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Bruce wakes up to a gradual awareness of pain, pressure, and nausea. That's different, usually he wakes up tired and achy, not-
"Oh my god, guys, are you seeing this, he's huge, it's like a food baby. Bruce, you have a food baby."
He shifts, goes to push himself up, but when he twists his body every muscle in his abdomen seizes up, cramping so hard he literally can't move.
"Bruce? Steve, I'll call you back."
Oh, that's nice, Tony isn't actually enough of an asshole to keep filming him on his phone while he suffers. And his hand is nice and warm.
Bruce shivers, but even though he's naked (again. Two geniuses with access to the monetary assets of Stark Industries research budget should be able to design a pair of boxers, at least, that would stay on) the shivering isn't from the cold. Nausea and overwhelming, painful fullness sweep up his spine in waves, so intense that his vision is tunneling.
"Bruce? Talk to me, big guy. Not-currently-big guy. Not big enough for five gallons of ice cream guy."
He has about two seconds warning, enough to swallow desperately, and completely fail to manage actual words. Five gallons? That isn't physically possible. (But neither is the Other Guy.) Bruce gags, and clutches his stomach when everything tries and fails again to contract.
"Okay, not talking. We're going with hurling instead. Sound scientific solution to the problem. A little uninspired, but you can't have everything."
Bruce almost laughs, but he can't because he's too busy throwing up and trying not to do it on Tony. It ends up all over Bruce instead, thick and sticky and some of it is still lower than his internal temperature. He breathes, as soon as his body will let him, keeping his eyes shut because the floor won't stop spinning at the edges. Tony's hand is still on his shoulder, but he must have put the phone away because his other hand is petting Bruce's hair. And he's still talking.
Bruce coaxes his body to relax. It will go easier if he can. The pressure's not as bad, but whatever space he's made inside seems to be giving things just enough room to slosh around. Less pain, less immediacy. More nausea. He burps, wetness gurgling in his throat. He'd be embarrassed by the sounds he's making, but Bruce's embarrassment threshold has been rising ever since he started turning green. Throwing up in front of a friend is still better than trashing things, or hurting anyone. At least the nakedness is something Tony's seen before.
Bruce leans into Tony's hands, brain chasing three different thoughts. After a moment, one of them coalesces. "Ice cream?"
"You're probably lucky the other guy picked the ice cream, it's a lot nicer to throw up than some of the alternatives."
Tony has a ranking system for a food-to-vomit conversion. Of course he does. Bruce breathes in, shallow. "No, I meant- Where did he get ice cream, in a fight?"
"It used to be a car. Well. Several cars. An SUV, a Prius, and I think he tried a bit of Volkswagon. Loki turned the whole street's worth of parking into 31 flavours. There's footage. You'll like it."
Bruce's stomach rolls, and his thoughts refuse to hold still long enough to form an answer. "Transfigured.... uugh." Tony pushes him to lean forwards until he's staring at the spinning ground, spitting as saliva floods his mouth. Then his whole abdomen telescopes inwards as it unloads three flavours of car all over the concrete.
"Whoa." Tony sounds impressed. "I can't even tell if that's chocolate, heath bar, or coffee."
Bruce coughs, and spits out a piece of almond. "I think some of it's rocky road."
"Oh, the irony." Tony passes him a handkerchief and pats Bruce's belly, obnoxious and condescending and heedless of the vomit beginning to mat in his chest hair. Bruce blows his nose. The hankie is silky, insubstantial, and smells like expensive cologne and the Mark 8's industrial lubricant.
"Come on, little big guy. Let’s find some clothes."
Bruce has had worse afternoons.