The harsh white glow of the basement lights cast long shadows across the concrete floor, flickering softly where Betty had wired them herself. The smell down here was always a mix—clean laundry, antiseptic from the meticulously scrubbed lab benches, and a faint earthy damp that seeped from the stone walls. There were traces of her life everywhere: a faded scarf tossed over the back of an old armchair, handwritten recipes tucked next to neatly labeled vials, and a dog-eared book of poetry beside a Bunsen burner.
For Bruce, it was the safest place he'd known in years. Betty pressed a towel and a battered box of clippers into his hands, her eyes crinkling in that way he'd nearly forgotten.
"Time for a change, Banner. It'll suit you." Her laugh was low, meant just for him. She nodded towards the bathroom, a makeshift sanctuary walled off with clean tile and a fogged-over mirror, before heading upstairs. "I'll get dinner started," she promised, heels echoing lightly on the wooden steps.
Bruce lingered a moment, towel bunched in his hands. Even now, the simple kindness in her gesture tangled his heart. He stripped away the old clothes and, stepping into the shower, felt the warm stream beat against his skin—almost painfully hot at first. The water carved paths through weeks of tension, leaving his muscles loose and his mind momentarily quiet. For the first time in ages, Bruce let himself feel clean.
He eyed himself in the mirror, steam swirling around him. His hair, grown wild and heavy, looked almost alien—another disguise he no longer recognized. He ran the clippers through the tangled mass, the sound biting at the quiet. Hair tumbled away in dark, messy clumps. Each pass revealed sharp cheekbones, tired eyes, and a jawline he'd almost forgotten he had. The new look was stark and honest—no longer a man in hiding, but someone inching toward himself.
Laid out across the small counter was a soft gray T-shirt and black jeans—Betty's choices, plain but perfectly him. There was a hoodie too, navy and a little too large, smelling faintly of her detergent. He dabbed on deodorant, the scent clean and simple, and dressed without rushing, feeling the weight of fresh fabric and the rare luxury of not having to rush out the door.
He paused by the door to the basement stairs, running a hand over his shorn hair. The world upstairs, and whatever danger waited, felt far away. For now, there was only the warm hum of lights, the memory of Betty's smile, and, beneath it all, the quiet hope that maybe, here, he could start again.
Bruce eased open the basement door, stepping into the soothing brightness of Betty's kitchen. The space felt worlds away from the shadows below—a refuge woven with sunlight and the soft hum of a ceiling fan that stirred the warm, inviting air. Pale yellow walls caught the afternoon light just right, lending the kitchen a gentle glow. Open shelves cradled mismatched mugs, glass jars of flour and rice, and honey in a sunlit jar. The countertops were dappled with old knife marks, garnished with bowls of ripe peaches and a little vase of marigolds set by the window. Cutlery and utensils clinked in a wide, well-used ceramic crock.
At the sturdy oak table in the center of the room, Betty was arranging two mismatched plates—cream and blue, each ringed with little chips and scratches that told their own stories. She laid out dinner with careful grace: fried chicken, golden and crisp, covered one platter; creamy mashed potatoes gleamed in a battered, spattered dish, a smear of melted butter glistening on top. Steamed green beans—bright and tender—sat beside a jar of homemade peach preserves, their colors cheerful amid the spread. The air was thick with the smells of home: warm flour, cracked black pepper, the promise of something good and safe.
Betty looked up just as Bruce stepped into the room, her eyes going wide and bright. She gave a low, appreciative whistle, her cheeks coloring with surprise. "Looking good, Dr. Banner," she teased, unable to hide the genuine fondness in her smile.
Bruce chuckled, feeling a rush of shyness at her gaze, and slid quietly into one of the spindled wooden chairs.
From the oven, Betty pulled out a tin of biscuits, perfectly browned and steaming, and wrapped them quickly in a clean linen towel before nestling them in a small willow basket at Bruce's elbow. He could see the faint flour on her knuckles, her movements practiced and confident, as she took her own seat across from him.
For a moment, the world shrank to this small kitchen, the old clock ticking softly, a feeling of almost-ordinary unreeling between them.
Betty reached across the table and took Bruce's hands in her own, her fingers warm and steady. "Would you… say grace?" she asked gently, a note of hesitance and hope in her voice.
Bruce froze, the request unfamiliar and strangely intimate. Prayer was something he'd abandoned long ago, left behind in the mess of running and hiding and surviving. But in Betty's patient gaze, he found himself nodding.
He closed his eyes, breath catching in his throat. He fumbled for words, the silence stretching before finally giving way. "Uh… Thank you, for this food. For… safety, and for Betty," he said, his voice a little rough, hands trembling just slightly in hers. "For a place to rest, for a moment that's… peaceful. I haven't had that in a long time." His words became softer, honesty raw in every syllable. "Help me remember this. Amen."
He opened his eyes to find Betty watching him, her expression soft and shining, and Bruce felt a curious ache—equal parts relief, hope, and the sharp knowledge of how rare it was simply to be here, at this table, with her.