I do not own any aspect of The Avengers, or any of Marvel's other creations.
-M.
"I know you'll have to tell Tony that I've left if he asks," Bruce says as he reaches to the back of his closet for the duffel bag Natasha had given him when he first decided to stay at Stark Tower, "but can you tell him it was my choice? And tell the rest of the team that, if they want to help me, they should stay away."
"I can," JARVIS says. "Although Mr. Stark is not the sort to be swayed from his desire to help in whatever manner he thinks is best."
"I know, but try to hold him off as long as possible."
Packing doesn't take long; in spite of Tony's pushiness, Bruce hasn't accumulated much during his stay in the tower that can be stuffed into a bag. Within five minutes, he's zipping up the duffel and powering down his phone to leave on the nightstand.
"JARVIS, don't let any of them think they didn't do enough," Bruce says, slinging the bag onto his shoulder.
He makes it to the elevator before adding, "And tell Clint I'm sorry."
"Of course, Dr. Banner," JARVIS says. "Best of luck."
"Thanks."
There's a sleek black car waiting on the curb outside the main entrance of the tower.
Bruce slows his pace as two men in suits climb out and flank either side of the open car door. He's a threat, of course, but he still tries to prove by his walk that he's not on the edge of losing control.
He makes it within six feet of the car when one of the men steps forward, arm rising, and Bruce tries to brace for the blow that looks aimed for his head when he feels the jab of a needle in his neck. He has enough time to wonder if they measured the dose of sedative for him or for the Hulk before he loses control of his senses completely.
It isn't a slow waking, and Bruce regrets that immediately, because his eyes aren't even open yet and he already knows exactly what they'll see. The image comes with an ache; the sensation of having been carved out. He'd told Fury they'd have to move him quickly so that the rest of the team wouldn't figure it out until it was too late. He hadn't mentioned that he needed the speed to keep his mind from processing what his decision had meant.
He wonders if Ender, Winston, and the unnamed protagonist have missed him.
The ache grows worse, and Bruce reminds himself that he knew this was coming; that there's only ever been one possible conclusion for him since the gamma radiation and he's known all along that every good thing has an end.
He still waits a few minutes before he can force his eyes open.
The ceiling is wrong.
Wrong shape, wrong color, wrong light fixture.
The hope that maybe he hasn't been placed back into his SHIELD apartment only lasts for an instant before it's twisted into panic. Fury would only decide against sending Bruce back to the apartment if he thought it wasn't enough containment. He'd only pick somewhere else if that place offered a new level of security, something even worse than the last cell.
An electronic melody jars the silence and makes Bruce jump. There's a laptop, he realizes, sitting open on the table beside the bed. He sits up and pulls it onto his lap, reading 'Incoming video call' on the text box in the middle of the screen.
His fingers shake as he clicks 'Accept.'
The screen fills with crinkle-edged eyes and a faint smile. "How are you feeling, Bruce?" Agent Phil Coulson asks.
"Better than a dead man, I'd imagine," Bruce says, trying for flippant, although his voice shakes.
"I've been recomissioned," Coulson explains. "Not even the dead get to rest in peace if SHIELD decides it needs them."
"Digital reconstruction, right?" Bruce studies the man on the screen. "Someone did a good job. Did SHIELD decide I'd respond better to the illision of an interaction with someone I've had a good experience instead of whatever agent you've got controlling your interface?"
Coulson's image gives a broader smile, exhaustion bleeding through at the edges. "Fury may have exaggerated my death slightly."
"I watched the security footage from the attack and Natasha got us a copy of your medical report," Bruce says. "You flat-lined and the EMTs were unable to revive you. They declared you dead on-site."
"I was, technically," Coulson agrees. "They didn't get my heart started again until I was in the med unit."
"And Fury brought you in to chat with the unstable ex-Avenger. Is this to ease you back into your job?" Even as he says it, Bruce wills it to be untrue. He would much prefer the idea of a fake Coulson who will keep him company to a real Coulson who will leave him to his own insanity as soon as the agent is well enough to take up his old position.
And, oh, that's new; the immediate panic for what's to come. It wasn't this quick the last time he was under SHIELD's control. Although, of course, last time he didn't have the experience he does now.
The memory of Clint's mouth, warm and dexterous against his own, rises abruptly in Bruce's mind, lasting only a second before it's replaced by the image of Thor, Iron Man, and Captain America explaining the Hulk's latest rampage.
"Somewhat."
Bruce waits for Coulson to add to that thought, but the agent doesn't.
"Do you know how Clint's doing?" Bruce asks instead.
"Romanoff reported a little over an hour ago that he woke up and was able to answer basic memory questions, but that he doesn't seem to remember the attack. They should be moving him out of the ICU within twenty-four hours. If he heals the way they expect him to, the doctors will be lucky if they can get two weeks before he breaks out."
"Good," Bruce breathes. The relief is overwhelming. The Hulk has killed before—Bruce can replay every memory of stumbling back to awareness and having to take stock of just how much his latest lapse in control had cost with more detail than he can draw from any other recollection in his mind—but, somehow, the idea that it could be a teammate—could be Clint—made the potential so much worse.
But Clint's alive and healing, and Bruce realizes that that's enough to override the panic at being locked back away. It's a trade he'd make again, easily, if given the choice.
"The rest of the team doesn't seem to be aware of your departure yet," Coulson's voice says, and Bruce realizes he's been lost in his thoughts for some time. Less than a day back in solitary and his social skills are already scattering.
"JARVIS knows that I'm gone, but I don't think he'll mention it to them unless they ask," Bruce notes. "They might try looking for me after they've spent so much time arguing with Fury."
Coulson inclines his head. "Fury's already expecting that."
"Will they be able to find me if they look?"
"It's not impossible," Coulson says. "but it'll take them time. Barton and Romanoff don't know about your new apartment, and there's no mention of it in any of SHIELD's records. They might be able to track how we moved you, but that's been pretty thoroughly covered up."
Bruce nods. "Have Fury tell them this was my choice and then try to keep them as busy as possible—he could have someone line them up a few public appearances if things are quiet on the earth-saving front. Tony will probably try to look for me because he's stubborn, and Steve might join him because of loyalty to the team, but if they can see that the Avengers are better off without me then they'll lose interest eventually." In that moment, Bruce can't tell what he wants. The sooner the team gives up their search, the easier it will be for him to accept that this is his new life; no going back. But if they do search—and, worse, if they're successful—then Bruce will have to tell them himself that he wants to stay. He'll have to stand on this side of an open door and look into their faces and try to convince them that this is better for everyone. Regardless of how true that may be, Bruce isn't sure he has the resolve for it.
"I'll let him know your thoughts," Coulson says, before his tone changes. "Is there anything you need?"
"I'm not sure; I haven't had the chance to look around yet." It's a struggle to keep his voice even and bite back the plea of 'Please don't leave me' that gurgles in Bruce's throat. This is only day one, he reminds himself. He's not allowed to beg on day one.
"The set up is pretty similar to your last apartment," Coulson explains. "Just write down anything you want on the whiteboard and we'll do what we can to accommodate."
"Sure," Bruce says. "Thanks."
Coulson nods. "I'll check back in soon."
The connection ends, leaving Bruce staring at an unchanging screen.
He watches it for a few minutes, willing whoever is using Coulson's image to come back, before he nestles the laptop into the duvet at his side and climbs out of bed to look around.
The apartment isn't any bigger than the last one SHIELD had put him in, and less than half the space he had at Stark Tower, but the layout is new and the color scheme is different—muted greens and browns with forest photos this time—and it's enough to keep Bruce occupied for a bit as he noses through cupboards and reorganizes drawers.
The space is well-stocked; the fridge and pantry are lined with foods Bruce had requested during his last stint in captivity, and the closet by the front door is full of supplies to continue the experiments he had begun last time. He wonders if this is some kind of reward; save the world a few times and you earn some extra consideration to the contents of your cell.
Whatever pride Bruce has grown back since his last time with SHIELD makes him wish he weren't quite so grateful for that.
Bruce is startled to the point of dropping his mug of tea when his laptop rings again, sometime around mid-afternoon the following day. Coulson's image again fills the screen when Bruce accepts the call, leaving the tea to stain the carpet.
Their conversation is more stilted than the last after Coulson updates Bruce on Clint's improving condition. Coulson refuses to answer any questions about the rest of the team beyond what Bruce has already learned from his, once again limited, internet connection, and Bruce is too scared of being left alone to press for answers. Instead, he settles for superficial questions about Coulson's health in light of being dead.
It takes eight days for Bruce to stumble across the Youtube video.
He reads about it in a blurb on a news site, and by the time Bruce watches the clip himself, it has six and a half million hits.
The video—shot, Bruce assumes, with a Stark phone, given the perfect picture quality in spite of the constant shaking of a weak camera hand—makes Bruce run to the sink to empty his stomach before he's made it twenty seconds in. The subject of the clip is wounded, badly. The worst of the injuries are bound up in white and cream wrappings, but mottled bruises seep out between the folds and Bruce strings the glimpses of them together like constellations into the shape of behemoth hands. Threaded through it all is an acrid blend of anger and dread that Clint can't seem to keep from his eyes as he stares into the camera.
"My name is Clint Barton, current Avenger and former SHIELD agent," the archer says, words just a bit too slow, as if he has to concentrate to deliver them in the correct order. "Earlier this week, my friend and fellow Avenger, Bruce Banner, the Hulk, was abducted from outside Stark Tower by SHIELD agents. I believe he is being held against his will because SHIELD thinks that the Hulk might one day pose a threat if sufficiently provoked."
The video pans at a sharp angle, showing the contents of a hospital room, as Clint switches his grip on the camera.
"They've done this to him before, and the Hulk repaid them by helping defeat Loki and the Chitauri. He is not a threat and he doesn't deserve to be locked away like one. If you have any information that could lead to his rescue, please contact me or one of the other Avengers. You will be more than compensated if your tip leads us to him."
The view shifts again, Clint fumbling for the button to stop the recording, before the shot turns back to his face. "Bruce, I don't give a damn what Fury and JARVIS have to say. Fucking figure out a way to contact us and Tony and Thor will be there to pick you up before you've finished sending it." Clint takes a breath, ready to start on a new sentence, before pausing. He looks into the camera for a moment, before the view tilts once more and the video ends.
Bruce reads a few of the comments before he stretches out on the couch and stares up at the ceiling.
His muscles are stiff by the time he finds the desire to move again.
He and Coulson don't talk about it, although there's no chance SHIELD hasn't seen the video, or the wave of support in its wake. At first Bruce searched through it for hours, terrified that SHIELD would decide it wasn't something he needed to see and the internet blocks would slide into place.
Four days later, though, Bruce can still access the Tumblr blogs and Twitter feeds plastered with his image and filled with support, can still get updates on the team's latest requests for information—everything from Steve holding a press conference to Thor appearing on The View.
Bruce wonders if they have any idea how much harder their concern makes things for him, and then hates that he can twist their worry into something he finds distasteful. He is not anything close to the selfless, humble man their interviews make him out to be. They have taken the idea of him and twisted it into an effigy, a fragile figurine held together only by their warped memories and idealism.
A hero to the masses, a savior of mankind, an unwavering defense against the villains of the universe.
Bruce reads about himself until he can't stomach anymore, and then spends his days thumbing through biographies and talking to Coulson about nothing. All sensationalism fades eventually, and when the team realizes that the public has lost interest and they're still not any closer to finding Bruce, they will let go and move on.
It will take longer than Bruce had originally anticipated, but eventually things will calm down and the world will be safe from him.
Worry settles into the crevices of his mind, because 'the world' is not the original term he'd used when he formed that thought. Originally, he tries not to recall, it had been 'Clint.'