Note: A present for the wonderful Nat, my Bruce/Maria partner in crime. Cheers!

They're keeping their distance, playing it safe.

Or, at least, make a valiant effort to. Maria's in a full field kit, and Bruce has his stretchy-pants on. There's a team of SHIELD agents going in with them this time, Maria at their helm. She'd hate it if he worried, so he pretends he doesn't.

Tony's nattering into his ear, playing mad scientist and theorizing about compounding metals; Steve's got his game-face on and Clint's throwing something bouncy against the wall around Natasha's head while the red-head stares daggers at him. Thor's head bobs rhythmically to whatever he's listening to – dub step, the last time Bruce checked.

"- so if we compensate with hydrogen, we might be able to - "

Bruce nods and hums, indulging Tony's low-key anxiety, eyes drifting over and over again to the far side of the ship, to the SHIELD agents, to Maria.

At one point their eyes meet – 'Bruce,' she breathes, and he presses down against her, lips against her neck, teasing the pale skin between them gently with his tongue – and he smiles at her, soft and secret. Maria quirks an eyebrow at him for a moment before smirking; too soon her attention is drawn away by the agent beside her, and she ducks her head to hear him over the engine's thrum.

" - charged, and there's the neurological link. One small injection, and you're done. It'd be perfect."

"Wait. What? Tony, no, that's crazy."

Maria loses sight of Bruce – rather, Hulk – once they're off the plane; Stark takes off for the heart of the complex while Rogers corrals the heavy hitters to take on the meat of the defenses. Natasha and Barton are tag teaming covert hostage extraction while the squad of SHIELD agents follows behind, apprehending anyone left who still has a pulse.

Eventually they'll play support once the flavor-of-the-week animal-accidents are subdued, and their guns will actually be effective. Then she needs to use her clearance to check up on a few things for Fury. It's a routine mission, no surprises, and her team gets into the bunker without a hiccup.

So of course, all hell breaks loose and Maria finds herself kneeling behind a pillar, shouting at a moronic junior agent to follow the rest of the team and 'get the hell out of here already'. The guy finally gives up trying to play the hero and retreats; there's no more need for cover-fire, and Maria stands up, shielded by concrete, plotting her own retreat.

The concrete she's standing behind abruptly disintegrates and she's knocked clear by the force of it, tiny chunks of rubble embedded in her face as she takes a few bounces along the ground. When she comes to a complete stop, she can't lift her head, and she can't feel her legs.

That stupid moronic agent was going to get murdered when she wakes up…

"What do you mean, something happened?"

Clint's voice is indignant, and Bruce looks up with a frown. The mission was complete and they were on their way back to base – everyone but him and Natasha have scrapes and bruises. They're on a SHIELD bird this time, so Bruce has an orange shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The young medic had been adamant, and she was sweet, so Bruce didn't want to explain that he didn't need it.

"Second wave attack. Most of SHIELD got clear, regrouped, and countered – the enemy scattered. The only one not accounted for is Deputy Director Hill.

Bruce is up out of his seat, the shock blanket left discarded on the bench.

"Do you need backup?" Tony asks, and there's a pause as Steve thinks – he stayed behind to help, but it sounds like they all should've lingered.

"No. They rabbited, and we won't have the resources we need to find them right now. We need to get back to base, start from there. We're heading out soon."

"We need to go back," Bruce says, finding himself surprisingly close to the console, and everyone turns to look at him. The scrutiny is puzzling for only a moment, until he realizes that no one knows.

"Dr. Banner, please," the medic says, and she's gotten the blanket, and she's holding it out at him. Bruce ignores her.

Tony comes forward, hands at his sides, "And do what? Bruce, you heard Cap. There's nothing we can do."

Bruce shakes his head, scanning their faces for support. Natasha, maybe, but it's not enough.

"Please, sir," the medic repeats and Bruce takes a deep breath. Presses his teeth together and forces the tension out of his arms. "Sir?" the girl insists meekly, and Bruce reaches out to take the blanket with perfect control, but he doesn't put it on.

That seems to be enough, because she retreats, countering Tony who comes a little closer. "We're going after her," he promises, earnest in his intent but not in understanding; Tony doesn't get it. Tony's placating him, telling him what he's pretty sure he wants to hear so there won't be Avenger-sized holes through the hull of the bird.

Bruce withdraws to his seat, the stupid blanket pooled in his lap.

At least he can worry all he wants now.

When Maria wakes up she's on a bed. That is, if a flat surface with the minimal amount of padding constituted a bed. It's no surprise that she's restrained, and the IV bag slung high above her isn't a surprise either, given the way her entire body aches.

The feeling's returned to her legs and she does a quick once-over, flexing her toes and exercising small movement in each muscle. Some of them hurt like hell, but they're all there. They're all working. Good.

One eye is nearly swollen shut; it's easier to keep them closed so she does.

They were retreating; she'd been laying down cover fire. Then… the pillar exploded. But what had caused that? There hadn't been a weapon large enough at any of the appropriate angles. Anything with a missile-like force would have killed her. The blast had been concentrated on the pillar, had disintegrated the majority of it, and the lack of projectiles saved her.

Well. If she manages to make it out of here, that is.

There're a few different weapons and bombs she can think of that mimic that particular force pattern, and none of them bode well for her.

A door opens somewhere to the left of her head and she squints one-eye'd against the light. Disinterested eyes look down at her, making notes on a clipboard. It's the first time she registers the soft beeping that accompanies her pulse, and she's worried she hadn't noticed before. The woman doesn't say anything, so Maria doesn't either.

The worst of the aches are checked, noted. The IV bag gets swapped out with something different, and Maria's lips press into a hard line as mustard-colored liquid drips down through the line.

Mind over matter, she tells herself, but when has that ever worked out lately?

"Deputy Director Hill."

"Dr. Banner."

"Bruce, please."

"Maria, then."

Bruce smiles at her, at the edge of teasing, and Maria's pleasantly surprised she still doesn't mind. It's a game they play, one of the many, and her hand brushes the back of his as she walks towards the wet bar.

It started at one of Stark's parties, idle conversation in the face of much to do about nothing. Then it bled over to the carrier, after briefings, and in the halls. Eventually, to Bruce knocking on her door with a cup of coffee and a factoid; then Maria delivering this or that to his lab, and lingering until he suggested a meal break.

'At the party' becomes 'after the party' one night, Bruce offering to see her home and Maria accepting it without prejudice or offense.

And Bruce was anything but insulting, quiet and quick, confident to match her and yet humble enough to walk the line. Patient enough to offer a suggestion, then back off and wait until Maria accepted and offered a counter. Bruce was always careful to weigh and consider, as if every step in their growing intimacy was a ticking time bomb that needed to be diffused first.

In a way, Maria supposed, it was.

'After the party' leads to a nightcap in her apartment, the last of a modest few drinks for Maria, and the first for Bruce.

"I should go," Bruce says, the amber liquid now gone from his glass, drained in the slow and steady way he approached most things. This time, it's served well to draw out their time together.

Maria nods, twisting on the couch to face him, tucking her legs under her and letting her arm drape across the backrest. It was true. He could go.

But maybe he could stay, too.

Bruce stares out into the room thoughtfully as he leans back against her hand, leaving her fingers trapped at the nape of his neck. Slowly, deliberately, she shifts them, pushing them into the mussed hair curled there. She runs her fingers through his hair in a small steady sweep, then comes back to do it again, her thumb brushing along the flat of his neck.

After the first few times, after it's undeniably, irrefutably not an accident, he cants his head slightly to look at her, the question at the tip of his tongue, the cautious hope in his eyes.

Maria tilts her head in response, a playful, sly smile daring him to react.

Bruce turns, his head twisting in her hand to face her; he presses his lips against the soft skin just above her wrist, leaving the barest of kisses there. "Yeah?" he asks quietly, leaning into her palm. Instead of answering she tugs him closer, and that's all the push they need to start falling.

"What's the situation like?" Tony demands, throwing his weight around like this is the boardroom and not control central of SHIELD's 'Locate and Retrieve Maria Hill' operation. Bruce appreciates the effort, appreciates the show of solidarity and support, but fears it won't be as effective as Tony assumes.

Fury doesn't even look at them as he says, "SHIELD agents only. Get out of the damn room, Stark."

After Tony leaves the room in a whirlwind of threats, Fury turns to Bruce, who had lingered by the bank of hard drives in the hopes his presence would be overlooked. It's clearly not working, the way the entire room stays tense and uneasy; Fury's face is uncharacteristically soft when he addresses Bruce,

"We're doing everything we can. If she's still alive, we'll get her back. If she's not… we'll still get her back."

It's more reassuring than it ought to be.

Hanging around SHIELD without Maria as a buffer gives him the willies. For a while he keeps to Maria's office; the camera blinks steady red each time he looks up, but no one comes to escort him out. Whether from fear, or a lack of current shits given, he's not sure.

It's impossible to find comfort on the couch knowing she won't be coming through the door, and Natasha finally comes to haul him out a couple hours later.

"Tony set up a live link at the tower, and you're not going to be any help finding her from here."

A day later, and Bruce has lost faith entirely.

SHIELD's chasing down false leads that go from Nebraska to Connecticut; the leads coming from the Tower's side of things aren't as obliviously optimistic, but they're just as nonexistent.

Bruce buries himself in old records and databases, working with Tony straight through the night.

The first time might have been a stroke of luck and the manifestation of pent up need and frustration – but the seventh and tenth are epic electrical storms of passion and desire. The twelfth is cool and collected, a calm, defined line through an otherwise chaotic painting. The fifteenth a little messy and awkward, and during the eighteenth, Steve nearly walks in on them, so they press into each other shock-still until he passes - eighteen-b, as a result, is filled with manic grins and inappropriate giggling.

Bruce eventually loses track as each new encounter joins the jumble of experiences; he could count them back if he was pressed, but it's nicer to remember them as a whole, a unit, well supported with a full structure of evidence. He can still feel a flare of excitement each time their eyes meet across a room full of people - and every time their bodies press together in an empty one.

"I should get back," he tells her, and they lie squished on the couch, two adults who have no business being squished on a couch.

Maria hums, tracing an invisible pattern against the line of his side. He's not ticklish, but he can occasionally feel the burst of a nerve cluster; she likes to push, to play, to see how light her touch can get, what area she can cover before he fidgets.

He shifts slightly, adjusting his head on the arm of the couch – the pillows had been recklessly discarded in a bid for more space, but now he misses them sorely. "The co-op with SHIELD. How much routine does the package fail to highlight?"

"Reynolds wrote up the details," she answers idly; her knee falls between his thighs as she shifts, and he hooks the freed leg around hers. "I miss Coulson's subtle creativity with the written sentence, but Reynolds is competent. Routine should be routine."

Her cropped black hair is in disarray, made apparent when she shifts up to look at him, her head framed by the light. Bruce starts running his fingers through it, smoothing it out, but Maria ducks out from under them with a frown and an order:

"Don't."

"What?" he asks, occupying his fingers instead with the smooth curve of her shoulders.

Maria's lips press together as she studies him; her eyes scan his face, cataloguing the features and determining the subtext he's sure he didn't mean. "Worry," she finally answers, the word knotted and dreadful, like a hangman's noose.

His fingers stop, palm grounding him to her, anchoring the connection of their bodies, cementing the press of her flesh against his. There's no point denying it. Bruce sometimes worries like it's a daily necessity, a quota he needs to fill before the sun goes down. And comes up. And becomes eclipsed.

"Stop," she tells him, shimmying up; her knee presses between his leg and he groans softly at the pressure. "No worrying. I forbid it."

The edge to her voice is cut with playfulness, the impossibility subverted by amusement. "Okay," he says, holding back a laugh, and she dips her head to nip at his neck with a huff.

"Okay," he says a little more agreeably, hands roaming the span of her back, checking his fingers so they don't dig in when he feels her change the pressure.

Maria catches his skin between her teeth and tugs, and he presses his head back, pushing his hips up against her. "Okay," he gives in breathlessly, and he gladly gives her a kiss when she comes looking for it.

"Good," she says smugly as she breaks away, and his eyes narrow, sensing some unfair play in the field.

He rolls them off the couch in one swift move as payback, moving with the momentum until he's straddling her; the way Maria will never admit to shrieking, she's not expecting it at all.

"Portland," Bruce realizes, comparing the schematics in front of him. Hydra has her, for what they don't know – there were a few plans discovered at the base where Maria got taken, a smattering of intel from prisoners that suggested what they'd been trying to do.

Narrowing the list of known Hydra bases had been tedious work, and Bruce is halfway through the list when the specs for a base in Portland start lining up.

Tony looks over, notices an anomaly, and shakes his head, "No good connections to a waterway. Next," he dismisses as he swipes the holo away, but Bruce brings it back with a gesture,

"No, listen. The waterway's not an issue; they had time to evacuate with a prototype. They don't have to build a new one; waterway was only essential for non-human testing."

One of the best things about working with Tony is that Bruce rarely has to vocalize the natural conclusion of any give train of thought. "You think they're going to start testing on her."

"I think we need to get to Portland."

They've decided she's stable enough to move – or they don't care, and have moved her anyway. Initial once-over aside, she's starting to think there may have been some kind of injury that isn't apparent or physical.

Maria doesn't know much about ruptured veins or internal bleeding, but there's a sense she may get intimately familiar with them. A sense that begins with an uncomfortable pressure in her abdomen and gets progressively worse as time goes on.

How much time she's not sure, nor how long it's been that she's been here. The dirt has dried and caked, flaked off to leave dark smudges on her skin. There's concrete dust still embedded in the clothing that she can see, and she feels weak and light-headed.

They've strapped her to an upright chair; a chair made for experimentation, but the equipment she's seen so far is about forty years out of date. Everything creaks and shifts; there's a loose nail somewhere that's keeping the strap around her left wrist down. Working it free is arduous and slightly painful; Maria paces herself, careful not to overexert her aching muscles. Slow and steady, that's her game right now.

They land that evening, the cover of darkness undermined by the bright, sharp glow of Tony's suit. "Fine," Tony grumbles after Natasha deconstructs each reason his immediate participation is more hindrance than help, "I'll stay up high."

As he zooms off Steve pulls his gloves on. "Banner, you're with Romanov and Barton. Thor and I will draw them out and create some hide-and-seek chaos; you guys find Hill and get her the hell of there. Hopefully we're not too late," he finishes grimly – Bruce might have slightly exaggerated the working theory of what Hydra wanted with Maria. But he wasn't going to be denied a spot on the extraction team – it was risky, but he'd rather be on hand to deal with a threat than stuck in the jet wringing his hands uselessly.

"East entrance on the blueprints gives us the best chance of getting in," Natasha picks up, while Steve and Thor break off to discuss the new smash-shield combos they've been practicing. "They'll have three guards stationed at the door, a roaming patrol and camera's. Stark disables the camera's, and we go in after Cap and Thor start making some noise to hopefully draw the bulk of them out. The name of the game isn't so much stealth as it is controlled exposure."

"Dr. Banner," Natasha adds sharply, efficient and clipped and wholly focused on the mission. She angles her body to play at privacy, but he's not buying Clint's oblivious arrow-stroking. "Keep yourself in check. You won't be helping anything if you jump the gun."

"I won't," he tells her; for this, he knows he won't.

The nail on the wrist cuff has come loose enough that all it'll take is a good yank to come out clean, and Maria leaves it there and waits. The resulting raw skin seeps blood for a few minutes, mostly unseen under the cuff, and she hopes it won't start dribbling to the floor and give her away.

It takes a while for someone to come into the room, and Maria watches as the door open, notes the dull glint of an assault rifle just outside. One guard outside the door, maybe two. There's a camera inside the room and likely out in the hallway as well. The key in this situation is to disappear before they send in the real artillery.

The woman who comes in isn't armed, and she's different than the nurse who'd tended to Maria earlier. There's a frown on her shrewd, mouse-like face, winged glasses making her look like some kind of failed attempt at a fashionable librarian. The clipboard in her hands is held tightly against her chest, but the pose is somehow more aggressive than it is defensive.

"Maria Hill."

Her voice is nasally, high in register. She consults the clipboard but makes the mistake of coming too close – entirely too close. Maria takes great pleasure in ripping the cuff off the chair and connecting fist to face, working the other cuff free as she woman crumples to the ground.

The woman will be out in a while, and Hill hugs the wall next to the door as it opens – the guard who comes through is a little harder to handle, a burly, six-foot man with a foundation in street fight. He makes the mistake of underestimating her, and she finds she doesn't have to play it up, something in her stomach cramping and panging horribly with each movement.

It doesn't take long to find an opening to exploit, and she disables the man, taking his gun, curling into her stomach and trying to take some pressure off whatever's tearing her apart from the inside.

There is no second guard and Maria looks up as the warning bells start ringing – now she's got out of here. The pain is easier to ignore when she's moving, and she focuses on getting down the hallway, using the gun as a walking prop more often than not.

Natasha rounds the corner to mutual surprise, and she blinks at the assassin before catching a glimpse of Banner further back – at which point her body betrays her entirely, and she collapses.

When Maria opens her eyes the pain in her stomach has shifted from debilitating iron to tolerable heat; the second thing she notices is Bruce's hand gently hooked around her fingers. The line of his arm traces back to his shoulder, which is slumped against the plastic SHIELD chair, his head tipping into the opposite shoulder – it looks uncomfortable. A wrap of white bandage covers her wrist – from the cuffs, that she remembers – and she gently pulls her hand out from under his.

Beeping from the heart rate monitor clashes with the sound of a clock ticking, and the sound grates against her ears.

The last thing she remembers… running (limping) down a hallway, coming up on Romanov. Bruce stepping out from around the corner behind her, the feeling of relief at the sight of him, and…

Maria's pulse raises slightly, the intervals of beeps shortening to match.

Bruce stirs, and Maria takes the few moments she has left to catalogue her wounds. Pain in the wrist, abdomen, leg; her eye isn't swollen any more but her head is pounding dully, evidence of painkillers in whatever IV she's got going.

With a sharp inhale and a slight start, Bruce's hands come to rub against his eyes, squeezing his face together as he blinks. His glasses lie on the table, and Maria's glad he had the forethought to take them off.

He's getting himself together, unaware of her consciousness, and she lays her head back, content and amused to simply watch him.

His yawn is badly contained, and Maria wonders how long he's been here. How long she's been here. Finally, he shifts forward, looking at her face, surprised when he sees her looking right back.

"Hi," he says gently, the word hushed like she might have some kind of sensitivity to sound. The tender affection he has for her is apparent and he inches forward even more, laying his elbows delicately on the bedspread.

Maria manages a weak grin. "Hey."

"How long have you been awake?" he asks; there's a hint of a reprimand, a regret that she hadn't woken him up. Or that he hadn't woken up when she did.

Maria shrugs, and then regrets the movement instantly, "Jesus," she says instead, lifting the edge of the bed sheet to get to her stomach, "What the hell did they do?"

Bruce reaches out to stop her hand, keeping hold of it when she releases the sheet. "You had surgery. They gave you a good slice right next to your hip to stop the bleeding. Injury from the initial blast, it's a miracle it lasted as long as it did before it ruptured." There's a gratefulness there that Maria can identify with, along with a level of uncertainty and worry she can't.

"I'm fine," she tells him, squeezing his fingers, her other hand tracing along her hip, trying to find the incision.

Bruce takes her fingers and redirects them, placing them gently over the heat a few inches shy of her hip. Maria can feel the stitches bumping up through the thin layers of fabric when she traces the spot, Bruce's hand covering hers lightly.

When she looks up he's frowning at spots on her face – cuts, from the blast. "You weren't fine," he says quietly, his lips press together and his stare shifts down to their hands somberly; he's worried, but she's fine now. It's a morbid look on him, this mixture of solemnity and concern, and she doesn't like it.

Maria pulls him towards her by their linked hands since she can't manage to sit up quite yet – and cranes her neck so she can reach him, place a gently kiss against his chapped lips. "You need to hydrate," she teases him, sleepiness edging into her body despite being awake for mere minutes.

"You need to not get kidnapped."

"It was barely a kidnapping," she pitches back, and he sits on the bed next to her, still leaning over, inches from her face, an arm crossing over her to keep him propped up.

Bruce tch's, fingers feathering a tender spot on her face, "Whatever it was, I don't like it."

"I thought it was fun," she teases, and he frowns at her – apparently their dark humor doesn't extend to situations still this fresh, but she can't be bothered to care.

A yawn erupts from nowhere, and when she opens her eyes Bruce is smiling down at her with warmth; it's so damn earnest it makes her uncomfortable, and she rolls her eyes at him. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," he answers, grinning that smug, knowing grin of his.

Another yawn, and she feels herself fading fast – Bruce places a kiss on her forehead, and she remembers where they are.

"Does everyone- "

"I think it's safe to say our cover's blown, at this point," he answers, pulling her hand up against his mouth – he doesn't kiss it, just keeps it close, his chin and lips hovering against it.

The gesture relaxes her, and she doesn't have the strength to pull away even if she wanted to. "You worried, didn't you? That's why they know." It's a soft accusation, one without heat, and she closes her eyes to Bruce saying,

"Can't say I regret it."