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Chapter Text

Bruce Banner is not a medical doctor.

Granted, he has seven various advanced degrees—ranging in topics from radio and nuclear physics to biochemistry—and he is widely considered one of the brightest minds of his time, but aside from basic first aid, he has no formal medical training. He’s just not that kind of doctor.

Except for when he needs to be.

X

“Dr. Banner, Boss is requesting your presence in his private lab.”

Bruce is standing at the bathroom sink when FRIDAY’s voice issues over the speakers. He spits his mouthful of toothpaste out before glancing up. “Right now?” he asks as he rinses his toothbrush. “Does he have any idea what time it is?”

There’s a brief pause. “I have just informed him of the time,” the AI replies. “He is, however, insistent.”

Bruce sighs, turning off the faucet. So much for his plans to head off to bed. He exits his quarters and takes the elevator up to Tony’s floor.

As he enters the lab, he’s expecting to find Tony engrossed in his latest project. Instead, he discovers the man sitting reclined in a chair in the back corner of the lab. His shirt is removed and he has an overall ill look to him—pale, sweaty, and slightly breathless as he taps something into the Starkpad on his lap.

Bruce is suddenly feeling much more alert. “Tony? Are you alright?” he asks with a frown, quickly closing the distance between them.

Tony glances up from the screen. “Oh good, you’re here,” he says. Aside from the breathlessness, his tone is much more casual than Bruce would have expected. With a shaky hand, he gestures at his arc reactor. “Something’s a little… off.”

“Define ‘off’,” Bruce requests, looking his friend over in concern.

“Not sure yet.” Tony tilts his head sideways in the direction of the portable heart monitor standing nearby. “Was just about to hook that baby up, but then, y'know… had to sit.”

Bruce wheels the monitor closer to the chair and starts attaching the wires to Tony’s chest. As soon as it’s connected, the monitor starts beeping alarmingly.

Rolling his eyes, Tony reaches over to press a button on the machine. The sound instantly stops.

Bruce blinks at him. “Did you just mute your heart monitor?”

“We can still see it,” Tony retorts, pointing up at the screen. The lines on the graph are moving in a concerning pattern of spikes and plateaus. “Don’t need to go deaf too.”  

Tony tilts the Starkpad in his direction and Bruce skims the data that FRIDAY has pulled from the arc reactor. “Why didn’t you just go to Medical?” Bruce questions.

“Don’t need Medical,” Tony grunts as he clips an oximeter onto his fingertip. “I’ve got you.”

Bruce rolls his eyes. This isn’t the first time Tony’s called him for help with the device, but the other times were just routine maintenance. “You know I’m not that kind of doctor, right?”

Tony shrugs. “Close enough.”

Bruce points at the graph. “This is showing cardiac dysrhythmia and hypotension, plus your O2 stats are in the mid-eighties. You need Medical.”

“See?” Tony smirks at him. “That’s something only a real doctor would know.” He points at some numbers in the corner of the screen of the Starkpad. “Look, I’m pretty sure the issue is a corroded wire in the reactor’s core. We just need to switch it out.”

Picking up the Starkpad, Bruce peers closer at the screen. He can see a digital 3D model of the device's core rotating in the center, one area glowing red. “Just because I can read a cardiogram doesn’t mean I’m qualified to help with this."

“Well, neither is Medical,” Tony retorts. “They aren’t exactly trained in repairing malfunctioning electromagnets.”

“No, but they are significantly more skilled in dealing with heart problems,” Bruce points out. “I’m pretty sure my CPR certification expired like three years ago.”

Tony waves a hand dismissively at him. “It hasn’t changed that much. Thirty compressions, two breaths, Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees, yada, yada…”

“I’m really not comfortable with—”

“Um, hold that thought,” Tony grunts, struggling to sit up straighter. His face suddenly takes on an ashen color and Bruce can see beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

“What is it?” Bruce questions.

Tony swallows hard. “Just… nauseous,” he breathes out, his face screwing up in obvious discomfort.

“Oh, um, okay hang on.” Bruce’s eyes dart around the room, searching for some kind of receptacle.  

Tony is swallowing convulsively now. “Bruce…” he warns.

Bruce spies a bowl of screws on the table and dumps them out before thrusting the empty container under Tony’s chin.

“Aw, I just sorted those...” Tony complains.

They sit there for a few minutes, Bruce holding the bowl as Tony breathes deeply, occasionally spitting out strings of saliva but not quite throwing up.

Bruce’s level of concern is quickly increasing and he’s watching the monitors nervously. “Now are you ready to go to Medical?” he asks.

“Nah… think ‘m okay,” Tony breathes out, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. He closes his eyes and leans back against the chair. His hand fumbles for the Starkpad again and he tilts it back up at his face, opening one eye to squint at the display. “Just need to change the wire.”

Bruce hesitates; he knows how much his friend despises having the SHIELD doctors check him over, especially when the reactor is involved. “You have the replacement wire here?”

Tony nods. “There’s a metal box on the shelf behind you. Should be a couple spares in there.”

Bruce moves over to the shelf and retrieves the box. “And you’re sure this is safe?”

Tony huffs out a humorless laugh. “Well, I don’t think anything is really safe these days,” he says flippantly. At Bruce’s unamused look, he quickly sobers. “Listen, I just need help changing out a wire. I’ll talk you through the whole thing.”

Bruce heaves out another sigh, but both of them already know Tony’s won. “Alright, fine. But just this once.”

After a brief discussion of the logistics, Bruce unmutes the monitor and positions himself beside Tony, the parts he needs spread out on the workstation beside him.

Tony smiles and gives him an encouraging thumbs up. “You got this, buddy.”

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Bruce clasps the reactor in his fingers and carefully twists to remove it from the casing. As he pulls it out of Tony’s chest, the other man grunts sharply.

“Tony?” Bruce asks worriedly.

“Fine,” Tony gasps out as the monitor’s beeping increases. “Let’s just, uh”—he gasps again—“let’s just hurry.”

Following Tony’s muttered instructions, Bruce uses pliers to remove the corroded wire from the reactor and switch in a new one. He’s going as fast as he can, but it’s obvious that every second the reactor is outside of Tony’s chest, the man’s condition is deteriorating. Sweat is dripping down Tony’s face and neck and his breaths are coming out quick and shallow.

“Almost done, just a couple more seconds,” Bruce assures as he fiddles with the wire.

“No rush,” Tony gasps back. He closes his eyes as his face drains even further of color. “T-Take your time.”

Hurriedly Bruce finishes attaching the wires and replaces the device in his friend’s chest, breathing out an immense sigh of relief as he does so. “Done!” he declares.

However, nothing immediately improves. The machine continues to beep just as erratically as ever and Tony is still gasping out shallow breaths and looks to be teetering on the verge of unconsciousness.

A cold wave of dread pools in Bruce’s stomach. “Tony?” he asks, tapping his friend’s cheek. “Hey, you okay? Did something go wrong?”

The only response he gets is Tony’s eyes rolling back in his head and one continuous loud beep from the monitor.

Bruce swears loudly. “FRIDAY, call Medical!” he exclaims, grabbing Tony under the arms and hauling him out of the chair and down to the floor. “Get someone down here!”

“Medical staff has been alerted,” FRIDAY reports. “Please stand by. In the meantime, be aware that Boss keeps a portable defibrillator on the wall near the lab’s entrance.”

Over the sound of the alarm, Bruce races over and grabs the AED. His hands are trembling as he yanks the case open and fumbles with the device inside, not sure if he can even safely use it, given Tony’s arc reactor.

Kneeling down on the ground, he flips on the machine and the automated voice inside starts droning out instructions. He’s just getting ready to stick one of the adhesive shock pads to Tony’s chest when the man’s eyes suddenly fly back open and he jolts up, gasping in a breath.

“Tony!” Bruce yelps. “Are you okay? What the hell was that?”

“Sorry,” Tony chokes out between gasps. “Just… takes a second… to recharge… the capacitor.”

After a few moments, the beeping of the monitor slows back to a steady rhythm and Tony’s breaths even out. Satisfied that his friend is no longer actively dying, Bruce lets out a heavy sigh and shifts around to a seated position on the floor, begrudgingly telling FRIDAY to cancel the medical team.

“Can’t believe you forgot to mention it needed to recharge,” Bruce grumbles.

Tony is sitting up and peeling the heart monitor stickers off his chest now, looking almost completely back to normal. “Hey, relax,” he says, using his free hand to pat Bruce on the shoulder. “You did great.”

“You’re an ass, Tony,” Bruce groans, covering his face with his hands. “Never again.”

Chapter Text

“Hey Bruce? Little help?”

Bruce glances up from the blood samples he’s been analyzing to see Tony guiding a very ill-looking Peter into the compound’s Medbay. The kid is fully clad in his Spider-Man suit—apart from his mask, which Tony has clutched in one hand—and he’s leaning heavily on his mentor for support.

“What happened?” Bruce asks, instantly moving over to intercept Peter. The boy’s face is flushed bright red, but he doesn’t seem to be sweating at all, which is odd given the heat pouring off of him. The last time Bruce saw Peter this out of it, the kid had been sleepwalking through the compound on day three of having the flu.

“Got an alert from Karen while he was out on patrol, so I went to pick him up. Pretty sure it’s heatstroke,” Tony explains, and Bruce supposes that makes sense. It’s late August and the temperature outside has been pushing 100 degrees all day.

Bruce loops an arm around Peter’s waist, taking some of his weight. “This is pretty bad timing,” he admits, glancing back at the empty Medbay. “The on-call doctor just went out for lunch—she won’t be back for another half hour.”

“You’re a doctor,” Tony grunts as they guide Peter over to lay on one of the beds. Bruce finds it concerning that the kid doesn’t give any sort of response to this besides a quiet moan when they plop him down. “You’re like, seven doctors rolled into one.”

“I’m a scientist, Tony,” Bruce argues. “We’ve been over this.”

“Details, details…” Tony presses the spider insignia on the front of the suit. The material loosens, revealing Peter’s upper body to be just as overheated and red as his face. “FRI, can we get a read on Peter’s temp?” Tony asks.

“Peter’s body temperature is currently sitting at 104.6 degrees Fahrenheit,” FRIDAY reports.

“Jeez...” Bruce mutters. “I thought you said the suit had built-in climate control.”

“It does,” Tony says as the two men start stripping Peter down to his boxers. “But according to Karen, the thermoregulator was malfunctioning and the AC got turned off. He must not have noticed until it was too late.”

Peter lets out an incoherent moan as Bruce presses two fingers to the side of his neck. His pulse is rapid and a little thready. “We need to lower his temperature,” Bruce decides, glancing back at Tony. “Can you find some ice packs?”

“Yep, on it,” Tony says, hurrying over to the Medbay’s freezer.

While Tony is searching, Bruce has FRIDAY blast the air conditioning in the room and starts fanning the kid with a clipboard. He might not be an actual doctor, but he knows enough science to know they need to act quickly—with Peter’s body’s lack of thermoregulation, heatstroke could easily become life-threatening.

Tony returns a moment later, his arms laden down with ice packs and the two distribute these around Peter’s armpits, neck, and groin. Peter gives no response to this besides a small whine.

“That should help cool him down,” Bruce says, pressing the last ice pack to the kid’s feverish forehead.

Peter groans and bends one leg up to clutch at his calf. “Hurts…” he moans.

“Your leg hurts?” Tony asks with a frown.

Bruce carefully touches the kid’s calf and can instantly feel that the muscles are tightly knotted. Peter cries out and tears spring to his eyes, causing Bruce to wince in sympathy.

“What is it?” Tony asks worriedly.

“Muscle cramps,” Bruce explains. Peter is quietly crying now, but whether from the pain or disorientation, he can’t tell. “His electrolytes are too low.”

“Jesus,” Tony mutters. He rubs the kid’s shoulder consolingly. “I can get him some Gatorade?” he suggests.

Bruce frowns at the overheated kid. “I don’t know if he’ll be able to keep it down,” he says. “What he really needs is an IV.”

“That, we definitely have,” Tony says, hopping up and moving over to the supply cabinets.

Bruce hesitates, glancing down at his watch. There’s still a good twenty minutes before the on-call doctor is expected back at the compound. He’s out of his element here—he can count on one hand the number of times he’s actually placed an IV. But Peter looks so miserable, curled up on himself and crying quietly. He has to try.

Tony returns with an IV kit and a couple bags of fluids. He sets the items down on a small metal cart and wheels it back over to Peter’s bedside before clapping Bruce on the back. “Alright, Doc, have at it,” he says encouragingly.

Bruce scans Peter’s arms, looking for a good vein. He prods at a few, frowning at how difficult they are to see given Peter’s obvious dehydration. He’ll just have to go for it.

After slipping on some gloves, he gently takes one of the kid’s limp arms and starts swabbing the back of Peter’s hand down with disinfectant. “Hey Peter?” he asks, tapping the side of the boy’s wrist. “Can you make a fist for me?”

Peter moans in response but his hand remains limp.

Bruce sighs; this isn’t going to be fun.

He uncaps the needle and positions it over the most promising-looking vein. “Okay, sharp pinch,” he warns, not even fully sure Peter can hear him.

The first attempt is a miss and he ends up having to poke the needle around beneath the skin as he tries to get it into the shriveled vein. Peter whines and Bruce’s heart clenches.

“Sorry, I’m so sorry, bud,” Bruce rambles while Tony does his best to comfort the kid. “Just hang on, you’re doing great.”

The second attempt isn’t much better, and by the third he’s muttering curses as he gets out a smaller gauge needle to try the other hand. This is significantly harder than he remembers.

Tony raises an eyebrow at the bumbling scientist. “I thought you’ve done this before.”

“Only on myself,” Bruce says as he uncaps the new needle. Post-transformation, he’s often dehydrated, and sometimes an IV helps get him back on track. “This is like, upside down.”

“So then stand behind him, genius!” Tony retorts.

Bruce glares up at him. “Do you want to do it?”

Holding both hands up in front of his chest in surrender, Tony immediately backs down. “Nope, you’re doing great. Just, uh, as you were.”

Finally the needle goes in and Bruce is able to finish hooking up the IV. Once they’re sure the fluids are flowing into Peter, they both relax considerably. Tony perches himself on the edge of Peter’s bed while Bruce sits down on a nearby stool and heaves out a sigh.

After a few minutes, Peter’s condition starts improving. The redness is fading from his skin and he’s breathing much more evenly.

“Hey Underoos, you back with us yet?” Tony asks as he gently runs his fingers through the kid’s hair.

Peter’s eyelids flutter open and he groans. “Mr. St’rk...?” he mumbles. “‘M’thirsty…”

“Okay, hang on,” Tony says, hopping up from the bed. “I’ll go find you something to drink.”

Peter hums in response as Tony heads off to the fridge. His head turns to the side and he seems to register Bruce’s presence for the first time. “Dr. Banner?” he mumbles. “Wha’ ‘appen’d…?”

“Hey Peter,” Bruce greets, placing a hand on the kid’s arm. “You overheated on patrol. Gave us a scare.”

Peter’s face screws up in confusion. “I did? ‘M sorry....”

“It’s alright,” Bruce chuckles as Tony returns with a bottle of Gatorade. “Just glad to see you’re doing better.”

Tony places a straw in the bottle and holds it to Peter’s lips. The kid starts gulping it down greedily.

“Just a couple sips, okay?” Bruce warns. “If you drink it too fast it might—”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because all of a sudden Peter is vomiting first the drink and then his entire breakfast all over Bruce’s lap.

“S’ry, ‘m sorry,” Peter chokes out between gags.

“It’s… uh, it’s fine,” Bruce says with a grimace. Tony pats the kid’s back. “Just, uh, just do what you gotta do.”

So Peter promptly heaves again.

“It’s alright,” Bruce sighs. “Pants never last long around me anyway.”

Chapter Text

Bruce is sitting at the computer desk in the back corner of his lab, sipping green tea as he works on editing his latest scientific journal article. It’s been a quiet Wednesday afternoon thus far, and he’s enjoying the downtime.

But of course, it doesn’t last.

There’s a knock on the door. “Banner?” a familiar voice calls. Bruce glances up from the screen to see that Thor is poking his head into the lab. “Can you spare a moment?”

“Sure, what’s up?” Bruce says, closing the laptop and swiveling the chair around to face the entrance.

Thor opens the door fully now and Bruce catches a glimpse of the god’s right shoulder, in which the hilt of a small sword is firmly lodged.

Bruce instantly jumps to his feet. “Whoa, whoa, what is that?” he demands, moving quickly across the lab over to his friend. Blood is spilling out around the edges of the blade. “Is that a knife?”

“A dagger, actually,” Thor says casually. He strolls further into the lab. “I hoped you might be able to help.”

Bruce’s hands are hovering near the dagger’s handle, but he’s not quite letting himself touch it. He blinks at Thor. “You mean help you walk to Medical...?”

Thor laughs, “You jest! No need to waste the good doctors’ time with such a minor injury! Besides,”—he gives Bruce a hearty clap on the back—“why would I go to another healer when I have you right here?”

“Because I’m not a healer!” Bruce blurts out in frustration. “I’m a scientist. I do science.”

Thor turns his head to gaze down at the injury and balks at it. “Oh come now! ‘Tis only a flesh wound.”

Bruce has had enough. “Oh no no, this is not happening, not today,” he declares. Grabbing Thor’s good elbow, he starts spinning the larger man back around towards the door. “You need actual help—I don’t know how to deal with this. For god’s sake, there is a sword sticking out of your arm!”  

“I suppose you’re right,” Thor says with a frown. Before the doctor can even react, he grasps the handle of the dagger with his opposite hand and yanks the blade out in one quick motion. “Now there’s not,” he grunts.

Bruce stares in horrified disbelief at the blood pouring forth from the wound. “Wh...Why the hell would you do that?”

Thor drops the bloody weapon onto the floor with a clang. “It couldn’t very well stay there, could it?”

Cursing, Bruce grabs a lab coat that’s hanging on a nearby hook and balls the material up before pressing it to the bleeding wound. “How did this even happen? I thought you were taking the day off.”

“I was, and it was a lovely day off,” Thor says brightly. “I went out for a beer with my brother.” He plonks himself down on the nearest chair and heaves out a tired sigh. “Unfortunately, the two of us do not always see eye to eye.”

“Loki stabbed you?”

“No, no, no,” Thor chuckles. “He hurled the dagger. I just happened to be in the way.”

Bruce lets out a scoff, for once grateful to be an only child. He carefully peels back the coat to get another look at the wound and is surprised to see it’s still bleeding just as steadily as before. “Why isn’t your healing factor kicking in?” he asks, re-applying pressure.

“Ah,” Thor says with a knowing nod, “that would be because of the poison.”

Bruce swears he can feel The Other Guy stirring somewhere inside. “Poison?” he demands incredulously. “Now there’s poison too?”

Thor’s brow furrows in concern. “Are you alright? Perhaps you should sit down.”

“I’m not the one who’s just been stabbed and poisoned!” Bruce retorts. Although, as he glances down at his bloody hands, he wonders if the latter is now only a matter of time. Probably should have worn gloves.

“Relax, Banner,” Thor says placatingly. “It’s just a mild toxin Loki uses to coat his blades—throws off my healing. Usually wears off in a few hours.”

Bruce’s head is swimming now. He’s definitely not an expert on the god’s physiology, but at the rate Thor is currently bleeding, he’s pretty sure they’re going to have to find a way to close the wound in the meantime if it really will be a few hours.

He glances over to the opposite wall where the hefty SHIELD regulation first aid kit is affixed and lets out a sigh. “Listen, if you’re really not going to Medical, I’m gonna need some supplies.” Bruce nods to his makeshift bandage. “Can you keep pressure on this?”

Thor reaches up with his free hand and holds the lab coat firmly in place.

Bruce jogs across the lab to the sink and quickly washes the blood from his hands before snagging the medkit and bringing it back over to the table. Popping the metal box open, he starts rifling through the contents and he soon finds gloves, antiseptic, a pair of suture scissors, and a small package containing silk thread and a needle.

Thor sits beside him, waiting patiently, as Bruce spreads the supplies out on the workstation before finally turning his attention back towards the wound.

That’s when Bruce realizes he hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing.

“Uh…” He stands there watching the blood seeping out from around the coat. “Actually, hold on a second.”

“No hurry,” Thor assures. “This is nothing compared to the time Balder accidentally put a spear through my spleen.”

Bruce opens his mouth to say something, but then immediately closes it again.

Moving back over to his desk, he grabs his laptop and opens a web browser before typing ‘how to give someone stitches’ into the search bar.

The first two hits are cautionary articles advising amateurs to not attempt this and instead to seek professional medical care. These he promptly ignores. The next is a WikiHow article with an array of poorly drawn pictures illustrating the process. He gives that a skim and it seems credible enough at first, but when the article suggests using fishing line as thread, he closes the tab.

After a few more equally unhelpful articles, he abandons the search and ends up typing ‘stitches’ into YouTube instead. He clicks the first thumbnail that pops up—a solid black screen with the word “Stitches” in the center.

It begins with a thirty second ad about skin care, which they sit through patiently. Then a familiar tune begins playing from the laptop’s speakers and Bruce instantly groans.

Thor smiles broadly. “Oh, is this your wound healing song?” he asks.

Bruce blinks at him. “Our what?”

“The healers on Asgard sing specific ballads for various ailments, calling upon the ancient healing magic of our ancestors. There is a particularly effective one for venomous snake bites,” Thor explains. “I thought this might be similar.”

Bruce stares at him blankly. “This is a lyric video for ‘Stitches’ by Shawn Mendes.”

“Hm, inspiring,” Thor says with a nod.

Bruce navigates back to the search bar and types ‘sutures’ in instead. The song plays in the background as he scrolls through the list of options, eventually settling on a med student practicing sutures on a banana.

He fast-forwards through the beginning of the video—in which the student shows off each of the required supplies by holding them one-by-one against her open palm while royalty-free music plays in the background—and resumes it again once she starts actually describing the process.

“Okay, the first step is to inject the lidocaine,” the student explains, inserting a hypodermic needle full of anesthetic into the banana’s flesh.

“Crap,” Bruce mutters, rustling through the contents of the box in front of him. “I don’t think this kit has any lidocaine. I can’t numb it.”

“No matter,” Thor says almost cheerily. “A side effect of this toxin is that I cannot feel my arm at the moment.” He moves his jaw around a bit. “Also my tongue is tingling.”

Bruce frowns. “What do you mean your tongue is—oh never mind,” he cuts himself off. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Following along with the video, the scientist threads the needle and starts in. It’s actually a fairly straightforward process, with the trickiest part being tying off the ends of the sutures.

He ends up doing thirteen stitches in total. They’re all of varying lengths and angles and vaguely remind him of Frankenstein’s monster, but they seem sturdy enough and Thor is beaming at them.

As the med student reminds her viewers to ‘smash like and leave a comment below’, Bruce removes his bloody gloves and nods towards his work. “I guess they’ll have to do.”

“Banner, these are magnificent!” Thor says sincerely, looking down to gaze at the ugly line of stitches in his shoulder. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated. I have just one question.”

Bruce heaves out another sigh. “Shoot.”

“I’m confused about the connection between lack of kisses and need of stitches,” Thor says with a perplexed look. “Whatever did this Mendes fellow mean?”

Chapter Text

When the sound of his ringtone pulls Bruce from his sleep at 4:30 in the morning, he doesn’t even bother to check the caller ID. He just groans and swipes at the screen before pressing the device to his ear.

“Tony, this had better be good,” he grumbles in greeting.

“Not Tony,” Natasha’s clipped voice comes back through the phone. “It’s Clint. He’s sick.”

That gets Bruce’s attention. He immediately sits up in bed and fumbles around on the nightstand for his glasses. Last he heard, the two agents were on a three-week assignment somewhere in South America. “What do you mean he’s sick?” he asks. “Where are you?”

“Our exact location is classified,” Natasha informs. “But assume a seedy Bolivian motel with zero internet access. And I mean he’s sick, Bruce. Started around six hours ago—cramps, nausea, vomiting, fever… whole nine yards. As of the last hour, the newest development is bloody diarrhea.”

Bruce grimaces at the unwanted mental images. “Wow, that’s, uh… wow. That sounds pretty serious.” He rubs at his forehead with one hand. “But shouldn’t you be calling a doctor about this?”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Natasha replies.

He rolls his eyes. “I mean a real doctor. Doesn’t SHIELD have a hotline for this kind of stuff?”

“Are you kidding?” she scoffs at him. “If I contact one of the SHIELD doctors, they’ll tattle to Fury, and we’ll just end up with a medevac. The whole mission will be blown. You have no idea the amount of work that went into setting this up.”

“But if he needs an evac, you need to get him an evac,” Bruce protests. God, is he the only person on this team with self-preservation instincts?

“That’s the thing—we’re not sure he does. He keeps saying it’s just a stomach bug, like his kids had a few weeks ago.”

Bruce lets out a deep sigh. “I’m not really sure what you want me to do here, Nat.”

“Just figure out if he’s dying or not,” she says. “If he is, I’ll call Medical.”

“And if he’s not?”

“Hang on—I’ll put him on.”

There’s some rustling over the line and he can make out the muffled sounds of someone retching and liquid splashing, followed by heavy breathing.

Bruce winces. “Clint?” he asks hesitantly. “How, uh, how you doing?”

Clint’s voice comes back sounding like death itself. “Listen, Banner,” he croaks out. “I don’t care if I have to do it in a fucking diaper,” he gasps, “I’m finishing the goddamn mission.”

(Yep, Bruce is now certain he’s the only person on the team with self-preservation instincts.)

He hears Clint start retching again and Natasha takes the phone back. “See what I mean?”

“I’m still not sure why you’re calling me though,” Bruce tries again to protest. “Wouldn’t someone like Cho be a better option here?”

“Under SHIELD regulations, she’s obligated to report any medical information that she feels might jeopardize the mission,” Natasha explains. “You, however, are not.”

“So basically, you want me because I’m not a doctor?”

“You’re the most qualified unqualified person we could think of.”

“Gee, thanks,” he deadpans.

He hears the sound of a door shutting followed by quick, soft footsteps. When Natasha speaks again, her voice no longer has the same slight echo to it that it did in the bathroom. “Listen, I don’t like this situation any more than you do,” she says in a low voice, “but Clint has been tracking this arms dealing ring for the better part of a year, and we’re finally about to take down the leader. If you convince me that my partner truly needs an evac, I will not hesitate to get him the goddamn evac, but that needs to be a last resort, understood?”

Bruce runs a hand through his hair and exhales heavily. “Alright, alright, fine,” he gives in. “I’ll see what I can do.”

As he hears Nat move back to the bathroom, Bruce locates his laptop and pulls up WebMD. “Okay, give me his symptoms again.”

“Fever, nausea, vomiting, headache, abdominal pain, cramps,” she rattles off, “and there’s the whole ‘he’s shitting blood’ thing.”

Bruce types these into the symptom checker on the website and a box pops up on the screen asking for more information. “How high is the fever?” he clarifies.

He hears light footsteps on the tile followed by a grunt from Clint.

“Touch my face again and I’ll fucking shoot you,” the archer mumbles, his voice muffled.

“You know, your threats lack a certain credibility when you’re sitting on the floor half-naked with your head in the toilet,” Natasha retorts.

“You don’t have a thermometer?” Bruce questions.

“That’s not part of our standard issue medkit,” she replies. “Anyway, I’d say he’s somewhere between 100 and 102. Also you can add irritability to the symptoms list. Possibly delirium if he honestly thinks he can take me out.”

“Fuck you…” Clint’s voice moans faintly.

Bruce ticks the appropriate box on the screen for the fever when a thought occurs to him. “Do you think there’s a chance he’s been poisoned?” he asks.

“No, that was the first thing I checked,” Natasha says. “SHIELD provides a test kit for the twenty-seven most common chemical and biological toxins. Everything came back negative.”

“You were issued a poison testing kit, but not a thermometer?” Bruce asks incredulously.

“It’s SHIELD—what do you expect?”

Bruce sighs and looks back at the site, where a new box has popped up. “Okay, tell me more about the vomiting.”

“The nausea and pain started around midnight—actual vomiting for the last two hours. It’s pretty much just bile at this point.”

“No blood, right?” he clarifies.

She huffs. “Not out of that end.”

Bruce grimaces again before moving to his next question. “Can he keep water down?”

“Hang on I’ll check.” Over the line he can hear the sound of a faucet turning on and a glass being filled. “Here, drink,” she commands.

“Don’t wanna. ”

“Drink it or I call Fury.”

There’s a twenty second pause during which Bruce waits for a response. It’s broken by the sound of gagging.

“That would be a negative,” Natasha reports.

Bruce’s concern deepens as he types this information in. “Okay, you said abdominal pain,” he goes on. “I need you to approximate where the pain is coming from. Can you have him lay flat on his back?”

There’s more rustling over the line. “Clint, lay down.”

“No. ”

There’s a small thump, followed by muffled cursing from Clint.

“He’s laying down,” she reports.

“Okay, start lightly palpating his abdomen, beginning at the upper right quadrant and working your way down in two-inch increments.”

There’s a pause. “Ow…” he hears Clint groan.

“It hurts there?” Natasha checks.

“Nah, not bad…”

“How about here?”

“Ow…”

“More or less than the first spot?”

“Same.”

“Here?”

“Ow…”

Eventually, Natasha declares into the phone, “He hurts everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” Bruce clarifies.

“Everywhere,” she confirms. “Nothing specific—just general tenderness.”

Bruce lets out a relieved sigh, crossing out a few options from the list he’s been making on a legal pad. “Okay, that’s actually good. No localized pain rules out appendicitis and most types of acute organ failure, and the fever isn’t high enough for Typhoid. Ebola is unlikely, but still on the table.”

“If it’s Ebola, he’ll be dead even with a medevac,” she points out. “Might as well finish the mission first.”

Bruce rolls his eyes but chooses not to comment. “Next on the list of potentially fatal conditions is a bowel obstruction.”

“God, I wish,” he hears Clint mutter.

“Huh?”

Natasha lets out a quick scoff. “Let’s just say his bowels are very unobstructed at the moment,” she informs.

“Oh. Uh, right.” Bruce grimaces again. “In that case, next up is C. diff. Has he been on any antibiotics recently?”

She quickly checks with Clint before reporting, “Nope.”

Bruce crosses two more items off the list. “Okay, and given the sudden onset we’ll go ahead and rule out Crohn’s disease, colon cancer, and ulcerative colitis.” He draws lines through those as well.

“What’s left?”

“Salmonella and viral gastroenteritis,” he reads off. “Did Clint eat anything different from you?”

“No, we’ve pretty much stayed together the entire time. Unless…” She addresses Clint, “Did you eat anything when I came in to pay for the motel room?”

There’s a pause, then a pained, “Aw, fuck,” from Clint. “There was this cantaloupe vendor... ”

“Salmonella it is,” Natasha cuts him off.

“Could still be either,” Bruce replies. “Both can be spread through food but viral gastroenteritis is highly contagious, so you’ll know for sure which it is in about thirty-six hours. Good luck.”

“Lovely,” Natasha deadpans. “So, no medevac?”

Bruce hesitates, not wanting to definitively say one way or the other. “Well… I think it all depends whether or not we can keep him from getting dehydrated. Do you have access to an IV?”

“Yeah, that’s part of the kit.”

“I don’t even want to know what SHIELD was thinking with this kit,” Bruce mutters. “But anyway, I can talk you through how to set it up.”

Natasha snorts out a half-laugh. “C’mon Bruce, everyone knows how to place an IV. That’s day one of basic medical training.”

Bruce feels his cheeks flush. “Well, I mean, not everyone…” he mumbles.

“Hold on a minute.” He hears her set down the phone.

As he waits, he can make out movement in the background, which he assumes is Natasha gathering supplies. There are a few muffled complaints from Clint and some equally muffled threats from Natasha, but in less than sixty seconds, she’s picking the phone back up. “Done.”

He frowns. “What do you mean ‘done’?”

“Everything is hooked up. He’s on the IV now.”

“Oh. That was... fast,” he remarks. Maybe he should look into those SHIELD trainings.

“Alright, I think we can take it from here,” she says. “Thanks for the help.” In the background, Clint moans something that sounds vaguely appreciative.

“Uh, you’re welcome,” Bruce replies. “Now please never call me again.”

“No promises. Goodnight.”

The line disconnects. Letting out an exhausted sigh, Bruce closes the laptop and climbs back into bed. But just as his head hits the pillow, his alarm starts going off.

“Fantastic,” he mutters as he silences it. “This is gonna be a great day."

Chapter Text

It was supposed to be a simple, straightforward mission.

Earlier that week, SHIELD received a tip about a storage facility in Canada that was housing some illegal alien tech artifacts, so Captain America and Iron Man were tasked to shut it down and confiscate the contents. It was all pretty low-level stuff, so much so that Tony even invited Peter to come with them, calling the mission the perfect training opportunity. Bruce is sitting back on the ship, playing the role of substitute Quinjet pilot since Clint’s kid has a Little League game that afternoon.

So that’s why it comes as a shock when—a mere fifteen minutes into the mission—Peter and Tony stumble back onto the Quinjet, dragging Steve in between them. Blood is streaming from one of the soldier’s thighs all the way down his leg and he has a pained expression on his face.

Choking on his coffee, Bruce closes out of the Spider Solitaire game he’s been playing on the Starkpad in the cockpit and jumps up from his seat. “Whoa, what happened?” he demands.

“It was a trap. We were ambushed,” Tony grunts as he and Peter lower Steve onto the floor. A small pool of blood immediately starts forming under the injured limb. “They shot him in the leg.”

Under his breath, Bruce overhears Peter whisper in a fake German accent, “His shield is the size of a dinner plate…”

Bruce frowns in confusion. “What?”

“What? Nothing,” Peter says quickly.

“What did I tell you about making pop culture references?” Tony snaps at the kid.

Peter looks a little sheepish. “Sorry.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Just go find the medkit,” he mutters.

While Peter runs off to do that, Bruce turns his attention back to Steve. The soldier is panting and his face is screwed up in pain. Despite this, he grunts out, “I’m sure it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“What exactly happened?” Bruce asks, kneeling down to get a better look. Given the soldier’s enhanced physical condition, Bruce is concerned by how a single bullet wound is causing this much bleeding.

“I was coming in through the roof,” Steve says through clenched teeth. He has one hand braced on either side of the bullet wound in his thigh. “Guards were waiting. Got shot. Fell.”

“Wait, wait, you fell from the roof?” Bruce’s eyes widen. “But that’s gotta be like four stories!”

Steve just grimaces.

Peter plops the open kit down on the floor and Bruce quickly finds a pair of scissors. He begins cutting Steve’s blood-soaked pant leg open, working his way from the ankle upwards. “Did they get you twice?” he asks, suddenly noticing that the blood has been covering a second rip in the suit’s material, this one halfway up his shin. “What’s this white thing sticking—oh god!” Bruce immediately lets go of the suit’s material and jerks his hand back.

Out of the middle of Steve’s shin, a large white piece of bone is protruding through the flesh.

“Holy fuck!” Tony exclaims. His hand instantly shoots up to cover Peter’s eyes.

“What happened?” Peter yelps, pulling the hand away. His eyes widen at the sight. “Oh. Shit.”

“Language, all of you,” Steve grunts out. He pushes himself up on his elbows to get a glimpse at his shin and a look of understanding dawns on him. “Ah. I see.”

“Wait, did you know your leg was broken?” Tony demands, incredulous.

Steve grimaces. “I had my suspicions.” He grunts again and lowers himself back down. “Didn’t know it was a compound fracture, though.”

Fighting his internal gag reflex, Bruce turns his attention back to the gruesome injury and resumes cutting away the suit’s leg. More blood pours out as he does so, making him feel a bit lightheaded. He’s hoping the bullet went clear through Steve’s thigh, but after cutting away the material, he sees they have no such luck. It’s sitting lodged in the muscle just above the knee.

Just then the sound of bullets hitting metal rings out. Peter jumps up instantly and races towards the window. “They’re firing at us, Mr. Stark!” he cries. “They’ve got like, some kind of tank!”

“Shit. We need to get out of here,” Tony says, quickly getting back to his feet and making for the cockpit. He points a finger back at the scientist on the floor. “Banner, you’re on doctor duty.”

“Of course I am…” Bruce mutters, rolling his eyes. The bleeding is definitely the most pressing concern so he finds some gauze from the kit and is just starting to wrap it around Steve’s thigh when the soldier coughs awkwardly.

“Uh, shouldn’t we be getting the bullet out first?” Steve asks as Peter returns to kneel next to them.

Bruce shakes his head, pressing the gauze to the wound and causing the soldier to hiss in pain. “We just need to stop you from bleeding out before we get to Medical.”

Steve looks a bit nervous. “And how long will that take?”

The Quinjet lifts off, jostling Steve and causing him to groan in pain. Peter holds onto Steve’s shoulders to stabilize him and Bruce glances up at the cockpit. “Tony?” he asks.

The ship thrusts forward. “About an hour and a half,” Tony replies briskly.

“Yeah, that’s going to be a problem...” Steve mutters.

Bruce frowns. “Why?”

Peter pipes up, “Because you have super healing, right? And the bullet will heal inside?”

Steve nods grimly. “Exactly.”

“Wait, wait,” Bruce says, the feeling of icy horror coming over him. “What does that mean for the fracture?”

Both Steve and Peter turn to look at the scientist, casting him a sympathetic look.

That’s the last straw for Bruce. He jumps to his feet and backs away from the two men on the ground. “Nope, not doing it, not happening!” he declares. “For the last time, I am not a doctor! I am not performing field surgery on Captain America in a moving vehicle!”

Steve looks up at him, his eyes pleading. “Bruce, c’mon,” he begs. “I could really use your help here. I can already feel it starting to heal and it’s only going to get worse.”

Bruce wants to say no—every atom in his body is screaming at him to refuse, to demand that Steve wait for someone who has the slightest clue what they’re doing. But the sight of Steve lying on the Quinjet floor, his leg mangled and bloody, face contorted in pain, makes Bruce swallow his frustration back down.

There was never really any choice.

“Alright, alright, fine!” he gives in. “But I still have no idea what I’m doing.”

“The bullet wound is pretty straightforward,” Steve says between breaths. “We can start there. The fracture is going to be more difficult because you’ll have to reset the bone. There should be a manual in the kit.”

“Got it,” Peter says, pulling out a surprisingly thick book from inside the medkit. “And I know how you feel with the super healing thing, Mr. Rogers. One time I broke my arm on patrol and it was bent at a forty-five degree angle and it healed before I got home,” he rambles. “Looked like I had three elbows.”

Despite his obvious pain, Steve huffs out a quick laugh.

“Ned took pictures—I can show you later,” Peter adds with a lopsided grin.

“God...” Bruce mutters. How is this his life? “Alright.” He turns to the kid. “See if there’s any information on resetting bones or compound fractures. I’ll try to get the bullet out.”

While Peter starts flipping through the book, Bruce raids the kit for supplies and discovers a few syringes of local anesthetic. He offers them to Steve, but the soldier declines.

“Not my first time getting shot,” Steve says grimly. “Also with my metabolism, they’ll wear off in about thirty seconds.”

“There’s also morphine in here,” Bruce offers, pulling out another set of syringes.

“Maybe save them for the bone,” Steve grunts. “Just need something to bite down on.”

Bruce finds a towel in the kit and rolls it up before placing it in Steve’s mouth. The other man gives a grateful nod.

Bruce starts pouring antiseptic over the wound. “Find anything yet?” he asks Peter.

“This is the weirdest book,” Peter says, skimming through the pages. “There’s like six chapters on obscure poisons, three pages on waterboarding, and an entire section on how to remove an eye, but like, nothing on broken bones.”

“Keep looking,” Bruce instructs. He starts cutting around the edges of the bullet wound with a scalpel, ignoring Steve’s muffled hisses.

“There’s a chapter on amputation?” Peter offers.

“Hopefully we’re not quite there yet,” Bruce replies, though the look on Steve’s face says maybe that might be preferable.

Eventually, Bruce manages to excise the bullet. He does a quick row of stitches—only slightly neater than his latest attempt—before dressing the wound with gauze.

“How’s it going back there?” Tony calls from the cockpit.

Steve reaches up to remove the cloth and draws in a few breaths. “One down, one to go,” he gasps out.

“When this is over, I’m taking a very, very long vacation,” Bruce calls back, looking down at his blood soaked hands.

Tony huffs out a quick laugh. “I hear Tahiti is nice this time of year.”

“Okay, okay, I think I found something,” Peter announces, spinning the book around. Amid a collection of Chinese characters, Bruce can see the diagram of a broken leg with its bone protruding through the flesh. “Bad thing is, this is the section of the book that’s written in Mandarin.”

Bruce honestly isn’t even surprised at this point. “And there isn’t an English version?” he asks wearily.

Peter shakes his head. “Can’t find one.”

Bruce looks down at Steve. “Are you absolutely positive this can’t wait another hour?”

“I’m sure,” Steve says with a solemn nod. “It doesn’t need to be perfect—SHIELD can reset the break when we get back—but if the bone stays outside my leg much longer, my healing factor will cause the tissue around it to reattach and the bone itself will die.”

Bruce swallows hard and adjusts his glasses. “Alright, fine. We’ll wing it.”

Glancing back at the diagram, he can see arrows that seem to be indicating that they need to pull down on the ankle in order to make room to push the bone back in place. He shudders at the thought before turning to make eye contact with Steve.

“How long will the morphine last?” he asks.

Steve glances sideways at the syringes. “I’d say about three minutes. Maybe less.”

“Alright then,” Bruce says as Steve replaces his makeshift gag. “Peter, I need you to hold him down.”

Following Bruce’s instructions, Peter places one hand on either side of Steve’s leg, just above the knee, being careful to avoid the bullet wound.

“Okay,” Bruce goes on, moving to kneel on one leg at Steve’s feet. “I’m going to inject the morphine now and then we have to move fast. No matter what happens, just keep holding him still, alright?”

Peter pales, but gives a tight nod. “Okay.”

Bruce injects the needle. He waits a few seconds for Steve’s nod and then grasps the soldier’s ankle in one hand, hovering the other hand above the displaced bone. “On the count of three,” he says. “One… Two… Three!”

In one horrible movement, Bruce yanks down on the ankle. The bone shifts, but not enough to slide it back. Steve’s muffled scream rings out and Peter startles for a second before adjusting his grip on the leg.

Cursing, Bruce yanks again, this time harder. With a sickening snap, the bone drops back into place.

“It’s in! It’s in, no one move!” Bruce yelps as he quickly splints the leg. The moment he’s done, Steve rips the gag from his mouth and gasps in sharp lungfuls of air.

Head swimming, Bruce shifts from his kneeling position and flops down to sit on the floor. He removes his glasses with a shaky hand and exhales out a massive sigh.

“Dr. Banner?” Peter questions. “Are you alright?”

“Not even slightly,” Bruce groans, wiping at his sweaty forehead with the least bloody part of his forearm.

Peter looks nervous. “Uh, I just mean… you look a little green right now. Um, is the The Other Guy…?”

“No,” Bruce cuts him off. He’s panting heavily, his ears ringing and the edges of his vision darkening slightly. “But I might throw up.”

He passes out instead.

Chapter Text

It’s Saturday.

Bruce is sitting on the couch in his private quarters with his feet on the coffee table, munching on a bowl of popcorn as he finally gets around to finishing season three of BBC Sherlock. He’s been doing absolutely fucking nothing all day, and it’s been glorious.

He’s just debating which to order—Chinese or a pizza—when his phone rings.

Side-eyeing the caller ID, Bruce considers just not answering. But curiosity was always his downfall. He pauses the TV and swipes to accept the call.

He sighs. “Hi Tony.”

“Hey Brucie!” Tony’s overly chipper voice comes back through the line. “How’s my favorite doctor doing? Listen, I have a—”

“No,” Bruce interrupts.

There’s a pause. “What do you mean no?”

“I mean no, Tony,” Bruce snaps. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t wanna hear it.”

Tony gives a short laugh. “Actually, you are a doctor, and that’s exactly why I’m calling. See, there’s this—”

“No,” Bruce cuts him off, this time more forcefully. “I’m not giving any more stitches, I’m not googling any more symptoms, and if I hear one more word about Clint’s bowels or that weird-ass rash you made me look at last week, the next time you call you’re getting The Other Guy. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.”

“But Bruce, I—”

“No!” Bruce snaps again. His face flushes as anger bubbles up in his chest. “We have SHIELD Medical for a reason—there are like sixteen of the nation’s top physicians available at your beck and call! I’m done! I’m not a fucking doctor, Tony! I am a scientist and I feel used!”

Bruce sits there, breathing heavily, a little surprised by his own outburst. But he means every word.

After a moment, Tony’s voice comes back over the line “...Are you finished?”

“I’m not looking at that rash again. I can’t unsee it. Every time I close my eyes, I—”

Tony clears his throat. “So anyway,” he interrupts. “I’m sitting here with Peter and you’re on speaker right now.”

Peter’s hesitant voice comes over the phone: “Uh, hey Dr. Banner...”

Exhaling deeply, Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hi Peter.”

Tony goes on, “Yeah, so the kid’s doing this school project on gamma radiation and he’s got a couple questions that we thought you might be able to answer for him. You know, since you’re a doctor.”

Peter coughs awkwardly. “Uh… but if this is a bad time, I can always call back later…”

Such a wave of intense relief washes over Bruce that he honestly thinks he might cry. “Oh sweet Jesus, thank you,” he whispers under his breath. Then, speaking fully into the phone, he chokes out, “Peter, this is a wonderful time. I would love to help.”

X

It turns out Tahiti really is nice this time of year.

Following Bruce’s breakdown, Tony had set him up on an all expenses paid eight-day vacation at an exclusive resort on the tropical island. Currently, he is sitting on a lounge chair by the pool, soaking in the sun as he sips his fourth margarita.

When Bruce’s phone rings, he slides the device out of the front pocket of his open Hawaiian shirt and flips it to silent.

No need to be on call—he’s not a fucking doctor.

Chapter Text

Sunday Special:

1. Peter’s Delirious Sleepwalking
2. Sibling Rivalry
3. Hulk the Medic
4. Clint Buying Shit Fruit
5. Peter’s Third Elbow
6. *36 Hours Later*
7. Double Trouble
8. Sam’s Snack
9. Tony’s Little Problem
10. Peter Gets Hammered
11. Vision’s Virus
12. Mendes to the Rescue
13. Backstage Doctoring
14. Peter and the Bloody Disaster
15. The Best Doctor

1. Peter’s Delirious Sleepwalking

Exiting his lab, Bruce is a little surprised to see the teenager’s wobbly figure at the other end of the hallway.

“Peter?” he questions, walking closer. There are bright pink spots on the kid’s cheeks and his eyes are set in a glassy stare. “I thought Tony sent you to bed—I don’t even know how you’re standing upright with a 103 degree fever.”

“Bones keep changing…” Peter mumbles.

Bruce frowns. “What?”

Peter holds his hand out in front of him, slowly opening and closing his fist. “They get bigger... and smaller… and bigger… and smaller...”

Bruce sighs, gently placing a guiding hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Alright Sleeping Beauty, back to bed.”

Peter groans as they start to shuffle back to his room. “The curtain’s gonna eat me…”

“Don’t worry,” Bruce says with a small chuckle, “I’ll keep a lookout.”

“And you’ll smash it if it comes?”

“Uh… sure, Peter, I’ll smash it.”

2. Sibling Rivalry

Loki blinks at his brother. “Did you just take one of my fries?”

“You weren’t eating them,” Thor says with a shrug. He takes a long drink of beer from his mug.

Loki’s eyes narrow. “Touch my food again and you will live to regret it.”

“What will you do?” Thor laughs, reaching across the table for another. “Stab me? ”

3. Hulk the Medic

Tony collapses to the ground and leans against a wall, trying not to breathe too deeply because of the pain.

“Tin Man hurt?” Hulk asks.

“Just a little. It’s not bad, Big Guy. Hey, you did good out there.”

“Where hurt?”

“I think I broke my collarbone, no biggie. I’ll get Cap to help me when he shows up.” He looks pointedly at Hulk. “Unless you want to let Banner come back now to help.”

Hulk ignores him. Well, it was worth a try.

Tony coughs and lets out a groan from the pain it causes. He unbuttons his shirt and gingerly touches the bone, wincing a little.

Hulk takes interest and approaches Tony, hunkering down to look at his chest.

“It’s alright, I’ll be good as new as soon as—”

Before Tony can react, Hulk reaches up and gives him a prod with one giant finger directly on the break.

Tony yelps, scampering away from Hulk’s radius. “What the hell, Big Guy? Are you trying to kill me? I…” He stops, suddenly realizing he can breathe much more easily. He touches his collarbone. It still hurts like a son of a bitch, but it feels miles better than it did a second ago.

Tony turns and gapes at Hulk, just in time to see him turn back into Bruce.

“Thanks, Big Guy,” he murmurs as the transformation completes.

On the ride home, Tony explains to Bruce what happened, much to Bruce’s horror.

“Oh my god, he did what? ”

“Relax, Bruce. He did great. Popped that bone right back in.”

Bruce groans, head in his hands. “It’s bad enough you’re always getting me to give first aid when I’m not qualified. Now you’re roping him into it?”

Tony just shrugs and gives Bruce a carefree smile.

“Fine, whatever,” Bruce says. “Just… don’t get him to place an IV line, for the love of god.”

4. Clint Buying Shit Fruit

“I’ll go check us in,” Natasha says, nodding her head in the direction of the sketchy-looking motel’s office. “You wanna do a quick perimeter search?”

“Yeah sure,” Clint agrees. After a fourteen hour flight, he’s happy to stretch his legs.

As Nat enters the run-down building, Clint starts scoping out the grounds. He mentally maps out any concealed areas that might become useful if they’re under attack at some point in the mission, as well as taking note of any civilians he comes across.

Across the street, he spies an elderly fruit vendor. The woman waves and gives him a friendly smile, nodding to the sliced cantaloupe displayed on the produce stand in front of her. “¡Los melones son muy frescos!” she calls over.

He returns the smile before crossing the street.

It’s been a while since lunch; he could use a snack.

5. Peter’s Third Elbow

“Dude. That is so sick.”

“I know, right?” Peter grins back. He prods a finger at the shockingly deformed bones in his forearm. “I broke it on patrol, but it took me a while to walk home.”

“I didn’t even know bones could do that,” Ned says, his voice filled with awe. “Does it hurt?”

Peter shakes his head. “Not much anymore. I think it’s healed already.”

Ned’s jaw drops. “It healed bent in half?”

“Yeah…” Peter rubs his other hand at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Turns out super healing has some drawbacks...”

“But how are you going to explain this to May?” Ned balks. “We have a decathlon event tomorrow—you can’t even get the jacket on!”

Peter thinks for a moment and then lets out a sigh. “I guess I should probably call Mr. Stark...”

“Yeah,” Ned agrees. “But first”—he grins, holding out his hand in front of Peter’s absurdly crooked arm—”can I get a high five?”

6. *36 Hours Later*

Clint makes a final knot in the rope tying the arms dealer to the building’s support beam.

“Is he secure?” Natasha asks, her voice a bit strained.

“Yeah, he’s not going anywhere,” Clint assures. Through his duct tape gag, the criminal makes a muffled noise in the back of his throat.

“Then hold this,” she says, nodding down towards the gun that she’s currently aiming at the man’s head.

Frowning in confusion, Clint takes the weapon from her, still pointing the barrel at their target. Without waiting another second, Natasha darts over to the corner of the warehouse and starts retching violently onto the floor.

“Shit,” Clint mutters. “Guess it wasn’t Salmonella.”

7. Double Trouble

The hair on the back of Peter’s neck suddenly stands straight, sending a cold rush of dread through him. He turns his attention away from the soldier—who is shaking and gasping in pain—to the trembling scientist sitting on the Quinjet floor. “Dr. Banner?” he asks. “Are you alright?”

Beads of sweat are running down Bruce’s face and he wipes them away with his arm, smearing Steve’s blood all over his forehead. “Not even slightly,” he groans.

Peter’s anxiety is increasing now as he watches Bruce’s complexion change. He bites his lip, trying to figure out the most delicate way to word this. “Uh, I just mean… You look a little green right now.” He glances nervously up at the cockpit. “Um, is the The Other Guy…?”

“No,” Bruce cuts him off, panting. “But I might throw up.” Then, before Peter can react, the blood-soaked doctor’s eyes roll back and he crumples in a heap.

“Oh my god!” Peter yelps. Scooting away from Steve, the kid slides over to Bruce’s side. “Dr. Banner?” he asks, urgently tapping Bruce’s shoulder.

“Wh’ ‘appen...?” Steve manages to gasp out through the pain. He tries to push himself up on his elbows to get a better look, but the slight change in elevation apparently doesn’t agree with his already tanking blood pressure. He falls back with a thump.

Peter sits there, looking back and forth in horror from one unconscious man to the other. “Mr. Rogers!” He glances the other direction. “Dr. Banner!” Looking up towards the cockpit, he cries, “Mr. Stark! Help!”

8. Sam’s Snack

“I still can’t believe you gave yourself second-degree burns from cheese sauce…” Bruce mutters, screwing the cap back onto the tube of burn ointment. “Why didn’t you just put the bowl down?”

“What? And drop my nachos?” Sam asks incredulously. “Are you crazy?”

“Why are you even eating nachos?” Bruce goes on. “Aren’t you lactose intolerant?”

He smirks. “That’s a problem for Future Sam.”

Bruce just sighs, dropping the ointment back into the kit. “Self preservation at this compound has reached an all time low…”

9. Tony’s Little Problem

Bruce applies the final piece of medical tape to the corner of the gauze pad on Tony’s side. “Alright, looks good,” he says with a sigh. “It’s healing pretty well—couple more days and you should be able to shower without the waterproof bandage.”

“Thanks.” Tony nods gratefully. “Same time tomorrow?”

“That’s fine,” Bruce agrees. He takes off his gloves and starts clearing the bandage wrappers and other supplies from the workbench.

“While you’re here...” Tony says, starting to unbuckle his pants, “I’ve got this rash…”

10. Peter Gets Hammered

“Kid, you can’t lift it, I’m telling you. I nearly broke a gauntlet,” Tony argues.

“Oh let the lad have a go!” Thor says, giving Peter a hearty clap on the back.

Peter nervously approaches Mjölnir, which is standing handle up on the gym mat. The other Avengers cease their sparring and gather around curiously to watch.

“Remember to lift with your legs,” Bruce calls helpfully as Peter gets into position, squatting slightly in front of the hammer.

“Okay. Mr. Wilson, are you filming?” Peter calls over his shoulder. Sam gives a thumbs up, the other hand holding the phone out in front of him to record.

“On three,” Peter says. “One… Two… Three!”

With all of his strength, Peter jerks the hammer straight up, smacking himself right in the face.

A collective “oooh!” issues from the spectators as Peter crumples to the ground, unconscious, blood streaming from his nose.

Tony rolls his eyes as he and Bruce jog over to the kid. “I was hoping it would be a few more years before he got hammered for the first time,” he grumbles.

11. Vision’s Virus

“How about now?” Tony asks, deleting another file.

“There is a toe in my cupboard,” Vision replies, then frowns. “That is not what I sofa bed.” He frowns again. “Lamb.”

Tony sighs. “Looks like that fixed the eye twitching, but his verbal processor is still shot.”

Bruce adjusts his glasses and leans in closer to the computer screen. “How did he even get this virus?” he questions. “I thought he had a bulletproof firewall.”

“Guess there’s a first time for everything.” Tony clicks another few keys on his laptop. “Now?”

Vision’s left arm shoots up in the air and his whole body starts vibrating.

Tony snorts out a laugh. “Looks like he’s getting an email.”

Still shaking, Vision shoots him a glare.

Bruce rolls his eyes. “He can still hear you.”

“Sorry.” Tony clicks a few more keys. The shaking stops.

“Snow cones,” Vision says with a grateful nod.

Tony heaves out another sigh. “Welp, I got nothing. What do you think, Doc?”

Bruce thinks for a moment. “Have you tried turning him off and on again?”

12. Mendes to the Rescue

“Are you alright, Young Man of Spiders?” Thor’s voice booms.

Peter’s eyes widen as his hero approaches. He’s sitting on the ground at the edge of the battlefield, pressing a hand to the bleeding wound on his thigh. “Yeah, fine, just a scratch,” he says with a wince. “One of the alien dudes got me with his claw thingy.”

“An impressive scratch,” Thor remarks, nodding to the gash. “Shall I alert Stark?”

“No, no no!” Peter quickly protests. It’s only recently that Tony has started allowing him to tag along on the higher stakes missions like this—he has no intention of getting benched this early in the fight. “It’s fine! I have super healing—it’ll just take a few minutes and then I’ll get right back out there.”

“Hm…” Thor says thoughtfully. “Perhaps we can speed things along.” Then, in a solemn voice, he begins to sing off-key, “I thought that I’ve been hurt before... ”

Peter looks confused. “What? You’re hurt too?”

“But no one's ever left me quite this sore...” Thor continues.

“Wait, do you need me to call someone?” Peter asks, worriedly looking over the man before him.

“Your words cut deeper than a knife.. .”

Peter frowns. “Hold on a second…”

He jumps to the chorus, “You watch me bleed until I can't breathe—”

Peter cuts him off, “Are you singing Shawn Mendes?” he demands.

Thor chuckles a bit. “Of course—you are wounded! This is your healing ballad.”

Peter stares back blankly. “Oh. Um, right. Sure.” He gives the god a pained smile. “You, uh, you have a lovely singing voice.”

13. Backstage Doctoring

A security guard halts Bruce just outside the door to the backstage green room. “Sir, I have to ask you to stay back.”

“But he’s my friend,” Bruce protests, trying to push past the man.

“We appreciate your concern, but the situation is completely under control—”

“I’m his doctor, dammit!” Bruce exclaims in frustration.

From inside the room, he hears Pepper’s calm voice. “Caleb, let him through. He’s fine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a nod, the man steps aside, unblocking the door.

Bruce doesn’t waste any time hurrying into the room. “Tony, are you alright?”

His friend is stretched out on one of the couches, surrounded by several worried-looking assistants speaking into earpieces. Tony is pale and sweaty, his suit jacket removed and tie hanging loose around his neck. Pepper is crouched by his side, running her hand through his hair.

“Yeah, fine,” Tony mumbles as Bruce approaches. “Just, y’know…”

Pepper rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Just that you should start listening to me when I tell you not to give keynote speeches running on nothing but coffee and three hours of sleep this week.”

Bruce frowns and moves over to perch himself on the edge of the sofa. “Have to say, passing out in front of an entire gala full of people was a touch dramatic, even for you.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Tony says, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. He looks up at Bruce and smirks. “So, you’re a doctor now, huh?”

“Shut up, Tony.”

14. Peter and the Bloody Disaster

Bruce quickens his pace when he realizes that the trail of blood drops he’s been curiously following through the compound is leading to Peter’s bathroom. Heart hammering in his chest, he pushes open the slightly ajar door and immediately freezes.

He blinks at the kid. “Wh...What’s going on?”

Peter startles, glancing up from the sink. He’s pressing a wad of reddened tissues to his face. Blood is everywhere—smeared across the countertop, the floor, and the kid’s formerly white t-shirt.

“Uh, hey, Dr. Banner,” Peter says, his voice a bit more nasally than usual. He pulls the tissues away from his face and gives a sheepish grin as a fresh gush of blood streams forth. “Got a nosebleed.”

“I can see that,” Bruce says, carefully stepping into the room. If the vigilante life doesn’t work out, the kid should really consider a career in horror movie set decorating. “Uh, but how… er, why…” He stops and tries again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally, this just happens sometimes,” Peter assures, pressing the blood-soaked tissues back to his face. “Kinda dry in here.”

Shaking his head slowly, Bruce crosses the bathroom to grab a roll of toilet paper from the cabinet in the corner. He holds it out to the kid. “You know you can just ask FRIDAY to turn up the humidifier in your room, right?”

“Oh yeah. Good idea.” Peter shuffles over a few steps to take the roll and his foot slips slightly on the blood. Before he can wipe out, Bruce grabs his arm to steady him.

“You’re a mess, Peter,” Bruce says with a sigh. “I now understand Tony’s cardiograms.”

15. The Best Doctor

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re the bes’ doctor anyone could ever as’ for?” Tony slurs out, sliding closer to Bruce on the couch and slumping against his side.

Bruce rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around his friend’s shoulders to steady him. “Tony, you’re drunk off your ass. I think it’s time for bed.”

“Noooo not bed…” Tony whines, then giggles. “‘m winning. Gotta see the look on Thor’s stupid face…”

Sitting on the chair opposite the couch, Thor laughs loudly. “Best quit now, Stark! No mortal has ever won a drinking competition against an Asgardian.”

“Watch me, Goldilocks,” Tony announces. Holding the glass of single malt whisky to his lips, he suddenly turns his head towards Bruce and heaves onto the scientist’s lap.

Bruce blinks. “Really Tony? This was my last pair of pants.”