don't heal. He waits a few more seconds, but when the wounds don't disappear, he's certain: the Hulk's powers are gone.
There's no time to dwell on that, to unpack and investigate the greater implications of the threat that had been stalking him for a decade disappearing into thin air. Because if the Hulk's powers are gone and he's human again, there's a good chance he won't survive if his body temperature drops much lower. And even though the Hulk's powers might be gone, the Hulk himself was very much still there, roaring in his mind: Puny Banner must survive. For once, they agree. His self-destructive tendencies aside, Bruce doesn't feel like dying right now.
He walks faster, trying to beat the setting sun, knowing that his chances of survival are much slimmer once it is dark. He stumbles over stones and branches, but he doesn't let himself fall again. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the trees begin to clear, and Bruce notices smoke on the horizon. At the sight, he jogs as fast as he's able, racing towards any signs of civilization -
Bruce barely notices the cabin that appears before his knees buckle, finally succumbing to exhaustion, and the Hulk's roars grow dim as the world starts to get dark. )
METHUSELAH'S FEAST
( He barely remembers what happened before he got here. He recognizes that he was probably delusional from hypothermia when he arrived, but that still doesn't explain everything he sees. Sure, at first glance, this looks like any middle-of-nowhere town in the wilderness of Canada, and he could even buy that Hulk had crashed the Quinjet to get them there. But that didn't explain the people who surrounded him now: they wore clothing of all different eras, some from even centuries ago, and as he watched them at his corner by the fire, he noticed that some of them behaved like they came from a different time, too. The old man who had welcomed him had just said that the "Interlopers" arrived from all over, and most in the same way he did. It was a cryptic and vague answer, but the old man seemed busy but nice enough, so Bruce didn't push when he moved away to help some other newcomers.
What also couldn't be explained was the items he'd found in his jacket after he had warmed up from the bitter cold. His glasses and the tablet, fine; there was a chance he could have stored those away in the Quinjet and grabbed them after a crash, since his memories of how he got here were dark. But the picture... the picture made no sense at all.
Nursing a mug of tea, Bruce pauses his people-watching to stare at the photo on the table in front of him. With a free hand, he traces its edges, thin but solid under his fingers: real. It was a photo of him and his first love, Betty Ross, standing together in their cap and gowns as recent graduates. They both looked so young - it's been almost fifteen years since this photo was taken. This photo... Bruce had lost it years ago. His experiment had gone wrong, Betty had been hurt, and Bruce had gone on the run, leaving all his earthly possessions behind in the process. How on earth can it be here?
He stares at the image of Betty's smiling face, and he wonders what she looks like now. He thinks about her face the last time he saw her, heartbroken as he disappears yet again. He thinks about Natasha kissing him, and his heart twists in his chest.
Suddenly, a door to the outside opens, and a gust of wind causes the photo to fly off the table. )
Shit. ( Bruce mutters, then scrambles to get the photo off the ground, desperate not to lose it again. He grabs it, but he also manages to bump into someone else like a complete idiot in his attempt. Standing up, Bruce winces in embarrassment. )
Sorry about that, I didn't see you there.
TEA TIME
( The tea had seemed like a good idea at the time. Bruce had been walking through the quiet blanket of snow, trying to get his mind right. It was a contrast to the furious storm he arrived in, and he was glad; he could appreciate the beauty of this place better now that his survival wasn't on his mind. Now, his mind is just busy trying to make sense of everything else.
Interloper isn't the worst thing he's been called, but it's still unsettling, the way that man had spoken so vaguely of this place and his situation. He couldn't exactly ask about his lack of powers here, not without giving away who - what he is, and his instinct to hide is a well-worn one after years on the run from Ross and the army.
You could stay, an errant thought offers. It's not like you would be welcome back at Avenger's Tower. Memories of Johannesburg still loom behind his eyelids when he sleeps, the mindless destruction they had wrought haunting both Bruce and the Hulk. Bruce had no idea if his lack of powers was confined to just this place, but it wouldn't be the worst trade to make: his isolation for the safety of everyone else. The Hulk punched against his mind at this, growling in disagreement. Bruce doesn't care; the Hulk can't do anything to him here.
The stranger he encounters is kind enough, as well as whoever is sitting with her by the campfire, and while paranoia still lingers on the edges of Bruce's mind, he knows the chances of Ross finding him out in the middle of nowhere are slim. No one in town has reported him as far as he knows. Maybe he's a fool, letting his guard down, but when the lady offers him the warm mug of rosehip tea, tempting him with its sweet and tangy smell, Bruce takes it with a smile.
With a crash, Bruce is violently jolted from the woods around him, and he lands somewhere new. Worse: somewhere familiar. The house he had grown up in, in the suburbs of Dayton, Ohio, in the dead of night.
"Quiet, baby, his mother whispers, holding a child Bruce by the hand, all curls and terror and desperation. She opens the car door, quiet as a mouse, and the younger version of Bruce looks over his shoulder, clutching his teddy bear tight. The car starts, and Bruce and his younger self's thoughts mirror one another - so close, get away, get away from him - but a light in the kitchen turns on, and Bruce forgets how to breathe.
Everything happens so quickly: his father's screams, the tight fist in his hair, the pleads and begs from his mother. But his father is a storm, destructive and indestructible, and when his fist lands on Bruce's face, the force sends him flying. He tries to get to his feet, be brave, be strong, but now his father's fist is in his mother's hair, and he's swinging her downwards towards the pavement - CRACK, the sound that will echo in Bruce's ears for the rest of his life, and blood splatters onto the pavement, onto Bruce's hands, his face, and his mother isn't moving, and his father stomps closer and closer --
When Bruce opens his eyes, he knows that the Hulk has come and gone. His body might not have transformed, but the Hulk had come to the forefront of his mind anyway, trying to shield him from the memories of that night. He sits up in the snow, still breathing too quickly, and he notices that the campsite has been ripped to shreds. It's a fraction of the damage that the Hulk would usually cause, but it mimics it: the fireplace has been stamped out, the tent torn to scraps, the mug shattered to pieces. A tableau of the rage and hurt that Bruce would always carry with him, no matter where he went.
He puts his face in his hands, trying to calm his heart rate, but his mother's blood is still fresh in his mind. Whoever is here with him should be the last thing on his mind, but he still offers the apology: )
Sorry.
WILDCARD
Come throw something else at me! DM me to plot, or just go wild.
What: continuing & new TDM prompts
When: Early September
Where: Milton & outskirts
Content Warnings: for Tea Time prompt, child abuse, domestic abuse, domestic homicide
If you would like to plot anything specific, please feel free to hmu on PM or on plurk at
ARRIVAL
( Bruce doesn't understand.
It's not that this situation is entirely unfamiliar; he has woken up in the snow-covered woods, naked and alone, more than once since his failed experiment that had created the Hulk. It was practically second nature, the way consciousness pulled him from his blacked-out state slowly and tortuously, the confusion that came with the lack of recognition of his surroundings, the sharp bite of cold wind and snow forcing his groggy mind to focus. None of that was surprising, not even alarming.
But a slow sense of dread trickled down his spine the further he walked into the woods. He was clothed - and that was unusual for this kind of circumstance, since the Hulk usually demolished most of his clothes after a transformation - and while he was grateful for layers between him and the snow, especially shoes, it still signaled to Bruce that he was in a situation that he had not faced before. The fact that he even felt the cold was another clue; the gamma radiation in his body had always kept him running warm, even in freezing environments, but he could feel every slap of wind against his face now, and he could tell that his body temperature was not regulating itself the way it usually would under the Hulk's influence.
Hours pass. He walks through the trees with drooping fatigue, his feet feeling their miles of hard work, and the dread in Bruce's gut only sinks deeper. He pushes past a cluster of dead bushes, and he stumbles. Catching himself, he pushes himself to his feet and looks at his hands. They're bloody and scratched from the earth, and they don't heal. He waits a few more seconds, but when the wounds don't disappear, he's certain: the Hulk's powers are gone.
There's no time to dwell on that, to unpack and investigate the greater implications of the threat that had been stalking him for a decade disappearing into thin air. Because if the Hulk's powers are gone and he's human again, there's a good chance he won't survive if his body temperature drops much lower. And even though the Hulk's powers might be gone, the Hulk himself was very much still there, roaring in his mind: Puny Banner must survive. For once, they agree. His self-destructive tendencies aside, Bruce doesn't feel like dying right now.
He walks faster, trying to beat the setting sun, knowing that his chances of survival are much slimmer once it is dark. He stumbles over stones and branches, but he doesn't let himself fall again. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the trees begin to clear, and Bruce notices smoke on the horizon. At the sight, he jogs as fast as he's able, racing towards any signs of civilization -
Bruce barely notices the cabin that appears before his knees buckle, finally succumbing to exhaustion, and the Hulk's roars grow dim as the world starts to get dark. )
METHUSELAH'S FEAST
( He barely remembers what happened before he got here. He recognizes that he was probably delusional from hypothermia when he arrived, but that still doesn't explain everything he sees. Sure, at first glance, this looks like any middle-of-nowhere town in the wilderness of Canada, and he could even buy that Hulk had crashed the Quinjet to get them there. But that didn't explain the people who surrounded him now: they wore clothing of all different eras, some from even centuries ago, and as he watched them at his corner by the fire, he noticed that some of them behaved like they came from a different time, too. The old man who had welcomed him had just said that the "Interlopers" arrived from all over, and most in the same way he did. It was a cryptic and vague answer, but the old man seemed busy but nice enough, so Bruce didn't push when he moved away to help some other newcomers.
What also couldn't be explained was the items he'd found in his jacket after he had warmed up from the bitter cold. His glasses and the tablet, fine; there was a chance he could have stored those away in the Quinjet and grabbed them after a crash, since his memories of how he got here were dark. But the picture... the picture made no sense at all.
Nursing a mug of tea, Bruce pauses his people-watching to stare at the photo on the table in front of him. With a free hand, he traces its edges, thin but solid under his fingers: real. It was a photo of him and his first love, Betty Ross, standing together in their cap and gowns as recent graduates. They both looked so young - it's been almost fifteen years since this photo was taken. This photo... Bruce had lost it years ago. His experiment had gone wrong, Betty had been hurt, and Bruce had gone on the run, leaving all his earthly possessions behind in the process. How on earth can it be here?
He stares at the image of Betty's smiling face, and he wonders what she looks like now. He thinks about her face the last time he saw her, heartbroken as he disappears yet again. He thinks about Natasha kissing him, and his heart twists in his chest.
Suddenly, a door to the outside opens, and a gust of wind causes the photo to fly off the table. )
Shit. ( Bruce mutters, then scrambles to get the photo off the ground, desperate not to lose it again. He grabs it, but he also manages to bump into someone else like a complete idiot in his attempt. Standing up, Bruce winces in embarrassment. )
Sorry about that, I didn't see you there.
TEA TIME
( The tea had seemed like a good idea at the time. Bruce had been walking through the quiet blanket of snow, trying to get his mind right. It was a contrast to the furious storm he arrived in, and he was glad; he could appreciate the beauty of this place better now that his survival wasn't on his mind. Now, his mind is just busy trying to make sense of everything else.
Interloper isn't the worst thing he's been called, but it's still unsettling, the way that man had spoken so vaguely of this place and his situation. He couldn't exactly ask about his lack of powers here, not without giving away who - what he is, and his instinct to hide is a well-worn one after years on the run from Ross and the army.
You could stay, an errant thought offers. It's not like you would be welcome back at Avenger's Tower. Memories of Johannesburg still loom behind his eyelids when he sleeps, the mindless destruction they had wrought haunting both Bruce and the Hulk. Bruce had no idea if his lack of powers was confined to just this place, but it wouldn't be the worst trade to make: his isolation for the safety of everyone else. The Hulk punched against his mind at this, growling in disagreement. Bruce doesn't care; the Hulk can't do anything to him here.
The stranger he encounters is kind enough, as well as whoever is sitting with her by the campfire, and while paranoia still lingers on the edges of Bruce's mind, he knows the chances of Ross finding him out in the middle of nowhere are slim. No one in town has reported him as far as he knows. Maybe he's a fool, letting his guard down, but when the lady offers him the warm mug of rosehip tea, tempting him with its sweet and tangy smell, Bruce takes it with a smile.
With a crash, Bruce is violently jolted from the woods around him, and he lands somewhere new. Worse: somewhere familiar. The house he had grown up in, in the suburbs of Dayton, Ohio, in the dead of night.
"Quiet, baby, his mother whispers, holding a child Bruce by the hand, all curls and terror and desperation. She opens the car door, quiet as a mouse, and the younger version of Bruce looks over his shoulder, clutching his teddy bear tight. The car starts, and Bruce and his younger self's thoughts mirror one another - so close, get away, get away from him - but a light in the kitchen turns on, and Bruce forgets how to breathe.
Everything happens so quickly: his father's screams, the tight fist in his hair, the pleads and begs from his mother. But his father is a storm, destructive and indestructible, and when his fist lands on Bruce's face, the force sends him flying. He tries to get to his feet, be brave, be strong, but now his father's fist is in his mother's hair, and he's swinging her downwards towards the pavement - CRACK, the sound that will echo in Bruce's ears for the rest of his life, and blood splatters onto the pavement, onto Bruce's hands, his face, and his mother isn't moving, and his father stomps closer and closer --
When Bruce opens his eyes, he knows that the Hulk has come and gone. His body might not have transformed, but the Hulk had come to the forefront of his mind anyway, trying to shield him from the memories of that night. He sits up in the snow, still breathing too quickly, and he notices that the campsite has been ripped to shreds. It's a fraction of the damage that the Hulk would usually cause, but it mimics it: the fireplace has been stamped out, the tent torn to scraps, the mug shattered to pieces. A tableau of the rage and hurt that Bruce would always carry with him, no matter where he went.
He puts his face in his hands, trying to calm his heart rate, but his mother's blood is still fresh in his mind. Whoever is here with him should be the last thing on his mind, but he still offers the apology: )
Sorry.
WILDCARD
Come throw something else at me! DM me to plot, or just go wild.
@chuju
Bruce takes the offer hand, then his eyebrows shoot upwards at the shock of cold he feels at the touch. ) Are you alright? You're hands are... alarmingly cold, if I can be frank. But you're not exhibiting any other signs of hypothermia...
( He looks her up and down, looking for other symptoms, but there aren't any visible ones. At the mention of SHIELD, however, he's distracted. The name stirs up feelings of distrust on instinct, but they're not as powerful as they had once been. The news about HYDRA had changed everything, for one, weeding out the loyal from the Nazis; if Daisy still identified herself as SHIELD to him, then chances were better that she had been on Fury's side of things. And Natasha -- Bruce's chest constricts at the thought of her name, but he intentionally pushes the feeling to the side -- Natasha still trusted Fury. That had to count for something.
In the grand scheme of things, however, all of that didn't matter. This was someone who knew who he was and approached him anyway, not knowing that the Hulk was no longer a threat. That was enough to earn some of his trust. ) Good to meet you, Agent Johnson.
feast!
He's finished his rounds there and is moving towards the front doors to take his leave when someone makes contact with him. Edward blinks widely, brought out of his odd hazy fog by the collision, and takes a step back with a creak of his heavy boot against the wooden floorboards. At the same moment, a gloved hand instinctively comes up, as though to steady the other man if needed. ]
Ah — please, no, the fault is mine. [ He's immediately apologetic, giving his head a shake. Despite the rather severe look to him — clad in full uniform, greatcoat, and officer's cap, (and boasting a very oldschool set of muttonchops) he's a man who seems like he takes things Very Seriously — there's a softness to his expression that almost seems wounded, like a bruise blossoming at the mere thought that he's caused someone distress. ]
I was caught in my own thoughts, and should have been more focused. Are you all right? [ He doesn't recognise the man, and his eyes look him over quickly, fluttering to the photo held in his hands for a moment before lifting again. ]
no subject
( Sliding the photo into his pocket, Bruce's embarrassment eases somewhat as he takes in the man in front of him. He knows by now that people here are from different times - different worlds - but it's still an adjustment to see someone so clearly from another time in front of him. But he has the advantage of once having had a god of Norse mythology on his team, so he's not too rattled by the century-late attire. Bruce has never been a history expert, but he was born on a military base and worked with the U.S. Army long enough to recognize that the other man was wearing some sort of uniform, even if it's dated. He idly wonders what year this man was taken from, but that doesn't seem like the sort of thing you ask when you first meet someone here. So instead, Bruce offers his hand to shake. )
I'm Doctor Banner - Bruce. I've only just arrived here, so I'm sorry if I seem kinda frazzled. ( It's still incredibly strange to him that he can offer his name here without any fear of being identified as the Hulk. As desperate as this whole situation seems, there's at least something freeing about that, so he gives the other man a small smile with his introduction. )
Sorry, I don't recognize your uniform - are you Army? Navy? ( Air Force was probably not a thing that existed yet in this guy's timeline, after all. Bruce has been distrustful of soldiers for a very long time, but he's not looking to make any enemies. Still, it was better to know. )
no subject
His grasp was once more assured than it is now, but the man whom it belonged to has been dead for over a year. He can scarcely remember that man. Now, exhaustion drapes over him like a second coat, and his handshake is slow and a little ginger, fingers not squeezing so much as simply gently grasping the other man's. He's almost afraid to touch anyone too tightly, anymore. He's done such horrible things.
Still, he's polite, and he even smiles at the introduction. It's shy at first, then empathetic, a soft frown tugging not soon after. 'I've only just arrived here.' It's never easy for the new ones, but lately... things seem especially dangerous. ]
Navy — Lieutenant Edward Little of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. I'm delighted to meet you, Doctor Banner. [ His own title still comes so naturally, like it's his name, though his own identity has become a strange thing these days. Still... Edward hangs onto it. If he stops doing that... well. He might lose everything of himself that's left, as little as it is. ]
Though I wish our circumstances were more pleasant than this. Are you... all right? I know the trek in from the snow isn't easy. Have you had enough to eat here?
cw: domestic homicide
So it's not a surprise that he can recognize that same distant pain in this other man. His smile does little to hide the haunted look in his eyes, the silent history that must lurk behind him, but the attempt is valiant enough that Bruce won't bring it up - maybe for both of their sakes. )
I'm okay now - someone saved me from freezing to death, thankfully. ( Bruce offers the other man a wry but sincere smile as he releases his grip from the other hand. ) But if you don't mind me asking something, Mr. Little - sorry, should I call you Lieutenant Little? - I'm trying to piece this all together, but I have no idea how exactly I got here. Do you have any memory of how you did?
no subject
Ah — Mr. is fine, if you prefer. I don't mind either.
[ He smiles. It's an odd thing, his own title, even if it still flows so naturally from his own lips. Most of the others here have shed their titles, so willingly. Little and Irving are amongst the rare ones that still hold to their own, but perhaps he should... try to relinquish the hold upon it. (He doesn't know how. Maybe it starts here, becoming mister instead of lieutenant.) In any case, there are more pressing matters— ]
My own memory of it is like... a dream. As though I fell asleep where I was, and woke up, but not fully. [ He purses his lips slightly in thought. ] During the expedition I was on prior to this, our ships became trapped in the ice. Conditions... not terribly unlike these. That is where I was just before, and for some time, I thought I had somehow.... been brought to a new location, but we've been told that the year here is 2014 — 2015, now.
It was 1848 for me, last. [ A thin, wry smile. He certainly wasn't simply brought to a new location — he's gone through time. Perhaps this really is all just some dream. ]
What year was it for you before, if I might ask?
no subject
( Bruce listens to Mr. Little recall his arrival carefully, noticing the similarities between his and Bruce's own. His own memory being lost could have been chalked up to the frostbite, but it's more than just a coincidence that someone else experienced nearly the same thing - even if they are almost two hundred years apart in where they came from. )
1848, huh? ( After that, tt slots into place fairly quickly that his man was on the Franklin Expedition. He isn't a history buff, but the disappearance of that crew was up there with the mystery of Roanoke in cultural significance. They had even found some remains a few years before Captain America was discovered in the ice. Bruce mentally winces at the word remains - he knows this man would be dead in his own time, but the theories surrounding that expectation weren't pretty. Probably best not to bring them up. )
It was 2015 when I... left. ( 'Stole a jet and ran away' were the proper words, but he kept them tucked neatly inside. ) Interesting that this town is supposed to be 2015 as well. Maybe it means something. ( Bruce gives a wry smile. ) Or maybe not. But I have a feeling that the Aurora has something to do with all of this.
@bigdaddy
Tr-trying to. ( If Bruce could manage proper sarcasm, he probably would have used it, but as it stands the words are just muttered sounds under his breath. Bruce isn't sure how hard he's shaking anymore, the sensation distant to his own perspective, but he hopes that his efforts aren't completely empty. Unconsciously, his fingers dig into the stranger's jacket as he tries to follow his lead. )
no subject
This much seems manageable. Because they are moving. Not very quickly, given how much effort Bigby has to put into this, but they're getting further into town, step by step.
Bigby is quiet along the way. He's so focused on getting Bruce somewhere warm that he doesn't bother with small talk. He just allows the other man to cling to him and walks, and walks--
Until they arrive at the community hall. It's already warmer in there than it was outside, but Bigby keeps walking through the hall itself, past the food on the tables and the other new people, until he ends up right next to the fire in the hearth of the hall. It takes a little bit of wrangling the other, but he does manage to put Bruce down into a seat in front of said fire. ]
There. [ Bigby says - finally speaking again. ] You can feel the warmth, right? You still with me there?
[ That's the one downside of not having spoken along the route to this place - he isn't sure whether the other is still fully with him or not. ]
no subject
It takes Bruce another moment to process that the other man is waiting for him to answer his question. ) G-getting there. ( He doesn't feel warm, exactly, but he knows by the fact that he's conscious and talking that the nearby fire is starting to work its magic. Stuttering is good, it means his facilities are returning to him, and he can feel every inch of his skin shaking instead of the numbness that penetrated his entire body before. His energy is still completely depleted, and it takes effort for Bruce to ask his next request: ) Ah-any t-tea here?
no subject
Hold on.
[ A moment later he's walking off, leaving the other man by the fire by himself. About two to three minutes later there are footsteps - Bigby has seemingly returned, holding a mug with something in it in one of his hands. There's a motion like he's about to hand it over to the other, but then he realizes Bruce's current state again. Even if the fire must be helping, he's not sure how much it's going to do for the other this quickly. It seemed like Bruce'd been doing pretty bad. ]
You think you can hold a mug yet? [ Not that Bigby is totally above helping the other drink, considering the relative severity of the situation and all..
But.. he'd also rather just not, if there's the chance to avoid it at all. It's usually not really his sort of thing. ]
no subject
The t-table? ( Bruce asks, deciding that's as good a place as any to start. He's endured worse dignities than being fed by a stranger, but Bruce has enough state of mind to recognize that he has no clue where he is or who he's with. If this guy wanted him dead, he could have just left him, and Bruce knows that. Still, wariness has been engrained in him his entire life, and it's the first instinct that returns to him now. )
What is i-it? ( Still, when the mug is on the table, Bruce wraps his hands around it, immediately grateful for the heat soaking into his palms and fingers. He let's out a rattled sigh of content. )
no subject
It's tea. [ He answers, gesturing at the mug between the other's hands.
It felt like the safest option to grab here. No one is allergic to tea, right? Just the most simple of hot drinks. He isn't too sure he wants to give the other coffee if Bruce is in this state. Who knows what it'd do to him.
He gives the other a silent moment - maybe so Bruce can warm up his hands, or maybe even dare to take a sip - and then continues with: ]
Is this the first time something like this has happened to you?