Author's Note:

Alright guys, I feel like crap. I want to thank everyone who reviewed but I haven't had a chance to go through them all yet. So I'll thank you here and give a shout out next chapter. I'm not trying to ignore anyone, I've just got a fever, sore throat and head ache and all I want to do is sleep. Hope you guys enjoy.

I hopped up onto one of the desk while Bruce slid his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and popped open the lid of the first aid kit, fishing around for some sort of antiseptic. I pulled at the hem of the airy dress, now ripped and torn from my tumble, and chuckled. "I must look a mess."

Bruce glanced up from his task and looked me over, his eyes linger a moment longer on my curves than a strictly disinterested male's would have. He quickly ducked his head again but I could see a bit of rose creeping into the flesh of his dusky cheeks. "I think you look great," he said flustered, "Minus the cuts and bruises of course." He kept searching and finally pulled out a few packets of hydrogen peroxide pads, placing them on the table beside my thigh. "You know," he mused as he deftly tore open one of the packets, "I'm not sure I've ever seen you in a dress."

"You haven't," I replied, pulling up the hem of the dress so that he would have better access to my bloody knees, "They put me in this stupid thing." He chuckled a moment before swearing under his breath and leaning closer to my knee. "What?" I asked curiously, trying to see what he saw.

"Your knees are cut to the bone," he said pensively, "Which mean this will probably hurt a good bit. And scar." I chuckled.

"Is that all? Professor, I grew up in the Appalachian Mountains climbing trees and catching critters with my bare hands for supper. Do you really think a scrape or two is going to make me faint?" Bruce shook his head ruefully.

"No I suppose not," he muttered, delicately beginning his ministrations to my knee. I admit it stung like a nest full of angry hornets but eventually the pain dulled to a small roar in the back of my mind as I watched him work. He had aged a great deal since I had last seen him. Worry lines now gently creased his forehead, joining the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth that had been present as long as I'd known him. There was a heaviness about his bearing that seemed at odds with my reserved but passionate friend, a heaviness that was surely the result of being chased and hounded like some sort of monster. Gingerly I reached out and teased the thin wisps of silver that had begun to gently pepper his temples.

"You're going gray, old man," I teased to which he simply smiled, shaking his head.

"I actually like them," he said, opening another packet and turning his attention to my other knee, "They make me look distinguished." I snorted and turned my head to look about the room, my eyes running over gently blinking and beeping panels and machines. I was quiet for a moment, worrying the plump part of my bottom lips between my teeth as I thought about how to phrase what I wanted to say. Banner paused, glancing up as he finally sensed my unrest. "What? What's wrong? Am I using too much pressure?" he asked, gesturing towards my wounds. I shook my head, leaning forward so that I could look him in the eye.

"Where have you been, Banner?" I asked, unable to keep the quiver from my voice, "You know, I really thought you were dead this time. I hoped you weren't, but after that post card you sent me..." I trailed off, my expression going dark as I remembered that horrible morning I had gotten his letter.

The morning was cool, crisp. Perfect for Autumn even if it did make me shiver in my bathrobe and pajamas as I scurried out to the mailboxes. I wasn't sure whose bright idea it was to design an apartment building with the mailboxes outside, but they had; maybe that was why rent was so cheap. My toes crushed crisp leaves beneath them as I moved, leaving behind a trail of crimson, orange and gold flakes in my wake.

I stopped in front of the panel of boxes, pulling the small brass key marked with the number 30 out of my pocket. My box was on the bottom row and I, being a woman of above average height, I had to crouch down very low to access it. I slid the key into the lock and opened it with some difficulty as the mechanism was stiff from the overnight chill.

Reaching inside I pulled out a bundle of letters, sitting down on the cold concrete as I sifted through them. Bills, bills, letter from my editor no doubt telling me to hurry the hell up and finish my novel, bills, bills, red cross asking for donations, a flyer about lawn manicuring services for the yard I don't have, and a postcard. My fingers paused on the sleek laminated surface, setting the rest of the mail down beside me as I examined the picture. It was a rather indiscriminate picture of a rainforest, the lush green of the trees only marred by the presence of some shockingly yellow birds in the corner. I flipped it over and couldn't help but grin at the familiar almost mechanically neat and tiny print. "Hello Bruce," I murmured to myself, beginning to read.

Sophie,

Congratulations on finally making the NYT best sellers list. I've read the book, and it's brilliant. Not that that I'd expect anything less, but well done all the same. I know it has been a while since I last wrote you, and I'm sorry, but things simply aren't working out. I've tried everything Sophie, really and truly I have but this is too much for me. I'm not strong enough. This will be the last time you hear from me and I just wanted you to know how much your friendship has meant to me all these years. You are so special to me Sophie, and it has been an honor and a privilege to have known you. I want you to have the box of my things you've been holding onto for me. I don't think I'll need them anymore. Toss them, sell them, or keep them it's up to you. Have a wonderful life, Sophie Crowe.

-Bruce

I stared in shock at the letter, reading it again and again to make sure I hadn't made a mistake before slowly shuffling back into the building, not bother to pick up the rest of my mail from the sidewalk. I didn't leave my apartment for over a month afterwards. Not until my publisher came to check my pulse and make sure I was still alive.

"What kinda nut sends a su-i-cide note on a gol durn tropical postcard any-way?" I snapped at him, my face turning cherry red.

Bruce held up his hands in a peaceful gesture. "Sophie, you're upset-"

"With damn good reas'n!" I snarled, "Su-i-cide is fuckin upsettin!" I glared at him and jumped off of the table, striding angrily back and forth across the room as he watched me helplessly.

"Sophie-"

"There is nuthin," I growled furiously, "Would please me more thin ter hit ye righ' now." Bruce's lips twisted a bit in amusement.

"That is admittedly ill-advised," he murmured.

"I am aware," I hissed lowly, "Hence the pacin'." Bruce stood and walked over to me, taking my shoulders in his hands and forcing me to face him.

"It didn't work, Soph," he said roughly, "The other guy wouldn't... he wouldn't let me die." I stared at the pain in his face and I became very quiet as my emotions reached a fever pitch internally.

"Ye have ter promise me, Bruce," I said hoarsely, "Ye have ter promise that ye ain't NEVER gone put me through that ag'in." My eyes locked onto his, though his face was a little blurred from my tears. "Don' try it, don' ye even think 'bout tryin' it. 'Cus I ain't gone be able ter handle losin' yer twice."

"I promise," he said finally. I nearly laughed; he was one of those men who became completely overwhelmed at the sight of a woman in tears.

"Good," I sniffed, wiping my eyes for what seemed like the thirtieth time in a twenty-four hour period, "Then let's get back to work. It appears the cut on my knee has opened again."