Betty thinks that sending her to Alaska, to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s remote base near Anchorage, is her father’s way of keeping her out of trouble. But it was, in fact, exactly what she wanted. They’re holding Blonsky here, and deep within her heart, she believes that Bruce will come for him, even if he doesn’t come for her. She watched it all on the TV: New York, aliens, the Other Guy let loose, in control. A hero. And still she waits. There’s a strange symmetry, she thinks as she looks out at the frozen landscape, of being here, in the place where Bruce had tried to end his life, after the first time he left her, when his body rebelled, and the Hulk refused to let go of him.
She doesn’t have to wait long. He is bedraggled, as usual, and that makes her smile. But it is a sad gesture. “He’s in a cryo-cell,” she tells him as he approaches her, his eyes downcast; her voice sounds bolder than she feels, because all she wants to do at the moment is run into his arms. “I have access, I can take you there.”
He looks up at her, blinks once, then twice, behind his glasses, his eyes obscured by a slight glaze of frost. Her leg jiggles as she waits. Waiting again. “Who?” he asks finally, and her heart does about ten backward leaps.
“Blonsky,” she says, keeping her voice smooth, calm, tears beginning to well in her blue eyes. “Abomination.”
And he smiles at last, the expression filled with understanding, and sheepishness. “I’m not here for anyone but you, Betty,” he tells her, and with a strangled cry she isn’t aware she even made, she is at last running into his arms, pressing hot kisses to his face. She has to push her downy hood out of the way, because it keeps blowing between them, with strands of her dark hair tangled in the fur. She is too padded to truly feel him, as she wants to. She takes him home and makes tea.
He tells her everything. It’s always easy to tell Betty everything, he knows this from experience. She shares her whole heart with those she loves. And he finds, to his surprise, that he hasn’t broken it at all, her heart; he’s only just bent it a little, and it’s ready for him again. There’s a fiery anger beneath it all; that is another of Betty’s traits that he adores, though even he is not sure he knows the extent to which it reaches, it burns inside of her. She is her father’s daughter, and there’s hurt and abandonment inside of her as well, though she struggles to push it aside.
They make love. He can make love now. No heart monitor between them, no dreaded beeping to stop him when they are kissing, when she is removing his pants and kissing his shaft, licking, tasting him. He grips the headboard and nearly rips it apart, however; there are some things even he cannot cure himself of, and he so rarely touches on passion for this very reason.
And so he is reluctant when Betty tells him that she wants to see all of him, including the Other Guy, who is not other anymore, but such a part of him that they are inseparable. This, she sees, is the acceptance he has found with the Avengers, and while part of her heart soars at the thought of it, another grows a little dimmer, because she had fought so hard to make him feel this way. But she was scared as well. She doesn’t want to be scared anymore.
He won’t do it in her little prefab house; he would tear it apart, even if he fit, which he is doubtful of. So she takes him to a warehouse; it is cold inside, but there are space heaters which she turns on as she removes her clothing. He has an absurd urge to plead with her not to watch. But she wants to see it, she needs to. Her heart aches; it looks painful. But at last he is finished, and he stands before her. She remembers falling asleep with him, in the rain, remembers how he carried her away to protect her. She wasn’t scared of him, this Hulk, even after he had used those enormous green hands that she now touches to put her in the hospital, such a long time ago.
Those same hands touch her with interested tenderness, grunting a little as he strokes one big finger against her. “Pretty lady,” he mutters, and then gives a growl as he bares his teeth in a dangerous smile. He strokes her all over, focusing between her legs, stroking that thick finger between her pale thighs, raising it so she is nearly riding it on the balls of her feet, gasping, the color high in her cheeks. And then he is bending down, and she feels the roughness of his tongue rasping at her tummy, her thighs. It laps at his own finger before thrusting where the digit had been moments ago, reaching around to her backside as he laves her, her long, white hands first resting against his head, and then tangling in his thick hair.
He is relentless, merciless, and as she gasps and writhes against him, she smiles, because she recognizes Bruce’s secretly fiendish, sly humor in this act. She’s wet all over now, from his tongue, and from the inside, where he’s melting her honey right from the feminine center of her, his coarse, wide, flat tongue pushing between her lips, the tip forcing its way into her. She is the sweetest thing in the world to him; no sugar, no other woman, could be as gratifying or as delicious as she is, to his mouth and his mind.
She comes, and she comes hard. He seizes her hips in his two massive hands, unthinking, ruled by his own lust now as his cock bulges against the trousers that hang from him in tatters, rending the material apart to expose him. She swallows hard and puts her hand up. “No!” she says, not a cry; she’s not panicked, or angry. Her voice is firm, but in its own way gentle. “No,” she says again, as he attempts to pull her to him again, and he is struggling, baring his teeth in a less than friendly manner now, but she stands her ground. He’d rip her apart with that thing, and the part of him that is still consciously Bruce will know this.
And it does. And he fights for control. Thinking of Betty, of hurting her again, and in this intimate a fashion, he finds it faster and more strongly than he ever thought possible. He’s shrinking, thinking of apology, of her, but she runs to him immediately, before he is even back to himself, and puts his arms around her, resting her own over his waist, and his shoulders once he is fully Bruce again, on his knees before her.
He tries to break away, to speak, but she doesn’t allow him to, covers his mouth with her own as she falls into his lap, straddling him. He’s still so hard, she feels as if she’s sliding over a lead bar sheathed in velvet. She takes him in. His eyes meet hers, and he nods imperceptibly, her mouth, so full and pink, quirks at the corner.
And they fulfill one another, his erection so persistent that it takes him three releases until it finally begins to wither. Until then, they ride each other, bellies meeting with soft slaps that echo in the warehouse, the wetness from his own mouth making her slippery, spreading over him as well. They squelch and smack as their bodies kiss time and again, honey gushing from Betty. His and his alone. He is rough, that he doesn’t try to hold back, not now that he knows that he can, that he will never hurt her again. He was so far gone, and he brought himself back from the brink of something terrible. And it was as if she were a star in the darkness. She was always his star in the darkness.
When they are finally finished, they lay together under the scratchy, inadequate blanket of a nearby cot, their arms wrapped around one another feverishly as they kiss, and then Betty begins to drowse. “I didn’t hurt you,” he murmurs, making a change from his worry, his questioning; it’s not entirely a thing of the past, but he’s making headway there.
“No,” she agrees. “Quite the opposite.” And she smiles.