Chapter Text
Bruce Banner had never thought of himself as a particularly angry man before the gamma radiation infused his cells. He would have self-identified as a pacifist, rarely raising a fist or voice, preferring to make his point using cool logic and knowledge based in long years of study and research.
Until the accident, he had barely remembered his young life as the son of David and Maria Banner, growing up under the merciless heat of a New Mexico military facility, with a raging, abusive father and a sweet, overwhelmed, punching-bag mother.
He allowed himself to forget that his father had intended to kill him with a kitchen knife.
That he had, in the struggle, stabbed his mother to death instead, while Bruce had hugged his knees and cried under the kitchen table like the eight-year-old he was.
It had been General Thunderbolt Ross who had locked David Banner up in a psychiatric facility, and sent Bruce far enough away that dark memories of the military base were drowned beneath New England snows. The decision to go to Berkeley for his grad work, then to Virginia for subsequent research, had held no taint of memory of warm climates and sunny skies. He later considered it karma of a sort when he realized he and Betty had ended up together in the same university, beginning as they had in the same desert. Betty had been only three when the explosion had rocked the New Mexico facility on the day Bruce’s mother was killed and his world overturned.
David Banner’s military-themed research had been destroyed in the initial explosion at the New Mexico base. Fatefully, he had been attempting to recreate the Super Soldier serum that Abraham Erskine had laboriously perfected and injected into a scrawny, young, and foolishly brave Steve Rogers, the identical serum that Bruce had been attempting to formulate with the addition of gamma radiation for entirely different reasons. At least that’s what he had thought at the time. It wasn’t until the Army had moved in to take over the project that he realized they had foreseen far more militarized uses for his work than Bruce had even guessed.
After his death, his father’s secondary work had been quietly, but efficiently, taken away by Ross, never to see the light of day.
That was exactly what the general had planned to do with the monster, or the Other Guy, as Bruce liked to call him, preferring to differentiate between them even if they did inhabit the same body, like a grotesque Jekyll and Hyde.
It wasn’t until the Hulk became useful to SHIELD that Bruce was able to retrieve his father’s notes, his brilliant, but inevitably unstable, work. He learned it wasn’t just the genetic changes that David had incorporated into his own DNA and then passed down that had changed his son.
It wasn’t just the various injections Bruce had received as a child and the slow, gradual exposure to beta waves to aid the mutation.
It wasn’t simply the massive infusion of gamma radiation he’d absorbed that fateful day, which had, rather than furiously melt the structure of his chromosomes, strengthened them, realigned them, shifted their very basic structure to something more resembling a freakish conglomeration of oddly linked base pairs that mutated every time he changed into his huge, green alter-ego.
All of these, along with a psyche fractured from childhood abuse and terror, had created the Other Guy, the one who walked along Bruce’s mind, thundering in rage and fear, only quieting when he was calm and safe.
Like he was now, meditating, while seated on a towel settled on the marble floor in his room at Avengers Tower. It was early; a brilliant June dawn had just risen in the east, peeking gaudily between the many buildings of Manhattan’s midtown. Bruce was relaxed, his wrists resting on his knees as he sat cross-legged, worn briefs his only clothing. After all the years of traveling, running and hiding, he was still coming to terms with the idea of possible stability, of being able to release the Other Guy when wanted or needed, instead of any time he was upset, hurt, or threatened. The incident on the SHIELD Helicarrier a month ago had been the first in more than a year, and Bruce was irritated that the long string of calm collectivity had been broken.
Breathe out . . . one . . . two . . . three. . . .
Breathe in . . . four . . . five . . . six. . . .
Meditation had done a lot for Bruce’s breath control, the management of his pulse rate, and along with the yoga and running he’d practiced every day for the last six years, had helped in maintaining his physical and mental strength. He was still unsure whether he could age normally or die, given how the Hulk mutational genome was healing even the most severe injuries and preventing illness.
What he had told Tony Stark that first day was utterly true: most of the time it was like walking around as a giant, exposed nerve, waiting for anything or anyone to stimulate it to pain or terror, and then bright green overdrive. In the beginning, any strong emotion could send him careening into an incident; now, he had more of a handle on it.
Make that most of the time.
So many people had asked him what it felt like to have another personality alongside his own. Bruce usually responded that it was “a pain in the ass,” and left it at that, because really, how do you explain something so basically strange? Bruce felt what the Other Guy felt, knew what he knew; he didn’t have to think about it, it just was. Normally, Banner could feel his presence like pressure right behind his eyes, in the front of his skull, sitting, waiting. He could visualize him if he wanted, though he rarely did. The Other Guy was under his skin, wrapped around his bones, making him feel heavier than he actually was. If he didn’t pay attention, a fraction of his strength and speed could pop out, to catch something or lift something Bruce knew he couldn’t.
There was a certain détente between the monster and the man these days though. Banner did his best to keep their world balanced and safe. In response, the Other Guy didn’t take advantage and attempt to push past the mental world Bruce had created to house him and prevent his ‘unauthorized excursions.’
Right now, though, the Other Guy was getting irritable, no matter how much meditation Bruce did that day. Well, not so much irritable as hurt. He stomped along the mental corridors of Bruce’s mind, grumping, grumbling, and muttering.
I’m with you on this one. Really, I am, Bruce told the brooding presence, never certain if his big green alter-ego heard him, or just didn’t care enough about what he had to say to respond. He continued to growl low, and Banner fought to keep his responding grumble in check.
News of Betty Ross’ impending marriage to an up and coming neurosurgeon on June 15th had trickled through the scientific chatrooms and lists that Banner was involved with, so that when he received the invitation care of Tony Stark, it wasn’t a complete surprise. The reality of it shouldn’t have been a shock; they’d stayed in touch over the years through various e-mail accounts after the Harlem disaster, and Bruce had remained firm in his belief that they couldn’t have a life together as long as the Other Guy was uncontrolled. Betty fervently, loudly, and furiously disagreed, but Bruce wouldn’t budge. To his mind, he wasn’t in control as long as pain or fear could bring the Other Guy out without Bruce’s say-so, no matter what heroics they participated in.
Her father was still in the pursuit-and-capture mode as far as the Hulk was concerned anyway, which left Betty livid. She wasn’t speaking to him, and refused to have anything to do with him as long as he was heading Operation Take Down. Ross insisted to anyone who would listen that Bruce Banner was property of the U. S. Army and that he remained a biological weapon no matter what they achieved with SHIELD; it was unlikely that anything Betty or Bruce did or said would make any difference. SHIELD had consistently countered Ross by using their lobbyists on Capitol Hill to pour a triple cocktail into willing and unwilling ears alike, highlighting both Ross’s callous methods and the fact that too many Hulk incidents, both national and international, had occurred due to the army’s violent pursuits of Banner. SHIELD’s position was that Banner worked with the Avengers as an asset under their supervision. Fury had supposedly made it clear that there would be repercussions if he were not available because of their hunting him. Not that either of them had faith in their too-easy acquiescence.
Ross wouldn’t be deterred. Not by anyone.
Bruce refused to place Betty in such a dangerous position; he wouldn’t even consider it, especially after seeing the film of the Culver University incident, and what little he remembered of the fight with the Abomination. She nearly died because of him; he wouldn’t take the chance again.
And he couldn’t blame Betty for getting on with her life; how long was she supposed to wait?
He sighed and let it go as best he could. She needs a new life, apart from the constant threat of violence, kidnapping, and world-shaking rage, he told himself again.
Her professional contact is what I need from her now.
It’s better for her, and her relationship with her father.
She can have a family with him, something she desperately wants.
That’s what he told himself, over and over again. He had visualized waving good-bye to her in focused meditations, using all the techniques he’d garnered over the years, until her stunning blue eyes, soft lips, and husky voice were a distant smudge on his emotional horizon, and he’d pushed down his feelings to the far corners of a distant mental attic.
He only hoped they stayed there, because today was her wedding day, and he wasn’t feeling particularly convinced about any of it. He’d shredded the beautiful invitation between hard, callused, chemical-stained fingers, but the date was emblazoned behind his eyelids. He hadn’t needed to respond — he could hardly show up at her wedding and not expect her father to shoot him the moment he saw him. It wouldn’t particularly surprise him if the general had made some arrangements in the event Banner did attend. (Not that Betty would have invited him, but the general had a propensity for showing up where he was least wanted.)
And even worse, something warned him that if he did manage to see her in her wedding dress . . . he’d just break down and cry . . . followed by the inevitable gunshots, paratroopers, gunships, and smell of gunpowder.
Probably not the wedding gift she’d envisioned.
Instead, he’d sent her an ancient six-inch, ten-ounce, indigo-blue jadeite carving of a phoenix arising from its flames. The piece had been ridiculously expensive, but Bruce believed Betty would understand the multiple meanings it was intended to convey. Luckily, the funds Banner received from his patents had not been entirely diverted by Thunderbolt and the U.S. Army. While he wasn’t wealthy, he’d survived well-enough on the meager funds he’d skimmed, sufficient to aid him in his many escapes over the years.
Bruce let out another deep breath and stood up. While part of him could easily have crawled back into bed and let the day go on without him, he stripped off his briefs and walked into the bathroom to take a shower.
Breakfast was some fruit, toast, and non-caffeinated tea. He did his best to limit anything that would have either a stimulant or depressive effect on his system.
His hair was wet and wildly curly; it needed to be cut. He’d have to take the scissors to it later. He was still underweight; two Other Guy incidents in a recent twenty-four hour period had wiped out whatever layer of fat he had managed to acquire, and his ribs stuck out hollowly, chest hair dark against tanned skin, containing only a few silver hairs. Bruce hadn’t physically aged a day since the accident, and if the mutation slowed the aging process, or prevented it completely, he didn’t entirely know yet. He could probably stop exercising altogether; consciously he knew that but it was a soothing routine, and he dearly needed those.
Of course, everything of a calming and tranquil nature he ascribed to could be inadvertently demolished by his housemates, the Avengers being in turns, abrasive, argumentative, energetic, combative, and plain difficult to deal with. Each of them had their own issues, and those resulted in aggravating each other in unexpected ways.
Bruce dressed in a pair of old cargo pants and a frayed cream button-down, rolled up the sleeves, and ran a dented black comb through his thick hair. That was as far as his manscaping routine allowed, and on some days when his mind would not shut up, he didn’t even get that far. Taking the elevator down to the lab just below Tony’s, he wandered in. The lights immediately came on, and the tea pot began to heat on its small stove in the little living area he’d created here, a place he could collapse when exhaustion wore him down to shambling steps and mumbled requests to Jarvis to “Save it, and turn it all off.”
While there was really no location on Earth where he was safe, either from his psychoses or the many groups and organizations that wanted to get their hands on him, he’d deluded himself sufficiently to salvage some sense of safety here, in the lab. Bruce slipped into a crisp, white lab coat that the cleaning ‘bots had washed, and admired the pristine workspace, the shining machines, sinks, and counters, the table-size computer screens, inhaling the lingering scent of chemicals and paper, of iron-oxides and agar gels, listening to the magnetic hum of refrigeration units, sterilizers, incubators, and the drip of a faucet that was like a symphony to him.
He stepped to the lab fridge, ready to remove his recent samples and begin the day’s work, thoughts already on the next step in the intricate experiment he had outlined, as he opened it. His heart began to thrum in his chest as fast as a cheetah could run when his eyes caught something unusual among the neat rows of test tube trays. Inside, standing alone was one special tube, laid on its side. The multicolored label indicated a particular sample, the only one of its kind in existence. Bruce knew that, because he was all too aware that any others had been destroyed over the decades, either by usage or theft, fear or jealousy; even the few at SHIELD Headquarters had recently been ruined by their angry unwitting donor.
The red, white, and blue marked vial held the only sample of Captain America’s DNA left outside of the man’s body, encased in his blood, and left here as a gift to Banner.
Today. As an analgesic to distract him from his pain over Betty’s marriage.
He left the tube in the fridge, his hands trembling too much to take it, and considered the value of the gift.
Steve Rogers was only a young kid in his early twenties when he’d been transformed into Captain America. Though he had been capable in his own time of overcoming the problems inherent in the team atmosphere of the Howling Commandos, he was still working out all the kinks in this one, while simultaneously attempting to adapt to the 21st century and become reasonably familiar with what had happened while he’d been encased in ice. While he didn’t speak of it, Bruce could often see the pain in the man’s vivid blue eyes as they drove through New York City in one of Tony’s cars on their way to SHIELD or some other meeting or event.
Banner couldn’t imagine Rogers’ pain at the loss of effectively everyone he had ever known; how did one mourn, grieve a loss of that magnitude and remain sane? He supposed it had to be along the lines of survivors of the Holocaust, but at least some had survived; their former countries were destroyed and invaded, but intact. After the Chitauri invasion, Bruce had watched the video files that SHIELD had provided the team to get them up to date on each other and their skills. Steve’s was relegated to a written file, including some of his movie reel footage and promo shorts. His parents had died when he’d been young; he’d moved in with an aunt, who couldn’t really afford to keep him, and spent most of his time living with his best friend, James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, and working at various small jobs to stay alive.
He’d been found and promoted by Dr. Erskine after Steve had gone through every possible scheme to get inducted into the army during the war. He’d come into his own after a disastrous stint as a war-bond seller and show accoutrement, rescuing Barnes from a HYDRA base, and returning with almost 400 other prisoners. A plan to kidnap the lead scientist of HYDRA, Dr. Zola, had succeeded, but only after the death of Steve’s best friend. Days later he was sent on his final mission and for all intents and purposes died under a layer of Artic ice.
For Steve, this had all happened in just a few months.
Watching him, Bruce thought that Rogers didn’t deal with his pain very much; only occasionally could the memories that flipped through his thoughts be seen on his face. And Banner had to look away when they did, because anguish of that kind seemed to call to his own and rouse the Other Guy to an almost intolerable pitch.
Smart, sharp, and able to shift priorities on the fly, the captain was an effective leader in the field, confident and courageous. He would fight until he dropped from wounds or exhaustion, and when he came to, would continue the battle. Nothing seemed to stop him, and only a few adversaries even had the effect of slowing him down. Bruce often smiled at the Other Guy’s pleased memory of Steve telling him to “Smash!” when the Chitauri had attempted to take over the planet for Loki’s governance. He liked that kind of tenacity (when it wasn’t directed at him), liked the way Rogers could coolly settle Stark down with a few words in his ear or a touch on his arm, liked his implacable belief that as long as they gave it their all, everything would turn out right. He might be a touch naïve in that sweet, sometimes befuddled 1940’s way of his, but then Steve would turn his head, and Banner would be reminded that the soldier in Rogers was in control all the time, especially when you didn’t see him.
Steve was also undeniably the most beautiful man Bruce had ever laid eyes on. He analyzed that perception occasionally, to test its reliability, but the hypothesis always returned the same results. It wasn’t just that Rogers was the epitome of masculine physical perfection (though he was), or that his strength of will and character leaked out of his pores (it did), or even that his eyes were every possible color of blue, changing with his mood, darkening in ferocity while he fought, or lighting with humor when he laughed (they did) . . . it was all of these things combined in one man that made it difficult to look away from him sometimes.
Oh, Steve.
Rogers’ had lit into Fury when he’d found out they’d been working with his blood, taken while he’d been unconscious. He’d asked Stark to hack SHIELD’s firewall and interface with its mainframe (again) and find out where it had been kept, and what use it had been put to. Then, with a coldbloodedness that Bruce had been hard-pressed to think Steve capable of, he walked into SHIELD and broke every sample, snapped every cryogenically preserved specimen, over loud and frustrated protests from Banner and the SHIELD medical and scientific personnel. Rogers irately and loudly refused to be the beginning of any kind of eugenics program; the evidence of concentration camps and intended Aryan perfection had tainted Steve’s ability to be even remotely objective about the subject.
And while the scientist in him had been frustrated by Steve’s passionate response, Bruce the man completely understood it. After all, Banner burned the hair in his comb; burned his fingernail clippings; burned his cut hair. He hand washed his eating utensils, and scrubbed anything he drank from, even in the Tower. It made eating out difficult; Banner had cultivated a bad habit of stealing his used forks and spoons, or using a chemical powder that looked like sugar and acted like bubbly lye in his used coffee cups to wipe out any residue. No scrap of DNA could be allowed to fall into any hands that might use it to further their own ends.
It was useful that as Bruce he wasn’t radioactive, as odd as that may seem considering he harbored one of the most lethal ionizing radiation forms lying mostly dormant within his cellular structure. The Other Guy was radioactive though, a mixture of non-ionizing and ionizing gamma and beta wavelengths streaming from his body all the time he was present. Banner had created sub-dermal protection for the Avengers and insisted that steps be taken to protect SHIELD agents from being contaminated or harmed by lengthy interaction with him. There was too much blood on Bruce’s conscience to want more.
Bruce stared down at his blunt, big, hands and wondered what he could do to repay such a kindness from Rogers.
Banner was aware that whatever Erskine put in that damned serum, the mixture had only enhanced Steve’s innate generosity of spirit, his kindness and gentleness, his compassion. Unfortunately, that combination plus a damn sharp mind and the body of Adonis aroused Bruce far too easily. He did his level best not to stare, and found himself dropping his gaze frequently whenever Steve was around, so that the other man didn’t feel ravished, and he didn’t suffer from tight pants.
Anthony Stark, however, was another kettle altogether. If anyone could visually reduce Rogers to flushed cheeks and stuttering sentences, it was Tony, and it only took him minutes. In uniform, Cap ignored it completely, disdainful of anything that detracted from the mission or training at hand, but Rogers was easily combustible.
While Tony had tried his tempting gaze on Bruce occasionally as an experiment of sorts, the sexual lure of Stark’s voice, his hungry eyes, and practiced lips completely undid Steve’s composure and he usually vacated the premises immediately after. Lately though, Bruce noticed Tony had stopped teasing their illustrious leader — well, with his constant sexual innuendo, at least. He did torment the man, irritate him, aggravate him, and otherwise tried to remove him from the pedestal that Howard Stark had placed Steve on so long ago. And in Banner’s view, he failed every time. Steve was just Steve, a kid from Brooklyn whose parents had raised him right, who believed in all the virtues and tried to practice them, and used his strength to protect those who had none. Banner thought Stark had a huge man-crush on the guy.
Bruce was still unraveling the mystery of Tony Stark, and understood that it could possibly take a lifetime to unlock all the facets of his complex personality. He was undeniably the most brilliant man Bruce had ever known and he had the worst case of ADHD he had seen in an adult. But when Stark focused, the man was untouchable. His ability to create was awesome, and there was nothing, no concept, no idea, that was too unwieldy for his mind to juggle, no paradox he couldn’t solve. What was most fascinating about Tony’s work included his ability to determine that if something he needed for a particular project didn’t yet exist, he’d create it, just to get back to the initial experiment or plan.
Nothing seemed to faze him.
Well, nothing other than simple human interactions.
Like many of the most intelligent people Banner knew, Tony’s interpersonal skills were a little warped. He had absolutely no patience with anyone who couldn’t keep up with his lightning intellect, except for Pepper, who he couldn’t live without, and Rhodey, who he completely adored, for reasons only Stark knew. Stark himself had said that they stuck with him through the worst: his parents’ death, his drinking, his general assholery as he simultaneously ran the company and became the latest Stark, Merchant of Death; the horrific capture in Afghanistan; his broad transformation to Iron Man and the Man of the Future; the repercussions of Stane’s influence, betrayal, and inevitable overthrow; palladium poisoning; and now, The Avengers Initiative.
And let’s not forget Bruce, living in Tony’s home, the tower that Stark had informed Banner last night would become Avengers Tower since the team was pretty much living there.
“What?” Bruce had asked, gesturing for him to rewind that last with his chopsticks, parsing through Tony’s verbal download with the ease of constant practice. “Back up? Avengers Tower?”
They were eating at a new restaurant in Chinatown that Stark had insisted they try because it supposedly had authentic Chinese food, not the boring rice and carbo-loaded imitations to be found in every state in the country.
“Why not? It’s home base for the team, it’s centrally located, has the room to spare, I wouldn’t have to go anywhere, and besides, we need a place to stow all our general . . . awesomeness.”
“And you’re okay with that? Taking your name off the door after the work you put into it?”
“I’ll still own it, Bruce,” he said with a smirk, mahogany eyes dancing. “Nothing will change other than the name of the top eleven floors.”
Banner glared. “Except that every person who doesn’t like us will know where to trap and kill us.”
“Paranoid much?”
Bruce dropped his chopsticks and sat back, instantly irritated. “Are you seriously trading quips with me about paranoia?”
Tony had the grace to look contrite. And it was cute — for all of a second. “No. No. Really. My bad. Um, I mean, doesn’t everybody know where we live already? And being Avengers, we’ve got targets us on anyway. Why not wear them with style?”
The very idea of being that public sent a shiver down Banner’s spine. “That won’t work for me, Tony.”
“Why are you mad?” he’d asked then, completely mystified. “I thought you’d like the idea.”
“I’m not even sure I want to be a part of this! It hasn’t been that long since I was hiding in the detritus of an Indian city so remote I didn’t think God knew where it was.”
“SHIELD did,” Tony pointed out unnecessarily, poking his chopsticks into a piece of beautifully cooked roast duck. “Doesn’t everyone know that Calcutta’s in India?”
Bruce sighed. “Kolkata is the correct Bengali name. Are you even listening?”
“I’m listening, I’m listening, sorry. You have to be an Avenger, Bruce,” he whined like a three year old. “And I want us to be science buddies and solve the reeeaallly tough problems of the world.” The teasing tone in his voice dropped off and turned hard. “More than that, I want to give you all the resources you need to show every one of those brain-dead bastards at Biophysics Journal and Cell exactly how mind-blowingly smart you are, that you’re not some science reject who puts on a Hulk suit every so often and smashes things when the dumbass army goes and shoots at him.” The dark eyes ensnared him for a good minute, their intensity causing his mouth to go dry. “I want them to realize their mistake in thinking that the Hulk was the most dangerous, important, amazing part of you.” His voice became deeper, intimate, almost a whisper. “I want to be there when you’re deluged by research grants, college chairs, Nobel prizes, and fawning academics, and the Hulk is relegated to Other Guy status. Because he’s not the amazing part—you are.”
Bruce bit his lip and let a warm wash of affection for Tony streak across his chest and hit his belly. His smile was grudging, but genuine, as he poked around the vegetable lo mein and avoided Tony’s gaze. “Guess that means you want me to stick around.”
“Guess it does,” Stark replied in his most casual tone, shying away from the moment. “Besides, think of the tax write-off for Stark Industries!”
“You’re subsidizing SHIELD by letting us live there, Tony,” Banner countered. “Besides the tech you hand out to them for free, of course.” He grinned a little. “I heard through the grapevine that Fury wants a Jarvis of his own and is asking his techs to get on that.”
Stark snorted. “That has to be a joke. Those idiots haven’t even figured out how Cap’s shield works yet.”
Banner chuckled at the memory of that dinner and refocused on the present and the lab.
Standing up, he went back to the fridge, staring down at the red, white, and blue vial for a long time, until the cooler started to buzz a warning that it was close to ruining other samples with the warmer air he was letting in. He reached in, took out the vial, and considered.
There had been more than one country or one scientist who had tried to reconstruct the experiment that had created Captain America with bad or worse results. While the physical aspects of peak human abilities were repeatable, without the certain blend of morality, responsibility, and humanity that made Steve Steve, the results were less than stellar. Many subjects were mentally corrupt in one way or another, which caused deficiencies that were truly horrific and immediately euthanized. The Hulk version was due to Banner’s own fractured mental state prior to irradiation along with the experimentation done when he was a child, and couldn’t be considered a valid serum result, no matter what Ross wanted people to think.
In his mind, Steve Rogers and Captain America were unique, and irreproducible. The physical manifestations could not be separated from the mental, and using it to formulate a cure for any current disease would no doubt maim the intended patient beyond remedy. Bruce clasped it in his hand for a long moment, then turned to his lab desk, entered the vial of blood into the system he maintained for biological hazards, then walked to the end of the lab where the ovens were placed. Placing Steve’s vial inside a rack, Bruce removed the cap protecting it from the air, and closed the door.
“Are you certain this is what you want to do, Dr. Banner?” Jarvis asked softly.
“The usual procedure, Jarvis. Three hundred and fifty degrees Celsius for thirty minutes.”
“As you wish.”
He went back to his desk and input the vial number and next to it typed DESTROYED, the date and his initials. In case Banner had to leave tomorrow, he wanted there to be no doubts what had happened.
Since his gamma/serum research days were long behind him, and Banner had realized that no matter what he did, the Hulk manifestation was likely permanent, he had changed the tenor of his research. It hadn’t taken him long after the Harlem disaster to understand that a career in biophysics as it stood was a non-starter, other than his deep and personal knowledge of gamma radiation and its effects on humans.
In line with Bruce’s desire to be a better person, or as much of one as he could be considering his alter-ego crushed and killed people with little remorse when angered, Banner re-tuned his focus to the biochemistry of immunology and epidemiology.
At the moment he was working with Ethan Tucker of Columbia University regarding the 2009 influenza-A (H1N1) epidemic that had swung from the UK to the US and then all ports beyond in less than a six-month period. Though the mortality ratio had skewed higher in developing countries, (if Hong Kong could be considered that,) it had been formidable in so-called ‘First World’ countries, especially the UK, and as such, reminded everyone of the terrible 1918 influenza pandemic which ended WWI in a relative stalemate and left 100 million dead globally. While the numbers were nowhere near that terrifying, there were too many pediatric and geriatric patients for most hospitals to contend with and almost 5% of all cases died of viral respiratory response or myocarditis.
Banner’s samples were varied and contained multiple strains of various flu viruses in the period since 1918 in an attempt to analyze their mutation factors and rates over time. It was the sort of analysis he was very good at, and Tanner was thrilled with the results. They had started a paper for Cell (though Bruce was of the opinion it wouldn’t be published if his name was on it), and Tuck had been talking him up to his friends at Columbia and NYU, Johns Hopkins and Harvard, so Banner was receiving more emails and paper-mail than he had in seven years, including a fascinating request from USAMRIID, the Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (at Fort Dietrich, MD) regarding a new sixth species of the Ebola virus that recently reared its bloody head in South Africa and killed a thousand people.
He had to wonder if they even knew who he was or if they were just that desperate.
By the time three o’clock rolled around, Bruce was ready to climb the walls just to distract himself from the knowledge that Betty’s wedding was happening now. Deciding that a walk and a cup of something hot might take the edge off, he grabbed a jacket, baseball cap, and sunglasses and slid into the elevator that took him past Tony and his labs, the secure parking garage, and the innocuous entry into the underground bunker that housed both the building’s Arc reactor, and the massive facility that housed Jarvis’ mainframe, core processor, power supply, and his secure lines that enabled him to interact (and hack) any system in the known world.
The ground floor of Avenger’s Tower was as busy as any midtown skyscraper that also housed Stark Industries Research and Development departments. The lobby contained an old-fashioned diner with neat tables on the sidewalk, a Barnes & Noble, Puck’s, a Brew House, a combination dry cleaners/Chinese laundry/laundromat and a full-service Elizabeth Arden salon, plus a Stark Innovations Lab — which was a fancy public relations way of showing new and in the pipeline tech that would be coming to an overpriced store near you soon.
Bruce edged his way out of the elevators behind the huge burnished steel desk that controlled access to all of the elevator banks. Two burly, serious-looking men with submachine guns stood at the end where the team’s dedicated elevator opened. They gave him a nod in polite respect, but there was no smiling greeting, no cheerful waving, or casual chats. These guys were serious; anyone who tried to get through them either had a death-wish or armor that would stop a tank.
He made his way out of the building trying not to bump into either employees or tourists, and through the late afternoon sunshine. The weekend sidewalks were crowded with people talking, walking, laughing and jostling, but there was a method to the madness that the natives knew and Bruce had quickly learned. As he walked, he listened, head tilted at a downward angle, feeling the vibrancy of all the life around him. Taxi’s honked their horns, buses chugged, trains roared beneath their gratings, while Spanish, French, English and British tones could be heard around him.
There was an old coffee shop about five blocks from the Tower that he had begun to frequent rather than the obvious one in the lobby, and it was there his feet led him today. It was open 24-hours a day, and Bruce had begun to make late-night visits when he couldn’t sleep or his work kept him awake but leaving him needing fresh air too.
He liked the New York City nights; it was never truly dark between streetlights, car headlights, neon advertisements . . . it only breathed a little slower, as though just catching its breath before the next day began, and the crowds once more took to its streets. Though the crime rate was down, it was never wise to overlook what was around you . . . too often disregard of danger had left more than one tourist in pain, financially poorer, but wiser. She was the Big Apple: take a bite if you dare, but don’t be surprised if she bites back.
The little old Polish man that Bruce practiced his language skills on wasn’t at the shop yet, so he took his cardboard cup and tea bag with him, and returned cross-town and up Fifth Avenue to the Tower. He had almost made it to the side of the street with the huge doors when he felt both his arms taken in firm grips. His heart lurched in his chest, and he looked up to see Natasha Romanov on his right and Clint Barton on his left.
“Give me a heart attack, why don’t you?” Banner hissed as he jerked away from the SHIELD agents, tea sloshing beneath the plastic cup cover.
“You need to keep your eyes up, doc, trained on what’s around you,” Tasha warned, her gaze a brilliant blue against ivory cheeks and dark-red hair.
“The sidewalk won’t grab you; Ross will,” Clint added, his voice harshly professional.
“He’s a little busy today, guys,” Bruce muttered, snapping the lid down on his tea again in an attempt to keep it from spilling further.
“His minions aren’t,” Barton advised gently, his eyes behind the sunglasses staring at the corner of the opposite street. Bruce followed his gaze, and saw four men in a black SUV with two others leaning against the building. Their eyes were locked on him and he knew, from the sudden sweat on his upper lip and the tingling sensation at his neck that they were here for him. A few more minutes’ inattention and he might have been hustled into that car and off to God knows where with none the wiser.
“Don’t worry, doc,” Tasha murmured as she took his nerveless hand in hers and tugged him into the building while Clint brought up the rear, “you’re never alone. Even when you decide to take a jaunt at three in the morning, someone’s always watching.”
Her pace was quick and Bruce hurried to keep up. She still hadn’t let go of him and her grip hurt.
“I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”
“You want to be a lab rat for Ross?” she asked caustically, waltzing past the security agents with the big guns with a smile and a toss of her hair, shifting her grip to his wrist like he was an errant child trying to get away from her.
“Of course not,” Bruce growled, and snatched his hand loose. She reacted as if stung and shook out her arm in obvious pain.
He sighed, angry at himself. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“Yes.” She flexed her hand, and he saw her thumb and wrist begin to swell.
Clint let out a groan, pulling off his sunglasses. “Bruce! What did you do, man?” He slid his card into the reader for the elevator, and pushed all three of them inside.
As he moved closer to determine the damage, Tasha hissed and backed away.
“I’m sorry, Natasha; I didn’t mean to hurt you. Let me look at it.” He kept his hands at his sides and just used his eyes. “We need to x-ray it to make sure I didn’t break your thumb.”
“It’s not broken,” she snapped, glaring at him with irritated blue eyes. “Just a sprain.”
“Are you sure—?”
“Tasha’s broken enough bones to know between a sprain and a fracture, doc,” Clint told him with an exasperated sigh. “But I’ll check it, just in case.”
She growled at Clint, but didn’t argue.
“I am sorry, Natasha.”
“You don’t know you own strength, Brucie,” Clint teased him, slipping off his sunglasses, hazel eyes sympathetic but not angry.
“Don’t call me that, Clint,” Banner replied darkly.
“You’re pissy today, doc; what’s up?” the archer asked, his cheerful expression confused, but managing to get the pun in there anyway.
“Nothing, Clint,” he replied, not wanting to get into it with the agent.
“Dinner later, right?”
Steve had insisted that the team have one meal a day together, and while breakfast was usually the one where they all met, sometimes Tony or Bruce was still asleep or Stark had meetings. . . . Those who didn’t get a meal in the morning with the team, tried their damnedest to make it to dinner, or Rogers would be coming by to check up on you. His earnestness was adorable, but his stubbornness was difficult to counter without making Steve mad. And a mad Cap held on to it for a couple of days, letting you know in no uncertain terms that you had let him down. Bruce hated it. He’d rather a fist in the face than the disappointed expression on the other man’s. So though he was prone to solitary meals and isolated down-time with a book, he allowed himself to be dragged into the group . . . and found he liked the comradeship, the companionship of family dinners, conversation, and disagreements refereed by Sitwell and Steve.
When Natasha and Clint were on their level of the Tower, Bruce took the elevator down to his lab again, so upset with himself he wanted to scream. He didn’t even want the damned tea now, but he put the cup into the microwave and let it heat. Living under the radar in so many places meant that he had learned not to waste food or drink, and he sucked the hot beverage down before immersing himself in his research again.
The soft ‘ding’ of a bell over the speakers in the walls and overhead indicated that dinner was ready, and Bruce groggily pulled himself back from his work to glance at his watch. He was still irritated by what had happened with Natasha, mad about Ross and his men shadowing him, and beyond hurt or mad at Betty’s marriage, which at this point, was a done deal. Uncertain whether he could be civil tonight, Bruce returned to his work, and ignored the hungry growl of his stomach.
By nine, he was sitting at his desk at the rear of the lab, drinking from a bottle of thirty year old Macallan single malt scotch he had gotten from Tony a few weeks ago. He wasn’t drunk, but he was dopily maudlin and doubly morose. On a note pad, he was reviewing all the ways in which he’d tried to end them in the past three years.
Asphyxiation, bullets, defenestration, drowning, hanging, stabbing, strangling = Other Guy.
Bleeding, crushing, infection, overdose, poisoning, stab wounds, toxins = Other Guy’s healing ability.
He could always try irradiating himself again, but that was chancy. He could come out of it worse, with the Other Guy in control. Beyond that, it could break down his cellular structure to the point where it wouldn’t maintain any cohesion at all. Even he didn’t want to go out a melting puddle of former-human goo.
At 10 pm, he got into the elevator and went up to the penthouse, then out to the balcony outside the common rooms, sitting down with his legs over the edge and looking over, to the long drop below, and thinking, If I could just get drunk enough to stay calm while we fell, maybe this time it would work. . . .