All of the casual touches were starting to get to Bruce. He was trying to accept them, but he still tended to jump a bit any time it happened. He had reason to be edgy; anytime he had been touched in recent past had been during capture attempts that usually resulted in him bleeding or unconscious. Before that, it had been his father's...less than optimal methods of handling situations that taught Bruce to be aware of a raised hand or a gaze that lasted a few seconds too long.

He still had nightmares.

So it was understandable that Bruce tended toward avoidance and that the boundaries of his personal space were nearly city-wide. Unfortunately, Bruce had underestimated how much Stark disregarded rules, or hints for that matter. Any time the geniuses were together, whether working on a project or stumbling about the kitchen for the nourishment they both tended to neglect, Stark's person inevitably found contact upon Bruce's. Stark's timing – if he truly was doing this intentionally as Bruce was beginning to suspect – was terribly planned. To date, Bruce could count five major incidents that could have ended a lot worse and twelve minor. Bruce had nearly burned Stark's stomach with the kettle when the man had attempted to grab a mug by going through Bruce; almost fried him with a stripped livewire that the billionaire had no regard for as he eagerly removed Bruce's glasses to replace them with new ones he'd bought him; dropped the man's arc reactor whilst hurriedly swapping the depleted core in Stark's chest as said man lie dying on the floor, clutching pitifully at Bruce's arm; cut him with a mincing knife when the cocky genius insisted he could teach Bruce to do it better and proceeded to physically guide his hands; and bumped him into nearly tripping down a flight of stairs when he tried to fix the fold of Bruce's shirt collar. This list didn't include the numerous times Bruce had to bite back a transformation into the Other Guy due to unexpected contact – something which would likely forever be met with a fight or flight response. The minor mishaps typically only ended with one of them bruised. Bruce had the tendency to reflexively elbow Stark in the ribs any time the man threw a genial arm over his shoulders or to knock his own knee against the underside of the table when Stark surprised him by patting him on the back. Fortunately, Bruce was well within enough control to prevent the playboy from being seriously injured or, you know, dying because he was too stubborn to see that the meek scientist wasn't used to being touched.

Bruce was used to being on guard, as keeping the Hulk mollified was a 24/7 operation, but the added stress of keeping the unpredictable force that was Tony Stark on his radar was taxing. The threat of a transformation loomed closer the more exhausted and tense Bruce became and he was truly beginning to worry. He stretched out on the sofa, kicked off his shoes and stared vacantly at the ceiling. The mobile Stark had insisted on buying him slipped out of the pocket of his slacks, bounced on the taut leather sofa and proceeded to dive toward the hardwood floor. Bruce's heart leapt into his throat and his hand darted out to grab it out of the air. The thought of damaging such a valuable gift left him shaking after he neatly placed it on the coffee table beside him. He took deep, measured breaths into his belly and exhaled through parted lips. He could feel the Hulk just beneath his skin, a mess of chaotic power pushing at its weakened restraints. Bruce eased back onto his side, let his eyes slip shut and continued his measured breaths until the jittery energy eventually dulled to a deep rumble.

"Dr Banner, shall I dim the lights for you?"

Bruce blinked up at the ceiling. It was a little shy of a month since Bruce had agreed to stay at Stark Tower, but the ever observant JARVIS still managed to continually surprise him. "Er...yes. Please. Thank you."

The lights dimmed so drastically as to only hint at the outlines of objects in the spacious lounge room. The windows tinted to nearly opaque, choking out the glare of the midday sun. Bruce removed his new glasses, folding them and setting them beside his phone. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger before collapsing back onto the sofa. He had originally planned to only take a small break from the lab, but he wasn't going to deny the sleep that was suddenly tugging at him. With so many resources and various forms of technology at his fingertips – all provided generously by Stark – Bruce hadn't had much time for something as trivial as sleep. It had been years since Bruce had even touched a centrifuge; new, uncontaminated syringes; petri dishes that weren't the bottom halves of soda bottles; or a computer that was made within the last decade.

As tired as he was, Bruce found his mind eagerly drifting back to the lab. He sighed and set to thinking determinedly about anything else. After one of the government's numerous attempts to capture him – he always managed to trip up at just the right time to bring unwanted attention to himself – Bruce had woken up naked in a snow bank just outside Vancouver. He had a broken arm; not the first bone he'd broken and surely not the last. It had to have occurred after his transformation back to his natural state. Perhaps he'd fallen on it wrong. It hadn't hurt much, numbed by the surrounding cold and separated from him in his typical daze after waking from Hulk form. Two snowboarders had stumbled upon him and he had awkwardly made up a lie about being mugged for all his skiing gear and left for dead. Appalled, the Canadians had quickly gotten him to their car, gave him a change of clothes as well as snacks and a ride to the nearest hospital. Bruce had been afraid of being asked questions, of being recognised as the green beast that must have terrorised a city hours prior; perhaps it was simply paranoia, but he could feel the eyes of his pursuers on his neck and he didn't want to do anything as notable as checking in to a hospital. The two charitable boarders had been insistent, however, and he'd been thoroughly treated for concussion, hypothermia and had his arm set and fit in a cast. When they parted ways, they gave him all they had in their pockets – eighty-eight dollars even – and their mobile number in case he ran into trouble again. Their kindness never failed to bring a smile to Bruce's lips. But the most memorable part of that day – the only part that wasn't flashes of pain or hazily remembered screams of citizens or reckless military gunfire or guilt or confusion or awkward conversations – was the moment just after waking. Lying vulnerable in the snow, in a quiet so deep that he couldn't even hear his own breathing. Surrounded by white, staring up at a sky with only a vague tint of blue so as to appear white as well, numb and isolated. For a few moments that stretched on like eons, Robert Bruce Banner did not exist. If not for the dull ache of his arm, Bruce would have been convinced he had finally done it. He was dead, he could stop. He'd finally beaten the Hulk. He'd been so afraid that the Hulk, with his regenerative properties, would prolong this torture indefinitely. Bruce had heavily considered staying where he was, sleeping in the snow until he breathed his last, but as soon as that thought registered, he could feel him pushing at the edges of his mind; the fight for self-preservation in the green monstrosity was greater than the need to heed his depleted energy. The threat of changing again so soon had Bruce struggling to his feet, dragging himself away from his brief sanctuary and into the arms of concerned strangers.

Bruce returned to that place now, that place of quiet white where time was only a theory and he didn't exist. Bruce shut his eyes and slept.