A Comforting Presence (Steve/Tony) Part 3b
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A Comforting Presence
III. Bruce (cont)
“About time you arrived, Rogers,” Fury greets him when he comes into his office.
Steve tries to remember Natasha and her full proof poker face. He salutes Fury stiffly and settles down in a taller leather chair in front of the director’s desk. The metal walls are as oppressing as ever, made worse by the lack of pictures or windows to the outside in the room. The window behind Fury’s seat only shows the observation deck with all the agents and their large screen computers. Fury’s desk is frustratingly bare as well, a few folders and a pen on top. In the far two corners, there sits tall oppressing black cabinets.
“What is it that you needed me for, sir?” He asks as politely as possible. He expects Fury to bring up Natasha’s rather forceful resignation, perhaps even be assigned to tracking her down. He wonders if Fury will finally hint at or tell him about the break-in to Coulson’s hospital room.
“Just a status update, checking to see how you’re settling in,” Fury replies as casually as is possible for him. Instead when he folds his hands on his lap, he appears more intimidating. But Steve has dealt with intimidating people before, Colonel Philips being one of them.
“Just fine, sir,” Steve replies. His inner tactician is curious. Why is Fury inquiring after his private life? With Tony’s help (and his heart still feels an ache at Tony’s name) he has convinced S.H.I.E.L.D. to stay out of his business and independence.
“That’s good then,” Fury nods. “You’re probably wondering why I’m bothering to ask when I don’t particularly care.”
He manages a small smile; the director’s straightforward manner of speaking is one he can appreciate even if he’s upset of him. “Yes, I am.”
“There have been some… attacks on different S.H.I.E.L.D. assets in the past few weeks,” Fury explains calmly, “including several top secret laboratories and some of our top agents.”
Steve feigns his best ‘I’m Captain America and I’m always innocent’ impression, “What? Which agents were attacked? Why?”
“That’s classified information, Rogers,” Fury says sharply. “If it becomes relevant to your circumstances, I’ll let you in on the know-how. But for now… I should warn you that we have evidence and reason to believe that these attackers may start targeting more of our assets…”
It doesn’t take long for Steve to piece together what Fury is trying to say. “You think they’ll try to attack me.”
It’s almost laughable how Fury has come to this conclusion. Clint would die from the laughter alone. But the tactician in him can’t help but wonder if Fury is trying to bait him, if this is another lie. Still, there’s the possibility that Fury is actually concerned for his safety (at least the safety of a national icon.)
“Yes,” Fury confirms his suspicions. “That’s why I think you should move back into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters so that we can set up suitable protection for you-”
“With the greatest respect, sir, I would like to decline.”
Fury’s glower is intimidating but not nearly as intimidating as Natasha’s. “Captain Rogers, we only have your best interests in mind-”
“Then I’m sure you’ll agree that I’m perfectly sound of mind and rational enough to make my own decisions concerning my personal safety, sir. I’ll be fine,” Steve says with feigned politeness. He begins to rise from his seat, “Now if you have no missions for me,” again, “then I’ll take my leave, sir.”
He does his best not to stalk angrily to the door and is pleased that though his steps are stiff, they do not betray his agitation.
“We’ve reason to believe that they’ve attacked some of the other avengers,” Fury says in a tone that tells Steve he should pay attention.
He stops, just as he is about to reach the door knob.
Steve swallows slowly but doesn’t turn around. “Who have they attacked?”
“Agents Barton and Romanoff, both on separate missions,” Fury lies without hesitation. “Agent Barton has been missing for several weeks, while Agent Romanoff has recently disappeared.”
Instantly, he tries not to tense, tries not to let his hands shake. “Then,” he replies carefully, “the attackers are incapacitated now. Barton and Romanoff”-he has to resist the urge to address them as Clint and Natasha-“should be fine. Good day, sir.”
Before Fury can say more, Steve is out of his office. He rushes towards the exit, not bothering to stop by the gym (it’s not the same anymore, without Natasha, another oppressing room with metal walls.) He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder, whispers to himself not to walk so stiffly, not to let his expressions betray what he knows.
By the time he reaches the parking lot, bypassing the secret entrance and different exit protocols, he thinks that he can still feel Fury’s eyes on the back of his neck, even as he starts up his bike.
-
Steve speeds down the roadways as fast as the speed limit will allow. His mind is buzzing with the implications of what Fury has just told him. It makes no sense, he thinks. Why is Fury lying? Why doesn’t he want Steve to know that Clint has left S.H.I.E.L.D., clearly betrayed them and that Natasha has followed suit, making her intentions clear with violent confrontation? What is the purpose of keeping Coulson in that hospital and even faking the agent’s death in the first place?
The answer comes to mind instantly, but he doesn’t want to hear it, can’t bear it because if he accepts that this is true, then the America he is fighting for is more corrupt and darker than he has ever imagined.
So he keeps driving, not knowing exactly where he’s going. All he knows is that he wants to shake off the feeling of eyes watching him. He suspects that Fury might have him followed, to find out where he lives, but Tony’s legal threats (another jolting pang) have so far prevented that...
His bike takes him past busy intersections where the brightly lit advertisements dance in the reflection of the glass front of his helmet. He longs to take out a brush and paint over the glass, see how the colours will streak over his line of vision and cover the world he doesn’t want to see anymore. His bike takes him past avenues of cafes and different thrift shops. He sees Central Park, less green than in his day, sees the couples and children walking there. Then he’s cruising past alleyways, looking at the tent cities, the faces of people long forgotten, people who the rest of the world forgets.
But Steve sees them. He even stops for some of them, digging out change and bills, distributing them out amongst the different homeless men and women he sees. It’s the only time he stops, when he sees faces that beg to be seen and helped.
The bike takes him through roads where the foundations of the buildings that surround them are crumbling; their walls are scrawled on by spray paint. Steve takes in the different lettering from his peripheral vision, some of it offensive and some of it not. Where are the angels? One of the graffiti messages ask in bold yellow lettering against dusty brown and grey. Steve wants to take a paintbrush to reply back.
They’re weeping, he wants to say, they’re weeping because all people know how to do, even seventy years later, is cause pain to each other, those they hate and those they love.
He keeps going until he doesn’t know where he is anymore. He’s calling in sick to the collage, he’s not in the mood to teach anything and he has no idea where he is now.
Eventually the gas is running dangerously close to empty and when Steve finally stops it, in search for a gas station, he sees that he is in front of the entrance to Stark Towers.
His jaw goes slack and Steve sits there, on his bike, staring at the tall, winding glass doors that lead into the skyscraper. He stares upwards, at the lines and lines of glass walls, wondering which floor Tony is on. When he squints, he can make out the bold white lettering of ‘Stark’ now fixed on top of the building. He still thinks the building is ugly but he regards it fondly (and now wistfully) because it was created in part by someone he admires so much.
“Tony,” Steve whispers and the ache increases like some animal is clawing at the inside of his throat.
He takes off the helmet, feeling the slap of cold air and moves slowly towards the doors. The closer he gets the more dread gathers in his stomach but he forces himself to the entrance. He has to talk to Tony, explain things, make amends, do something or he’ll go insane.
“Good afternoon Captain Rogers,” Steve hears as soon as he steps into the foyer. “How may I be of service?”
Steve jumps, startled once more. He’s met the AI once before but he’s still not used to voices speaking out of nowhere. “H-hello JARVIS, uh, I was wondering if Tony is home...?” He’s hesitant to use that term, since, looking at the minimalist decor in the foyer, with the bold black and whites, lines running up and down the walls, the building gives off an empty aura he doesn’t like.
“Ah, Mr. Stark is busy at a conference with one of his business associates elsewhere in the city. He isn’t scheduled to return until much later tonight. Shall I inform him that you called for him, Captain?”
“Oh,” Steve says numbly. “Yes, of course. I’ll be back tomorrow then. Uh, will Tony be free tomorrow afternoon?”
“As far as I know, sir, he has nothing booked. But Mr. Stark has been scheduling impromptu meetings with a variety of associates regarding issues with the company.”
His shoulders slump, “I see... probably to do with whoever’s stealing his tech. Well, JARVIS, please let Tony know that I came by... and that I want to talk to him. I’m really sorry about earlier and I just want to make it up to him. Can you send the message to him?”
“Of course, Captain Rogers,” the AI responds politely.
“Thank you,” Steve says, still feeling odd talking into the air. “And JARVIS?”
“Yes, Captain Rogers?”
“How... how is he? Is he taking care of himself properly? Remembering to eat?”
There is a pause, as if the AI is hesitating. He sees the little cameras stationed in different corners of the building whirl, focusing closer on him. Steve doesn’t think JARVIS will answer, after all, isn’t the program on orders not to reveal personal details about his owner? But something about Steve’s composure must convince the AI because then JARVIS answers truthfully.
“I’m afraid not, Captain Rogers. Mr. Stark has been neglecting his meals as of late for the past few months, sleeping at odd hours and overworking himself despite efforts from Ms. Potts, Doctor Banner and myself, particularly today.”
Steve feels like he’s been dropped back in the ice. He throws a hand up to cover his eyes. “Christ,” he whispers, “and the Holy Ghost. Tony, what are you doing to yourself? And I just went and made things worse...”
He shouldn’t be allowed to open his big mouth, he thinks to himself. He should walk around with his lips sewed shut.
“Thank you JARVIS,” Steve says wearily. “Please make sure that Tony gets something to eat and some rest later tonight, if you can. I’ll be back tomorrow...” And he’ll bring food. Even if he has to get down on his hands and knees to apologize, he’ll get Tony to take care of himself if it’s the last thing he does.
“Not a problem, Captain. Have a good day.”
He leaves, mind plagued with thoughts of Tony alone in an empty and oppressing tower, Tony whose eyes accuse him at every turn.
-
“You’re home late,” Natasha remarks when he steps into the apartment. She’s sitting on the couch, legs crossed, and a worn copy of one of Steve’s beloved Tolkien novels sitting on her lap. Her boots sit up on the coffee table, next to the vase of carnations and sunflowers and the frame of bloody cards.
“Sorry,” Steve says in a distracted manner. He barely notices that he hasn’t put his shoes back in the correct order (they’re upside down, diagonal from each other next to Natasha’s heels) nor has he noticed that his jacket has fallen from the rack on the wall.
He almost trips over a large potted palm tree and that’s when Steve takes in the sight of the living room.
There are plants... everywhere. They line the windows in two neat rows, the counter that separates the kitchen from the sitting room and then other two walls. There are herbs, tropical plants, some floral cacti and flowers of different sizes and colours. They make the room much brighter than before, an interesting contrast with the shadowed and night lit buildings of Brooklyn on the living room walls.
“It’s beautiful,” Steve says in awe. “Did you do all of this today, Natasha?”
She hides her smile behind cover of Steve’s book, “Thought we could use more decoration. Also I took a job at a florist’s shop so you don’t have to worry about my portion of the rent.”
“Rent?” Steve blinks.
“Can’t crash in on your place without contributing,” Natasha shrugs. “Also convinced Clint to get a job too, he can’t live on his remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. wages forever. There’s only so many other assignments we can pick up outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. so it’d be good to have a day job to fall back on.”
“Oh, but you don’t need to, it’s no trouble and I don’t mind-”
Natasha flings her bookmark at him.
“Yes, we do,” she glares at him.
“But-”
She glares again, before her voice shifts to something soft. “We really do.”
Steve shifts uncomfortably from her intent gaze. He senses that she wants to ask if he’s alright when he’s anything but, so he searches for something else to say.
“When did the door and window get fixed?” The glass is all cleaned up too and there are no lingering blood streaks against the floors.
“Clint took care of it,” she shrugs.
“Oh,” Steve replies, feeling guilty. “He really didn’t have to-” Steve is about to protest when Natasha gives another dark glower in his direction. “Right, I’ll just go and... try and find him...”
He moves towards the hallway just as Natasha calls out his name.
“Steve?”
He stops, looking back at her, “Yes?” He focuses on smiling and acting normally, hoping that she won’t bring up what Tony said in the morning or his feelings on the matter. He doesn’t want to talk about it because then she’ll try to tell him that it isn’t his fault when it is. It really is.
Natasha studies him for a long time, before she shakes her head. “You... What Stark said... it’s...”
“I’m alright,” says Steve, and even when he hears it, he doesn’t believe himself.
It’s clear from the twisted slant of her lips that Natasha doesn’t either.
“I need to... go check on Coulson,” he says quickly. And then he goes to the guest bedroom, regrets and accusations chasing him there.
-
Steve hovers uncertainly in front of Coulson’s door. It creaks open before his fingers can touch the doorknob and Steve can hear a voice speaking harshly in the room.
“Look, Stark, I’m calling to tell you to get off your high horse and apologize to Steve, I was the one who told him-no don’t hang up! Damn it!” A clatter of plastic and metal against the floor, then the steady beats of the heart monitor continue.
Clint sighs.
“I wish I knew how to fix this, Phil... I really do.”
There is no answer, but then again, how can Clint or Steve expect there to be? Steve is about to come in, to make his presence known when Clint whispers to Coulson’s unmoving body again.
“I don’t know how to face Steve, Phil. I can’t bear to look at him without... well...”
Whatever he says next, Steve doesn’t linger to hear. He goes to the kitchen, ignoring Natasha’s obvious stares, and makes a quick dinner of macaroni and some vegetable stir fry. Then he mechanically sets the food on the table and leaves with the murmured excuse of not being hungry. Natasha frowns but doesn’t press him on the issue. She doesn’t know, as Clint does, that Steve is in habit of not eating when he comes home.
Then he shuts himself in his art room to bury himself in blankets, sheets of paper and charcoal. He doesn’t want to think anymore.
-
Steve spends the rest of the evening going through page after page of the sketchbook given to him. Each one is covered with words, different versions of apologies in cursive or bolded lettering. Sometimes Steve drifts off and he finds that he has traced those eyes again, accusing and hurt, staring at him on the page.
It takes him a long time to start a new one. But he can never find the right words and so his scribbles become more erratic, smudged in pure black from the charcoal. He tries to draw what he feels instead, but ends up shading dark and twisting shadows, reaching for a thin figure (who he used to be before the serum) who is trying to fight back.
And then he sketches another figure, with a bright heart, stepping in and never quite reaching out to the thin one. They’re on separate sides of the coil of the open sketchbook, never really touching, but always looking and Steve doesn’t understand it but he knows one thing.
I should have trusted you, Tony.
He slips in and out of sleep, smudges covering his face, tear drops staining the pictures.
-
At some point in the night, Steve steps into the living room. He stares at the walls of Brooklyn, his past and puts a hand out to caress the familiar buildings. It’s so close to him, as if he could step in and explore the old Deli where Bucky used to work at and yet he knows it isn’t, it’s just a wall. And if he tries to walk in, he’ll hurt himself.
A can of white paint sits at his feet and he holds out the brush, ready to erase the mural forever. The tips of the brush are inches away from touching the dresses of the dames out to enjoy the night life, to dance with their partners. But then he sees the expressions on their faces, how happy and innocent they are. He thinks he sees Bucky in the smile of one gentleman, Peggy’s smooth chin in the gentleman’s date.
The paint brush drops to the floor, splattering little white dots at the bottom of the mural, giving a faded effect to the overall picture.
He doesn’t try to erase it again.
-
His phone is vibrating at four o’clock in the morning. He’s wide awake when he opens it and sees a little alert for text messages. It takes him some time but he manages to get the message opened and is surprised to see that it’s from Bruce.
4:01 am -At the front entrance, please bring down some clothes. I might have let the other guy for a bit.
-
“Bruce! Bruce, are you alright?” Steve bursts into the foyer, a pair of jeans and a shirt from his closet thrown over his shoulders. He’s also brought down a pair of Clint’s boots, since they’ll be a better fit on the doctor than any of Steve’s shoes and one of his first aid kits in his other hand.
It’s dark and he can barely see the reflections in the shiny white tiles. He walks into a garbage can and almost hits his face against the wall before he sees movement from the corner of his eye and Bruce creeps out from behind one of the corners.
The doctor is nude, covering his private areas with a newspaper that has articles about the strange drop in Stark Industry’s stocks as well as another headline about mutilated body parts found in random alleyways of New York. Steve rushes over, handing Bruce the pants first while checking him over for injuries. The worst that Bruce seems to have is a shallow cut on his face and bruises that are quickly fading from around his eyes.
“Oh thank goodness, you’re alright,” Steve says, crouching down on his knee to pull out some rubbing alcohol to clean the cut and a few band-aids.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce’s voice is muffled as he finishes putting on Clint’s shirt. His eyes rise in amusement, “And Mickey Mouse band-aids? Really?”
“Mickey Mouse is a very noble cartoon character. Besides, it was colourful. Now what happened?” He sticks the band-aid firmly on Bruce’s cheek.
The doctor winces, “Just a bad day. Went out for some air, needed some space from Tony for a while and then some punks attempted to rob me. The other guy didn’t like that very much. I don’t remember much, just me, trying to get back in control. Woke up on top of a demolished car, saw the muggers lying down on the ground, moaning in pain-don’t worry, they aren’t seriously injured, just unconscious, I checked-and I ran for it.”
Bruce looks up at him desperately then.
“God, Steve, what do I do? I lost control again. He would have hurt those people if I hadn’t... and then... I just can’t do this Steve. I can’t stay in one place. He’s not calm in one place. I thought, I thought I could control it, thanks to Tony. I mean, at least he likes Tony, right? But then that tower... it’s so empty and I can feel him in my head, angry-he doesn’t like it, it makes him feel cooped up-and when I tried explaining to Tony why I have to leave, go back to India, keep moving, anywhere, he just won’t listen-I can’t do this. I just can’t do this.”
“Bruce-” He feels something burning at the back of his eyes, “Bruce, it’s going to be okay-”
“No, it’s not, Steve! Can’t you see? It doesn’t matter if you and Tony can accept me and him as we are or not! He doesn’t belong anywhere!” The doctor throws up his arms, “If I stay for long enough, eventually he’ll come out and he won’t tolerate all of you anymore. He’ll hurt you whether he means to or not. It’s only a matter of time.”
The doctor stares at him for what seems hours, his hair dishevelled and his eyes wide as if possessed.
“I have to leave,” he says and Bruce sprints towards the door.
“No, wait, please listen first!” Steve grabs him by the elbows. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about all of this-”
“Let go, Tony’s already given me his best excuses and it’s not worth the risk-”
“Well then why did you come here?” Steve shouts. He stops when he hears silence and harsh breathing. Bruce is blinking up at him as if Steve has struck him. Quietly he goes on. “If you think the Hulk is such a risk to us all, then why come here for help?”
Bruce doesn’t answer and Steve takes it as his cue to talk.
“Look, you haven’t technically met the other guy like we have. Sure, he’s big and green, intimidating and strong, but... he’s one of us. And I think he likes us. I certainly like him,” Steve says as Bruce blinks up in surprise. Steve grins a little. “I meant it then and I mean it now. He’s pretty endearing. And what happened today was just to protect both of you. I think you need to give the other guy a bit more credit... and you should give Tony a bit more credit too.”
We both do, he thinks, staring at the speechless gamma ray expert.
“No one wants you to leave, Bruce, not you or the other guy.”
He lets out a shuttering sigh, his pulse thumping loudly in his head. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the doctor.
Bruce has his hands on his forehead again, and is shaking his head. With despair, Steve thinks that he’s failed to convince the other man of anything but then Bruce laughs.
“I don’t get it, Captain,” he points at him. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”
Steve leans back against the wall, ready to collapse. “I don’t,” He says honestly. “I really don’t.”
-
“I’ll call S.H.I.E.L.D. in the morning and explain things to them,” Steve says when they’ve sat in silence and random chuckles for several minutes. “But we’re going-”
His friend blinks at him with a small frown. “What? Going where?”
Steve pulls his keys out from his pocket, “To see Tony. I think you two should talk.”
Bruce unclenches his hands with a sad smile, “Guess I’m not going back to India. I should tell him to change the decor at Stark Towers though... the Hulk really hates it. He doesn’t want to live in a depressing place like that.”
“He could always redecorate.”
“Sure,” Bruce snorts, “with a lovely display of rubble and mayhem, thank you.”
Their banter almost keeps away the dread of confronting Tony. Almost.
-
Steve feels strange when he parks his bike, as if something is watching them. He looks around, taking his helmet off but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Bruce glances at him, but shrugs at Steve’s peculiar behavior.
As soon as they enter through the front doors, the lights turn on simultaneously and Steve sees Tony lounging on one of the couches of the foyer, a bottle of wine in one hand. There are empty bottles littering the tiles and a much frazzled woman with lovely blonde hair is yelling at him. Steve recognizes her from the press photos as Ms. Potts, Tony’s beau and CEO of his company.
Bruce and Steve freeze when they see Ms. Potts shout, “-wasting all those months of being sober, how could you? Fuck, I can’t keep doing this for you Tony. I’ll talk to you in the morning, I hope the hangover hurts like hell!”
“But it is the morning, Pepper,” Tony slurs.
Ms. Potts replies with a rude gesture of her finger.
She walks towards the exit, nearly colliding into the two of them.
“Oh god, Doctor Banner, I’m sorry,” she tells him tearfully, giving him a quick hug. “Can you take care of Tony for me? I’ll be back, I just need to... cool down a bit before I deal with him again. Fuck, I can’t even...”
“Ms. Potts,” Bruce holds her gently, “I know what you mean. Don’t worry; I’ll be here until you get back.”
Her fists clench when she embraces him again, “I’m so sorry, Doctor Banner. And thank you,” she glances up at Steve, just noticing him, “Captain America...? Jesus, I apologize you have to see Mr. Stark like this... I can take a message or something...”
“Oh, no, I’m here with Bruce. I’ll help him watch Tony... I’m the one who should apologize, Ms. Potts,” Steve tries to tell her.
If anything it makes Pepper more emotional, muttering about how perfect people cannot possibly exist. It takes Steve, Bruce and eventually the driver Happy Hogun murmuring assurances that Tony will be fine when she comes back for her to accompany Happy back to the car. Then Bruce and Steve are alone... with a drunk and emotionally unstable billionaire.
“...I might have forgotten to mention that the reason that I needed to get some space from Tony was because he was drinking himself to death, pressing me with drunken insults until I couldn’t take it anymore and I left, but I thought Pepper and Happy had it all handled?” Bruce whispers tentatively.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Tony stands up, stumbling towards them with his entire side lopped over clumsily. “Here to laugh? Here to tell me that you’re leaving, Bruce? Can’t be near Tony Stark, he’ll make you burn,” He is singing off-key. “He made Captain America hate him and now he’s drowning in a sea of beer. Must be good beer.”
“Tony,” Steve reaches for him, feeling like he’s been slapped while Bruce appears stricken. “Come on, Tony, you shouldn’t be drinking anymore... let’s get you to bed...”
The strange feeling returns and Steve whips around, seeing shadows moving against the bright tiles. His eyes widen when he sees it.
Its face is twisted, a mould of purple flesh revealing two sharp jaws, a skull that still has smooth muscle attached to its face. Its nose is flat, like a panther’s and its limbs are covered in metal armor. Steve has only seen them once in his lifetime and once is enough for the image to be burned into his memory.
“Chitauri,” Steve breathes, remembering then, Fury’s warnings of people breaking into the labs. He’d thought that Fury was referring to Natasha, Clint and him freeing Coulson but now...
He also realizes in a numb way, that he has not heard JARVIS speak since he and Bruce walked into the lobby... (and how have they not noticed an alien in their midst until now? What is happening?)
The alien bares its teeth at him, almost in a sadistic grin. Its eyes bore into his in cruel familiarity and loathing. It holds up a device of some kind... the device is ticking and Steve’s eyes widen.
“Bruce! Get out of here!” Steve roars, grabbing Tony by the cuff of his shirt, rushing to the exit. He looks back, seeing the scientist, struggling to control himself. “Bruce, Run!”
An odd garbled noise is snarled and Steve realizes that the Chitauri is probably cursing them, gaining revenge for the slaughter of it’s kind and then-
It pushes the button on the bomb.
Steve throws Tony out the doors, towards the street. They smash open and Tony is gone, hopefully safe and now terribly wounded from the impact. Steve prays that the billionaire will forgive him for a couple of injuries in exchange for not getting buried under Stark Towers; Bruce begins to change, roaring and reaching for Steve-
There is fire and then the world crashes down on him.
-
Before:
Steve laughs again at one of Bruce’s quiet jokes; the scientist still hasn’t lost his slightly surprised expression when it happens. Bruce insists on helping Steve bring up the shopping bags to his apartment and so Steve invites him in for some tea as well.
“If you ever need anything, you’re welcome over anytime,” Steve tells him politely.
Bruce just shrugs but he picks up the pace as they climb the stairs with more energy.
The way that Bruce’s eyes light up when he sees the murals on the wall is worth more than any words can ever describe. Steve feels a blush paint itself on his face as he shuffles to his art room and the spare utility closet where he’s been storing his clothes. When he comes back from the hallway, he sees Bruce staring dining room mural in particular, the mixture of sunrises and auroras dancing in the dark. The colours and blacks look like they’re warring with each other, with no clear winner in the chaos.
“It’s like you’re painting a soul,” Bruce whispers, touching the threads of shadow in between dancing pink hues.
“Um, thank you, I guess, it’s not really... well,” Steve stammers.
“I think this is what it looks like sometimes, in my mind, when I’m fighting with the other guy in my head,” Bruce confesses.
Steve goes still, unsure of how to proceed.
But Bruce keeps talking, as if he isn’t even there. “He’d be the shadows... and I’d be the light. No one ever wins... but I think he gets stronger every time.”
“Bruce...”
“I saw the mural downstairs,” he interrupts, still staring at the shining blue lights painting on the upper portion of the wall. “Does he really look like that?”
Steve frowns, “Who?”
“The other guy,” Bruce answers. “Does he really look that... that gentle when he’s carrying people?”
“Yes,” Steve blurts out immediately, remembering what it was like after they helped Iron Man out, after the nuclear missile and the sky in explosions he will never forget. “He really looks like that.”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting in response to that, certainly not for Bruce to burst out in laughter that is both sardonic and happy at the same time. At least he thinks it might be happy. Steve has never been the greatest at deciphering people. But he tries.
“They showed me so much footage and photos just snapped randomly when the other guy was on rampage but none of them have ever showed him so... so human... I just... how can you...?”
“Well because he is human, isn’t he?” Steve wrinkles his brow. “He’s a part of you just as you’re a part of him. And I like him. He’s actually kind of endearing. You both are.”
Bruce only stares at him, as if he’s gone insane.
“...What is it?”
“Nothing at all, captain,” Bruce shakes his head with a chuckle. “Everything’s fine... I think, that for once, everything is fine.”
They sit at the table, drinking tea, both feeling completely calm.
-
Now:
“...Cap...! Cap... Cap... Cap wake up!”
It’s dark. He can’t see anything except a pair of glowing green eyes. Steve groans, wondering where his shield and helmet are. The howling commandoes might have taken them as a prank again. It’s odd that he can’t hear Bucky’s soft breathing next to him but instead loud snuffs.
“...Bucky...?” He asks.
“Captain awake!” is the deep reply.
Steve blinks again, memories rushing back. “Hulk?” He asks. “Hulk, is that you?”
A loud snort answers his question.
“What happened?” Steve asks, feeling the soldier take over. “Where are we?” He tries to move, but his entire right side is stuck from his right leg to his right shoulder. They feel devoid of any senses and Steve thinks that the warm liquid gathering under his back is blood. He can taste it on his lips.
“Building fall. Hulk protect. Too heavy.”
Carefully Steve squints until his vision adjusts to the darkness. He can make out the Hulk crunched over him, holding up the rubble with his two muscled arms. It is the only thing preventing Steve from being crushed to death.
“Oh,” He gasps shallowly. “Good job, Hulk. Thanks.”
“Cap hurt.”
“Oh don’t worry. It’s nothing. I’m fine,” he says, nearly believing it himself.
“Hulk doesn’t like this place. Hulk want out!” His companion shifts, and pieces of tile, cement and wires fall on Steve’s face. He coughs hoarsely, worse than his past asthma attacks.
Immediately the Hulk stops. “Cap hurt!” He repeats again, this time with an accusing tone for Steve’s white lie.
“Sorry,” Steve says as calmly as he can manage. “I don’t want you to worry. But maybe you shouldn’t move around too much big guy.” He can’t breathe very well but decides not to mention it. He needs to keep the Hulk out for as long as possible, it’s the only chance Bruce has of surviving.
“Hulk want out,” the giant says darkly, but Steve can tell that he is merely sulking.
“Tell you what...” Steve coughs again making the Hulk glare at him, “when we get out, I’ll paint you whatever you want, wherever you want. Do you like paint?” It feels surreal to ask the green giant such things. He can still see the Mickey Mouse band-aids sticking on the Hulk’s face.
His companion grunts, “Hulk want cap paint yellow sun on Hulk.”
Steve laughs but ends up coughing in between. “You got it, a yellow sun. I promise.”
The rubble creaks again, raining more grime on both of them. The Hulk grumbles angrily, shifting some debris on Steve’s left arm.
“Hulk want home.”
“Hey big guy,” Steve tells him gently. “We’ll get out, I promise. Just stay strong, alright? Keep holding that up until rescue comes and I promise that Tony,”-please, God, let Tony be alright-“will have this part of the tower rebuilt as soon as possible. Then you can go home.”
“Tower not home,” Hulk huffs. “Place with paintings home.”
Steve feels something well up in his throat. He’s not sure if it’s blood or tears. Maybe both.
“Yeah...” He feels his breaths grow shallower, faces blurring in his mind until he isn’t sure who is who anymore, “We’ll go home.”
Part 4
NOTE on the Chitauri: I'm taking artistic liscense with this version of the Chitauri. I always found it hard to believe that all of them just 'died' when the nuclear explosion was set off in their universe so I came up with my own explanation for how some of them might survive. You'll find out in future chapters.
Previous: Part 1 / Part 2a / Part 2b / Part 3a
A Comforting Presence
III. Bruce (cont)
“About time you arrived, Rogers,” Fury greets him when he comes into his office.
Steve tries to remember Natasha and her full proof poker face. He salutes Fury stiffly and settles down in a taller leather chair in front of the director’s desk. The metal walls are as oppressing as ever, made worse by the lack of pictures or windows to the outside in the room. The window behind Fury’s seat only shows the observation deck with all the agents and their large screen computers. Fury’s desk is frustratingly bare as well, a few folders and a pen on top. In the far two corners, there sits tall oppressing black cabinets.
“What is it that you needed me for, sir?” He asks as politely as possible. He expects Fury to bring up Natasha’s rather forceful resignation, perhaps even be assigned to tracking her down. He wonders if Fury will finally hint at or tell him about the break-in to Coulson’s hospital room.
“Just a status update, checking to see how you’re settling in,” Fury replies as casually as is possible for him. Instead when he folds his hands on his lap, he appears more intimidating. But Steve has dealt with intimidating people before, Colonel Philips being one of them.
“Just fine, sir,” Steve replies. His inner tactician is curious. Why is Fury inquiring after his private life? With Tony’s help (and his heart still feels an ache at Tony’s name) he has convinced S.H.I.E.L.D. to stay out of his business and independence.
“That’s good then,” Fury nods. “You’re probably wondering why I’m bothering to ask when I don’t particularly care.”
He manages a small smile; the director’s straightforward manner of speaking is one he can appreciate even if he’s upset of him. “Yes, I am.”
“There have been some… attacks on different S.H.I.E.L.D. assets in the past few weeks,” Fury explains calmly, “including several top secret laboratories and some of our top agents.”
Steve feigns his best ‘I’m Captain America and I’m always innocent’ impression, “What? Which agents were attacked? Why?”
“That’s classified information, Rogers,” Fury says sharply. “If it becomes relevant to your circumstances, I’ll let you in on the know-how. But for now… I should warn you that we have evidence and reason to believe that these attackers may start targeting more of our assets…”
It doesn’t take long for Steve to piece together what Fury is trying to say. “You think they’ll try to attack me.”
It’s almost laughable how Fury has come to this conclusion. Clint would die from the laughter alone. But the tactician in him can’t help but wonder if Fury is trying to bait him, if this is another lie. Still, there’s the possibility that Fury is actually concerned for his safety (at least the safety of a national icon.)
“Yes,” Fury confirms his suspicions. “That’s why I think you should move back into S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters so that we can set up suitable protection for you-”
“With the greatest respect, sir, I would like to decline.”
Fury’s glower is intimidating but not nearly as intimidating as Natasha’s. “Captain Rogers, we only have your best interests in mind-”
“Then I’m sure you’ll agree that I’m perfectly sound of mind and rational enough to make my own decisions concerning my personal safety, sir. I’ll be fine,” Steve says with feigned politeness. He begins to rise from his seat, “Now if you have no missions for me,” again, “then I’ll take my leave, sir.”
He does his best not to stalk angrily to the door and is pleased that though his steps are stiff, they do not betray his agitation.
“We’ve reason to believe that they’ve attacked some of the other avengers,” Fury says in a tone that tells Steve he should pay attention.
He stops, just as he is about to reach the door knob.
Steve swallows slowly but doesn’t turn around. “Who have they attacked?”
“Agents Barton and Romanoff, both on separate missions,” Fury lies without hesitation. “Agent Barton has been missing for several weeks, while Agent Romanoff has recently disappeared.”
Instantly, he tries not to tense, tries not to let his hands shake. “Then,” he replies carefully, “the attackers are incapacitated now. Barton and Romanoff”-he has to resist the urge to address them as Clint and Natasha-“should be fine. Good day, sir.”
Before Fury can say more, Steve is out of his office. He rushes towards the exit, not bothering to stop by the gym (it’s not the same anymore, without Natasha, another oppressing room with metal walls.) He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder, whispers to himself not to walk so stiffly, not to let his expressions betray what he knows.
By the time he reaches the parking lot, bypassing the secret entrance and different exit protocols, he thinks that he can still feel Fury’s eyes on the back of his neck, even as he starts up his bike.
-
Steve speeds down the roadways as fast as the speed limit will allow. His mind is buzzing with the implications of what Fury has just told him. It makes no sense, he thinks. Why is Fury lying? Why doesn’t he want Steve to know that Clint has left S.H.I.E.L.D., clearly betrayed them and that Natasha has followed suit, making her intentions clear with violent confrontation? What is the purpose of keeping Coulson in that hospital and even faking the agent’s death in the first place?
The answer comes to mind instantly, but he doesn’t want to hear it, can’t bear it because if he accepts that this is true, then the America he is fighting for is more corrupt and darker than he has ever imagined.
So he keeps driving, not knowing exactly where he’s going. All he knows is that he wants to shake off the feeling of eyes watching him. He suspects that Fury might have him followed, to find out where he lives, but Tony’s legal threats (another jolting pang) have so far prevented that...
His bike takes him past busy intersections where the brightly lit advertisements dance in the reflection of the glass front of his helmet. He longs to take out a brush and paint over the glass, see how the colours will streak over his line of vision and cover the world he doesn’t want to see anymore. His bike takes him past avenues of cafes and different thrift shops. He sees Central Park, less green than in his day, sees the couples and children walking there. Then he’s cruising past alleyways, looking at the tent cities, the faces of people long forgotten, people who the rest of the world forgets.
But Steve sees them. He even stops for some of them, digging out change and bills, distributing them out amongst the different homeless men and women he sees. It’s the only time he stops, when he sees faces that beg to be seen and helped.
The bike takes him through roads where the foundations of the buildings that surround them are crumbling; their walls are scrawled on by spray paint. Steve takes in the different lettering from his peripheral vision, some of it offensive and some of it not. Where are the angels? One of the graffiti messages ask in bold yellow lettering against dusty brown and grey. Steve wants to take a paintbrush to reply back.
They’re weeping, he wants to say, they’re weeping because all people know how to do, even seventy years later, is cause pain to each other, those they hate and those they love.
He keeps going until he doesn’t know where he is anymore. He’s calling in sick to the collage, he’s not in the mood to teach anything and he has no idea where he is now.
Eventually the gas is running dangerously close to empty and when Steve finally stops it, in search for a gas station, he sees that he is in front of the entrance to Stark Towers.
His jaw goes slack and Steve sits there, on his bike, staring at the tall, winding glass doors that lead into the skyscraper. He stares upwards, at the lines and lines of glass walls, wondering which floor Tony is on. When he squints, he can make out the bold white lettering of ‘Stark’ now fixed on top of the building. He still thinks the building is ugly but he regards it fondly (and now wistfully) because it was created in part by someone he admires so much.
“Tony,” Steve whispers and the ache increases like some animal is clawing at the inside of his throat.
He takes off the helmet, feeling the slap of cold air and moves slowly towards the doors. The closer he gets the more dread gathers in his stomach but he forces himself to the entrance. He has to talk to Tony, explain things, make amends, do something or he’ll go insane.
“Good afternoon Captain Rogers,” Steve hears as soon as he steps into the foyer. “How may I be of service?”
Steve jumps, startled once more. He’s met the AI once before but he’s still not used to voices speaking out of nowhere. “H-hello JARVIS, uh, I was wondering if Tony is home...?” He’s hesitant to use that term, since, looking at the minimalist decor in the foyer, with the bold black and whites, lines running up and down the walls, the building gives off an empty aura he doesn’t like.
“Ah, Mr. Stark is busy at a conference with one of his business associates elsewhere in the city. He isn’t scheduled to return until much later tonight. Shall I inform him that you called for him, Captain?”
“Oh,” Steve says numbly. “Yes, of course. I’ll be back tomorrow then. Uh, will Tony be free tomorrow afternoon?”
“As far as I know, sir, he has nothing booked. But Mr. Stark has been scheduling impromptu meetings with a variety of associates regarding issues with the company.”
His shoulders slump, “I see... probably to do with whoever’s stealing his tech. Well, JARVIS, please let Tony know that I came by... and that I want to talk to him. I’m really sorry about earlier and I just want to make it up to him. Can you send the message to him?”
“Of course, Captain Rogers,” the AI responds politely.
“Thank you,” Steve says, still feeling odd talking into the air. “And JARVIS?”
“Yes, Captain Rogers?”
“How... how is he? Is he taking care of himself properly? Remembering to eat?”
There is a pause, as if the AI is hesitating. He sees the little cameras stationed in different corners of the building whirl, focusing closer on him. Steve doesn’t think JARVIS will answer, after all, isn’t the program on orders not to reveal personal details about his owner? But something about Steve’s composure must convince the AI because then JARVIS answers truthfully.
“I’m afraid not, Captain Rogers. Mr. Stark has been neglecting his meals as of late for the past few months, sleeping at odd hours and overworking himself despite efforts from Ms. Potts, Doctor Banner and myself, particularly today.”
Steve feels like he’s been dropped back in the ice. He throws a hand up to cover his eyes. “Christ,” he whispers, “and the Holy Ghost. Tony, what are you doing to yourself? And I just went and made things worse...”
He shouldn’t be allowed to open his big mouth, he thinks to himself. He should walk around with his lips sewed shut.
“Thank you JARVIS,” Steve says wearily. “Please make sure that Tony gets something to eat and some rest later tonight, if you can. I’ll be back tomorrow...” And he’ll bring food. Even if he has to get down on his hands and knees to apologize, he’ll get Tony to take care of himself if it’s the last thing he does.
“Not a problem, Captain. Have a good day.”
He leaves, mind plagued with thoughts of Tony alone in an empty and oppressing tower, Tony whose eyes accuse him at every turn.
-
“You’re home late,” Natasha remarks when he steps into the apartment. She’s sitting on the couch, legs crossed, and a worn copy of one of Steve’s beloved Tolkien novels sitting on her lap. Her boots sit up on the coffee table, next to the vase of carnations and sunflowers and the frame of bloody cards.
“Sorry,” Steve says in a distracted manner. He barely notices that he hasn’t put his shoes back in the correct order (they’re upside down, diagonal from each other next to Natasha’s heels) nor has he noticed that his jacket has fallen from the rack on the wall.
He almost trips over a large potted palm tree and that’s when Steve takes in the sight of the living room.
There are plants... everywhere. They line the windows in two neat rows, the counter that separates the kitchen from the sitting room and then other two walls. There are herbs, tropical plants, some floral cacti and flowers of different sizes and colours. They make the room much brighter than before, an interesting contrast with the shadowed and night lit buildings of Brooklyn on the living room walls.
“It’s beautiful,” Steve says in awe. “Did you do all of this today, Natasha?”
She hides her smile behind cover of Steve’s book, “Thought we could use more decoration. Also I took a job at a florist’s shop so you don’t have to worry about my portion of the rent.”
“Rent?” Steve blinks.
“Can’t crash in on your place without contributing,” Natasha shrugs. “Also convinced Clint to get a job too, he can’t live on his remaining S.H.I.E.L.D. wages forever. There’s only so many other assignments we can pick up outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. so it’d be good to have a day job to fall back on.”
“Oh, but you don’t need to, it’s no trouble and I don’t mind-”
Natasha flings her bookmark at him.
“Yes, we do,” she glares at him.
“But-”
She glares again, before her voice shifts to something soft. “We really do.”
Steve shifts uncomfortably from her intent gaze. He senses that she wants to ask if he’s alright when he’s anything but, so he searches for something else to say.
“When did the door and window get fixed?” The glass is all cleaned up too and there are no lingering blood streaks against the floors.
“Clint took care of it,” she shrugs.
“Oh,” Steve replies, feeling guilty. “He really didn’t have to-” Steve is about to protest when Natasha gives another dark glower in his direction. “Right, I’ll just go and... try and find him...”
He moves towards the hallway just as Natasha calls out his name.
“Steve?”
He stops, looking back at her, “Yes?” He focuses on smiling and acting normally, hoping that she won’t bring up what Tony said in the morning or his feelings on the matter. He doesn’t want to talk about it because then she’ll try to tell him that it isn’t his fault when it is. It really is.
Natasha studies him for a long time, before she shakes her head. “You... What Stark said... it’s...”
“I’m alright,” says Steve, and even when he hears it, he doesn’t believe himself.
It’s clear from the twisted slant of her lips that Natasha doesn’t either.
“I need to... go check on Coulson,” he says quickly. And then he goes to the guest bedroom, regrets and accusations chasing him there.
-
Steve hovers uncertainly in front of Coulson’s door. It creaks open before his fingers can touch the doorknob and Steve can hear a voice speaking harshly in the room.
“Look, Stark, I’m calling to tell you to get off your high horse and apologize to Steve, I was the one who told him-no don’t hang up! Damn it!” A clatter of plastic and metal against the floor, then the steady beats of the heart monitor continue.
Clint sighs.
“I wish I knew how to fix this, Phil... I really do.”
There is no answer, but then again, how can Clint or Steve expect there to be? Steve is about to come in, to make his presence known when Clint whispers to Coulson’s unmoving body again.
“I don’t know how to face Steve, Phil. I can’t bear to look at him without... well...”
Whatever he says next, Steve doesn’t linger to hear. He goes to the kitchen, ignoring Natasha’s obvious stares, and makes a quick dinner of macaroni and some vegetable stir fry. Then he mechanically sets the food on the table and leaves with the murmured excuse of not being hungry. Natasha frowns but doesn’t press him on the issue. She doesn’t know, as Clint does, that Steve is in habit of not eating when he comes home.
Then he shuts himself in his art room to bury himself in blankets, sheets of paper and charcoal. He doesn’t want to think anymore.
-
Steve spends the rest of the evening going through page after page of the sketchbook given to him. Each one is covered with words, different versions of apologies in cursive or bolded lettering. Sometimes Steve drifts off and he finds that he has traced those eyes again, accusing and hurt, staring at him on the page.
It takes him a long time to start a new one. But he can never find the right words and so his scribbles become more erratic, smudged in pure black from the charcoal. He tries to draw what he feels instead, but ends up shading dark and twisting shadows, reaching for a thin figure (who he used to be before the serum) who is trying to fight back.
And then he sketches another figure, with a bright heart, stepping in and never quite reaching out to the thin one. They’re on separate sides of the coil of the open sketchbook, never really touching, but always looking and Steve doesn’t understand it but he knows one thing.
I should have trusted you, Tony.
He slips in and out of sleep, smudges covering his face, tear drops staining the pictures.
-
At some point in the night, Steve steps into the living room. He stares at the walls of Brooklyn, his past and puts a hand out to caress the familiar buildings. It’s so close to him, as if he could step in and explore the old Deli where Bucky used to work at and yet he knows it isn’t, it’s just a wall. And if he tries to walk in, he’ll hurt himself.
A can of white paint sits at his feet and he holds out the brush, ready to erase the mural forever. The tips of the brush are inches away from touching the dresses of the dames out to enjoy the night life, to dance with their partners. But then he sees the expressions on their faces, how happy and innocent they are. He thinks he sees Bucky in the smile of one gentleman, Peggy’s smooth chin in the gentleman’s date.
The paint brush drops to the floor, splattering little white dots at the bottom of the mural, giving a faded effect to the overall picture.
He doesn’t try to erase it again.
-
His phone is vibrating at four o’clock in the morning. He’s wide awake when he opens it and sees a little alert for text messages. It takes him some time but he manages to get the message opened and is surprised to see that it’s from Bruce.
4:01 am -At the front entrance, please bring down some clothes. I might have let the other guy for a bit.
-
“Bruce! Bruce, are you alright?” Steve bursts into the foyer, a pair of jeans and a shirt from his closet thrown over his shoulders. He’s also brought down a pair of Clint’s boots, since they’ll be a better fit on the doctor than any of Steve’s shoes and one of his first aid kits in his other hand.
It’s dark and he can barely see the reflections in the shiny white tiles. He walks into a garbage can and almost hits his face against the wall before he sees movement from the corner of his eye and Bruce creeps out from behind one of the corners.
The doctor is nude, covering his private areas with a newspaper that has articles about the strange drop in Stark Industry’s stocks as well as another headline about mutilated body parts found in random alleyways of New York. Steve rushes over, handing Bruce the pants first while checking him over for injuries. The worst that Bruce seems to have is a shallow cut on his face and bruises that are quickly fading from around his eyes.
“Oh thank goodness, you’re alright,” Steve says, crouching down on his knee to pull out some rubbing alcohol to clean the cut and a few band-aids.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce’s voice is muffled as he finishes putting on Clint’s shirt. His eyes rise in amusement, “And Mickey Mouse band-aids? Really?”
“Mickey Mouse is a very noble cartoon character. Besides, it was colourful. Now what happened?” He sticks the band-aid firmly on Bruce’s cheek.
The doctor winces, “Just a bad day. Went out for some air, needed some space from Tony for a while and then some punks attempted to rob me. The other guy didn’t like that very much. I don’t remember much, just me, trying to get back in control. Woke up on top of a demolished car, saw the muggers lying down on the ground, moaning in pain-don’t worry, they aren’t seriously injured, just unconscious, I checked-and I ran for it.”
Bruce looks up at him desperately then.
“God, Steve, what do I do? I lost control again. He would have hurt those people if I hadn’t... and then... I just can’t do this Steve. I can’t stay in one place. He’s not calm in one place. I thought, I thought I could control it, thanks to Tony. I mean, at least he likes Tony, right? But then that tower... it’s so empty and I can feel him in my head, angry-he doesn’t like it, it makes him feel cooped up-and when I tried explaining to Tony why I have to leave, go back to India, keep moving, anywhere, he just won’t listen-I can’t do this. I just can’t do this.”
“Bruce-” He feels something burning at the back of his eyes, “Bruce, it’s going to be okay-”
“No, it’s not, Steve! Can’t you see? It doesn’t matter if you and Tony can accept me and him as we are or not! He doesn’t belong anywhere!” The doctor throws up his arms, “If I stay for long enough, eventually he’ll come out and he won’t tolerate all of you anymore. He’ll hurt you whether he means to or not. It’s only a matter of time.”
The doctor stares at him for what seems hours, his hair dishevelled and his eyes wide as if possessed.
“I have to leave,” he says and Bruce sprints towards the door.
“No, wait, please listen first!” Steve grabs him by the elbows. “You’re wrong. You’re wrong about all of this-”
“Let go, Tony’s already given me his best excuses and it’s not worth the risk-”
“Well then why did you come here?” Steve shouts. He stops when he hears silence and harsh breathing. Bruce is blinking up at him as if Steve has struck him. Quietly he goes on. “If you think the Hulk is such a risk to us all, then why come here for help?”
Bruce doesn’t answer and Steve takes it as his cue to talk.
“Look, you haven’t technically met the other guy like we have. Sure, he’s big and green, intimidating and strong, but... he’s one of us. And I think he likes us. I certainly like him,” Steve says as Bruce blinks up in surprise. Steve grins a little. “I meant it then and I mean it now. He’s pretty endearing. And what happened today was just to protect both of you. I think you need to give the other guy a bit more credit... and you should give Tony a bit more credit too.”
We both do, he thinks, staring at the speechless gamma ray expert.
“No one wants you to leave, Bruce, not you or the other guy.”
He lets out a shuttering sigh, his pulse thumping loudly in his head. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the doctor.
Bruce has his hands on his forehead again, and is shaking his head. With despair, Steve thinks that he’s failed to convince the other man of anything but then Bruce laughs.
“I don’t get it, Captain,” he points at him. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”
Steve leans back against the wall, ready to collapse. “I don’t,” He says honestly. “I really don’t.”
-
“I’ll call S.H.I.E.L.D. in the morning and explain things to them,” Steve says when they’ve sat in silence and random chuckles for several minutes. “But we’re going-”
His friend blinks at him with a small frown. “What? Going where?”
Steve pulls his keys out from his pocket, “To see Tony. I think you two should talk.”
Bruce unclenches his hands with a sad smile, “Guess I’m not going back to India. I should tell him to change the decor at Stark Towers though... the Hulk really hates it. He doesn’t want to live in a depressing place like that.”
“He could always redecorate.”
“Sure,” Bruce snorts, “with a lovely display of rubble and mayhem, thank you.”
Their banter almost keeps away the dread of confronting Tony. Almost.
-
Steve feels strange when he parks his bike, as if something is watching them. He looks around, taking his helmet off but sees nothing out of the ordinary. Bruce glances at him, but shrugs at Steve’s peculiar behavior.
As soon as they enter through the front doors, the lights turn on simultaneously and Steve sees Tony lounging on one of the couches of the foyer, a bottle of wine in one hand. There are empty bottles littering the tiles and a much frazzled woman with lovely blonde hair is yelling at him. Steve recognizes her from the press photos as Ms. Potts, Tony’s beau and CEO of his company.
Bruce and Steve freeze when they see Ms. Potts shout, “-wasting all those months of being sober, how could you? Fuck, I can’t keep doing this for you Tony. I’ll talk to you in the morning, I hope the hangover hurts like hell!”
“But it is the morning, Pepper,” Tony slurs.
Ms. Potts replies with a rude gesture of her finger.
She walks towards the exit, nearly colliding into the two of them.
“Oh god, Doctor Banner, I’m sorry,” she tells him tearfully, giving him a quick hug. “Can you take care of Tony for me? I’ll be back, I just need to... cool down a bit before I deal with him again. Fuck, I can’t even...”
“Ms. Potts,” Bruce holds her gently, “I know what you mean. Don’t worry; I’ll be here until you get back.”
Her fists clench when she embraces him again, “I’m so sorry, Doctor Banner. And thank you,” she glances up at Steve, just noticing him, “Captain America...? Jesus, I apologize you have to see Mr. Stark like this... I can take a message or something...”
“Oh, no, I’m here with Bruce. I’ll help him watch Tony... I’m the one who should apologize, Ms. Potts,” Steve tries to tell her.
If anything it makes Pepper more emotional, muttering about how perfect people cannot possibly exist. It takes Steve, Bruce and eventually the driver Happy Hogun murmuring assurances that Tony will be fine when she comes back for her to accompany Happy back to the car. Then Bruce and Steve are alone... with a drunk and emotionally unstable billionaire.
“...I might have forgotten to mention that the reason that I needed to get some space from Tony was because he was drinking himself to death, pressing me with drunken insults until I couldn’t take it anymore and I left, but I thought Pepper and Happy had it all handled?” Bruce whispers tentatively.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Tony stands up, stumbling towards them with his entire side lopped over clumsily. “Here to laugh? Here to tell me that you’re leaving, Bruce? Can’t be near Tony Stark, he’ll make you burn,” He is singing off-key. “He made Captain America hate him and now he’s drowning in a sea of beer. Must be good beer.”
“Tony,” Steve reaches for him, feeling like he’s been slapped while Bruce appears stricken. “Come on, Tony, you shouldn’t be drinking anymore... let’s get you to bed...”
The strange feeling returns and Steve whips around, seeing shadows moving against the bright tiles. His eyes widen when he sees it.
Its face is twisted, a mould of purple flesh revealing two sharp jaws, a skull that still has smooth muscle attached to its face. Its nose is flat, like a panther’s and its limbs are covered in metal armor. Steve has only seen them once in his lifetime and once is enough for the image to be burned into his memory.
“Chitauri,” Steve breathes, remembering then, Fury’s warnings of people breaking into the labs. He’d thought that Fury was referring to Natasha, Clint and him freeing Coulson but now...
He also realizes in a numb way, that he has not heard JARVIS speak since he and Bruce walked into the lobby... (and how have they not noticed an alien in their midst until now? What is happening?)
The alien bares its teeth at him, almost in a sadistic grin. Its eyes bore into his in cruel familiarity and loathing. It holds up a device of some kind... the device is ticking and Steve’s eyes widen.
“Bruce! Get out of here!” Steve roars, grabbing Tony by the cuff of his shirt, rushing to the exit. He looks back, seeing the scientist, struggling to control himself. “Bruce, Run!”
An odd garbled noise is snarled and Steve realizes that the Chitauri is probably cursing them, gaining revenge for the slaughter of it’s kind and then-
It pushes the button on the bomb.
Steve throws Tony out the doors, towards the street. They smash open and Tony is gone, hopefully safe and now terribly wounded from the impact. Steve prays that the billionaire will forgive him for a couple of injuries in exchange for not getting buried under Stark Towers; Bruce begins to change, roaring and reaching for Steve-
There is fire and then the world crashes down on him.
-
Before:
Steve laughs again at one of Bruce’s quiet jokes; the scientist still hasn’t lost his slightly surprised expression when it happens. Bruce insists on helping Steve bring up the shopping bags to his apartment and so Steve invites him in for some tea as well.
“If you ever need anything, you’re welcome over anytime,” Steve tells him politely.
Bruce just shrugs but he picks up the pace as they climb the stairs with more energy.
The way that Bruce’s eyes light up when he sees the murals on the wall is worth more than any words can ever describe. Steve feels a blush paint itself on his face as he shuffles to his art room and the spare utility closet where he’s been storing his clothes. When he comes back from the hallway, he sees Bruce staring dining room mural in particular, the mixture of sunrises and auroras dancing in the dark. The colours and blacks look like they’re warring with each other, with no clear winner in the chaos.
“It’s like you’re painting a soul,” Bruce whispers, touching the threads of shadow in between dancing pink hues.
“Um, thank you, I guess, it’s not really... well,” Steve stammers.
“I think this is what it looks like sometimes, in my mind, when I’m fighting with the other guy in my head,” Bruce confesses.
Steve goes still, unsure of how to proceed.
But Bruce keeps talking, as if he isn’t even there. “He’d be the shadows... and I’d be the light. No one ever wins... but I think he gets stronger every time.”
“Bruce...”
“I saw the mural downstairs,” he interrupts, still staring at the shining blue lights painting on the upper portion of the wall. “Does he really look like that?”
Steve frowns, “Who?”
“The other guy,” Bruce answers. “Does he really look that... that gentle when he’s carrying people?”
“Yes,” Steve blurts out immediately, remembering what it was like after they helped Iron Man out, after the nuclear missile and the sky in explosions he will never forget. “He really looks like that.”
He’s not sure what he’s expecting in response to that, certainly not for Bruce to burst out in laughter that is both sardonic and happy at the same time. At least he thinks it might be happy. Steve has never been the greatest at deciphering people. But he tries.
“They showed me so much footage and photos just snapped randomly when the other guy was on rampage but none of them have ever showed him so... so human... I just... how can you...?”
“Well because he is human, isn’t he?” Steve wrinkles his brow. “He’s a part of you just as you’re a part of him. And I like him. He’s actually kind of endearing. You both are.”
Bruce only stares at him, as if he’s gone insane.
“...What is it?”
“Nothing at all, captain,” Bruce shakes his head with a chuckle. “Everything’s fine... I think, that for once, everything is fine.”
They sit at the table, drinking tea, both feeling completely calm.
-
Now:
“...Cap...! Cap... Cap... Cap wake up!”
It’s dark. He can’t see anything except a pair of glowing green eyes. Steve groans, wondering where his shield and helmet are. The howling commandoes might have taken them as a prank again. It’s odd that he can’t hear Bucky’s soft breathing next to him but instead loud snuffs.
“...Bucky...?” He asks.
“Captain awake!” is the deep reply.
Steve blinks again, memories rushing back. “Hulk?” He asks. “Hulk, is that you?”
A loud snort answers his question.
“What happened?” Steve asks, feeling the soldier take over. “Where are we?” He tries to move, but his entire right side is stuck from his right leg to his right shoulder. They feel devoid of any senses and Steve thinks that the warm liquid gathering under his back is blood. He can taste it on his lips.
“Building fall. Hulk protect. Too heavy.”
Carefully Steve squints until his vision adjusts to the darkness. He can make out the Hulk crunched over him, holding up the rubble with his two muscled arms. It is the only thing preventing Steve from being crushed to death.
“Oh,” He gasps shallowly. “Good job, Hulk. Thanks.”
“Cap hurt.”
“Oh don’t worry. It’s nothing. I’m fine,” he says, nearly believing it himself.
“Hulk doesn’t like this place. Hulk want out!” His companion shifts, and pieces of tile, cement and wires fall on Steve’s face. He coughs hoarsely, worse than his past asthma attacks.
Immediately the Hulk stops. “Cap hurt!” He repeats again, this time with an accusing tone for Steve’s white lie.
“Sorry,” Steve says as calmly as he can manage. “I don’t want you to worry. But maybe you shouldn’t move around too much big guy.” He can’t breathe very well but decides not to mention it. He needs to keep the Hulk out for as long as possible, it’s the only chance Bruce has of surviving.
“Hulk want out,” the giant says darkly, but Steve can tell that he is merely sulking.
“Tell you what...” Steve coughs again making the Hulk glare at him, “when we get out, I’ll paint you whatever you want, wherever you want. Do you like paint?” It feels surreal to ask the green giant such things. He can still see the Mickey Mouse band-aids sticking on the Hulk’s face.
His companion grunts, “Hulk want cap paint yellow sun on Hulk.”
Steve laughs but ends up coughing in between. “You got it, a yellow sun. I promise.”
The rubble creaks again, raining more grime on both of them. The Hulk grumbles angrily, shifting some debris on Steve’s left arm.
“Hulk want home.”
“Hey big guy,” Steve tells him gently. “We’ll get out, I promise. Just stay strong, alright? Keep holding that up until rescue comes and I promise that Tony,”-please, God, let Tony be alright-“will have this part of the tower rebuilt as soon as possible. Then you can go home.”
“Tower not home,” Hulk huffs. “Place with paintings home.”
Steve feels something well up in his throat. He’s not sure if it’s blood or tears. Maybe both.
“Yeah...” He feels his breaths grow shallower, faces blurring in his mind until he isn’t sure who is who anymore, “We’ll go home.”
Part 4
NOTE on the Chitauri: I'm taking artistic liscense with this version of the Chitauri. I always found it hard to believe that all of them just 'died' when the nuclear explosion was set off in their universe so I came up with my own explanation for how some of them might survive. You'll find out in future chapters.