Ten long minutes for a search-and-rescue operation; seven minutes for a Mercury Cougar's non-literal flight eastbound in the Bay Bridge's intuitive direction towards refuge; six minutes for some blackout maze maneuvering in pitch darkness and the occasional non-lethal path-clearing tactic deployed for an understated escape plan; another four minutes to arrive at a screeching halt on the east side of SoMa, where racing pulse checks and a breather could finally be taken to reevaluate the sagacity of speeding a weapon of mass destruction directly into their hosts' home.
Of course, the impending irony of the brick building that had alerted their pause was—at that point—still lost. Loose notions of settling down in a shared location—the notion of superhero-adjacent semi-fugitives settling down, in general—still only frivolous fictions on their mused-aloud breaths. An inviting idea, but hardly any form of a plan. And presently, Bruce Banner wasn't in much of a state for plans.
It'd been kind of a close shave back there, snapping awake delayed in the party-packed fortress of faux then too-real terror; some highly unfortunate blood splatter and the minty scent of Sambuca now soaking his host's fancy-wear while he breathed in heaving pants in the passenger seat, belt fastened across his chest like that was gonna restrain the catastrophe surging in his veins.