He looks sick because he is sick.
He’s managed to talk him out of the deserted subway station where he’d found him bent double and hugging a trashcan and three blocks away to a curb where there’s a food truck. The air sizzles all around it, charged with smoke and spice; even in its cheerful light, Banner is pale as pale can be. He looks hollow.
He blinks up at his Good Samaritan, taking the paper tray that’s offered him (hot to the touch, and he’s salivating before he even gets a chance to see what it is. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s eaten, come to think of it. He loses time even more easily than usual when he’s like this, once every month or so when the radiation sickness his healing factor usually keeps at bay surges.
With great power comes a price you never could have dreamed of.
He falls to it, ravenous, picking out scraps of chicken with greasy fingers, wolfing the rest like a stray dog.
“Thanks,” he gasps wetly, when he comes up for air. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and has to resist the urge to suck away the juices. Instead, he starts grabbing for napkins by the handful. “Sorry you had to see that, I. It’s been a while. You wouldn’t happen to know where- where I could get my hands on some probiotics? That was good, and I’d really like to keep it down.”