A/N: Alright, friends, here's the deal. I'm moving on Tuesday, which means I'm busy shopping and packing, and then after I move I will be at rehearsals for 12 hours a day for about a week. No promises on when the next update will be, and for that I'm sorry. So here's this one, which also has not been reviewed by my beta/coauthor, but I'd like to post it now before things get any busier. Thanks again for reading!
Bruce hasn't seen any sign of SHIELD anywhere around him. He's sure they're searching; they can spout words like trust and freedom all they want, they still see him as a threat (sometimes he sees himself as a threat) and so he knows they're looking for him.
So he keeps moving. He hitches rides and stows away, and when that doesn't work, he walks.
He stops for the longest in Honduras, helping where he can. But the people are too poor to even pay a doctor. He takes off at the first mention of periodista and cámara.
He spends a good amount of time in Colombia, maybe two weeks, but someone brings an abandoned baby to him, and the woman's distressed mutterings of huérfano keep him up for two nights before he gathers his things and takes off.
In Peru he wonders how it's possible that every other patient he has is a pregnant woman who's husband is dead or missing or simply gone. He only lasts eight days before leaving there.
He shoulders his bag and starts on the dusty road, hoping for a better turn out next time.
It's only three days into Bolivia before he finds himself patching up a little boy, who's mother is trying desperately to speak with him in the most rapid Spanish he's ever heard. He's rusty, and Spanish was never one of his strengths to begin with. He finds himself wishing Natasha were here to translate for him.
He mentally shakes himself as he carefully splints the little boy's arm. That was a different life, one he can't go back to, and reminding himself of it won't help him at all. So he smiles in what he hopes is a comforting way. "Está bien, señora," he says, cutting off her tirade. "Todo está bien," and he accepts the few coins she drops into his hand, and smiles until they're out of sight.
That night he sits in the tiny tent he's erected for himself and holds his passport in one hand, idly flipping through the pages and letting his fingers trace the ink and paper.
When he finally goes to replace it, his fingers hit an object in the side pocket of his bag he doesn't remember putting there.
His heart stops for a moment when he recognizes Natasha's flowing handwriting on the outside of the envelope, where she's written his name.
He opens it with hands he refuses to admit are shaking, watching dully as his Stark Industries phone and a piece of paper fall out.
It's a picture of the team, mid-battle. He thinks it's from New York, during their first fight together, and he can't help the guilt that washes over him. He has to turn the photo over to avoid their gazes, and he's surprised when he finds more of Natasha's writing there.
You're welcome back anytime. Don't worry about SHIELD, I'll handle it. Take care.
He stares at the note until he can't see straight anymore in the little light he's procured. He falls asleep with it still in his hand, wondering if he's made the biggest mistake of his life by leaving this time.
"You're not going to get anything out of me, Stark, no matter how many times you try." Natasha's sitting at the kitchen table, a stack of paperwork in from of her that she's filling out with the speed of someone who's filled out so many of the same forms she doesn't need to look for the signature lines anymore.
Tony perches on the table in front of the stack. "I could automate all that, you know," he says, fingering one of the sheets. "Bring SHIELD into the twenty-first century, save everyone some time."
Natasha slaps his hand away while continuing to fill out her forms with her other hand, but there's a half-smile on her face. "I think Fury would lose his other eye before letting you near SHIELD's servers." She glances up at him briefly before returning to her work. "If you're here to question me again, get started. I have work to do, agents to harass, and directors to avoid."
"You could just tell me what the hell is going on and save us both the trouble."
"I thought you didn't trust me," she mutters without looking up.
"I don't," he agrees, voice neutral. "But I could use something to work with. Some bad lies, at least."
Natasha chuckles. "But then where would the fun be? You're less annoying when you're occupied."
"Natasha, I'm not joking. I just want to make sure he's okay."
"You just enjoy meddling. It's time to let your obsession go."
"Banner's wellbeing in not an obsession," he snaps back angrily. He opens his mouth, ready to launch into a tirade, but, as if on cue, the alarm sounds.
"Do you plan these attacks?" Tony snaps, glaring at Natasha's back as she strides out of the room.
The last place Steve wants to be after battle is sitting in Fury's office, still in full uniform. He drains his fourth water bottle and sets it down with the others in front of him just as Fury strides into the room.
Steve straightens up automatically. "Sorry to come so late, sir."
"It's all the same to me, captain," Fury says. "What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to know..." Steve pauses, staring hard at the desk. "I wanted to know whether there's been any news about Banner."
Fury stares at him for a moment. "No news as of yet," he says, leaning back in his chair. "But don't worry, captain. We will find him."
Steve swallows hard at the almost threatening statement, blinking as an uncomfortable feeling settles in his stomach. "Keep me updated," he forces himself to say before muttering a quick good night and taking his leave.
Gun shots. Overwhelming fear, running through the forest, the enemy could be anywhere. Bucky running beside him, face focused, like on every mission, and the fear melts away, because they know what they're doing, they've done this before, and he and his friends can accomplish anything.
But then Bucky seems farther away, out of reach, and Steve's stomach sinks even as he calls out in the darkness. "We need to stick together," but Bucky's so far away now, and he can't reach him, and he's falling but now Bucky looks like Banner and he can't even think straight because he's chasing the receding figure as fast as he can but not even the serum can catch him and Steve is powerless to stop it, powerless to bring save his friend and -
Steve wakes up, drenched in sweat, heart pounding in his chest like he's at training camp again. He rolls over, trying to calm back down, before realizing that he's ripped the comforter clean in two.
Sighing, he rolls over to look at the clock. 5:13. He rolls out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom, leaning on the sink. He splashes cold water on his face before staring at himself in the mirror. It's 2013, he reminds himself. We're not at war, and Bucky's gone. You can't do anything about that.
He barely even notices when his fist smashes into the mirror, shattering it into pieces.
He's sitting at the table, slowly eating a bowl of Raisin Bran when Clint strides into the kitchen, freshly showered, and starts digging through the pantry in search of something. "Morning, cap," he calls over his shoulder.
Steve doesn't respond for awhile, but eventually he looks over at the archer dressed in his SHIELD uniform, eating peanut butter out of the jar. "What happens when SHIELD finds Banner?"
Clint blinks a couple of times before shrugging. "I'm not sure," he says, deftly hopping up to sit on the counter. "I was never part of the Hulk Project."
"The Hulk Project?" Steve echoes, feeling a little ill, though he hasn't gotten sick since the serum.
Clint swallows before responding. "That's what we call it. It has some long ass official SHIELD title, Bruce Banner Observation Analysis and Threat Neutralization Team, or something like that."
"Threat Neutralization," Steve repeats, suddenly not very hungry.
Clint shrugs again, though his expression is dark. "Or something like that. Like I said, I was never part of the project. I'm not familiar with their plans and protocols."
Steve shakes his head. "He's a human being. Surely they can't - "
"Steve, this is SHIELD," Clint interjects smoothly. "They have one goal, and one goal only: to protect the planet and the people on it. Don't kid yourself. They will go to any lengths they deem necessary to achieve that goal. One person's life is nothing in the grand scheme of things, that's agency policy. It happens all the time; hell, I've done it myself multiple times. Nat ever tell you how she joined SHIELD?"
"No," Steve admits.
"She was a threat, and I was sent to kill her." Clint says calmly, matter-of-factly. "But I decided against it, convinced her to join SHIELD, to work on our side. My point is, people SHIELD considers dangerous die every day."
"But they can't kill Banner," Steve says slowly.
Clint nods in agreement. "No, or I think they would have done so a long time ago, instead of spending the money on a cage."
"So what's their plan, then? When they find him again?"
"I told you, I don't know," Clint says, hopping off the counter to return the peanut butter to the pantry. "I could probably find out, though."
He knows he can't turn the phone on. SHIELD would know where he is within minutes. But Bruce still keeps it in his pocket.
Sometimes, when he gets a break in between cases of malnutrition and dehydration and cholera and minor injuries, he reaches into his pocket and touches it. He's not sure whether he does it to remind himself that he still has somewhere to go back to, or to force himself to remember, to feel every ounce of guilt he deserves.
It's a little of both, he expects.
Still, he can't seem to get himself to leave his phone in his bag. He tells himself it's a deterrent, a way to keep himself from having an incident. If he hulks out, he'll almost definitely lose the phone. That thought is a better control agent than all of the yoga and meditation he's ever done.
Sometimes he dreams about Brianna yelling at him, verbally eviscerating him until he knows what to do, knows how to rid himself of all of the guilt he's accumulated.
It's sad, he thinks, that his good dreams are of a woman yelling at him.
At least he doesn't wake up in a sweat after nightmares of waking up in a pile of rubble with the people he cares about lying dead around him.
The yelling is a nice change.
