November 10, 2009

Steve had bundled up well in anticipation of the Chicago winter, but the moment he stepped out of Sarah's portal into an abandoned alleyway, a bitterly cold wind blew straight through every layer of his clothing, and he immediately began to shiver.

Thankfully, though, his destination today was close, and he turned to give his daughter a smile and a little wave through the portal. Sarah smiled back and closed it with a flourish, disappearing from sight.

Steve pulled his hat down a little more snugly and went around the corner to join the Chicagoans waiting to cross the nearest intersection, hunched low in their own hats and scarves. Not a flake of snow was falling. Just endless wind. It tore at the banners on the apartment building across the street blaring "Cheap rent!" as the traffic light changed and he crossed the street with the other pedestrians. Slowly he climbed the outdoor stairs of the apartment building, up to the third floor, and shivered in the drafty breezeway as he knocked on the door marked 3023.

A young woman answered, dressed in shorts and a tank top in spite of the bitingly cold wind that immediately swept through the open doorway and whipped through her purple-streaked black hair: Clint's girlfriend, Karma. She looked at Steve with vague surprise, and then said: "Oh, hey. It's you."

There was an awkward pause.

Steve was used to being called different things by the various in-laws in the family: some of them called him Dad or Grandpa like their spouses did, some of them called him Steve, and some of them always called him Grant because they couldn't trust themselves to remember to call him the right thing when outsiders were within earshot. He had always told them to call him whatever they were comfortable with. But Karma never called him anything at all. She didn't seem to know which name to settle on.

Peggy, in her turn, had once confessed to Steve that it was hard to know how they were supposed to think of Karma either. She wasn't technically a granddaughter-in-law. If she and Clint ever talked about marriage, they hadn't shared that fact with the rest of the family. And while all the other grandchildren had brought their significant others to Steve and Peggy for an official re-introduction once they had been told the truth about the family to give them a chance to ask whatever questions they had or air any concerns, Clint never had. He had just casually mentioned to the family one day that Karma knew everything now.

"Hi, Karma," Steve said. "Clint said you got off work about this time. I wanted to see how you were doing."

"Oh. Yeah. Okay, well, come in. Sorry it's a mess." Karma opened the door wider to let him in, and he followed her into the living room, brushing past a jacket hanging up in the hallway that was emblazoned with the CTA logo. Karma worked for the CTA, which was how she and Clint had met: He'd once taken public transportation to work while his motorcycle was under repair, and he'd been instantly intrigued by his bus driver's tattoos... not to mention her brash personality.

Clint had later admitted to Steve that his motorcycle had spent only a day in the shop, but he'd kept riding the bus a few days longer anyway, working up the nerve to give his phone number to Karma. After that, they'd been pretty much inseparable.

"Have a seat," Karma said, shoving aside a pile of papers on the couch for him, and then sitting in the easy chair facing him. She leaned over and picked up a fistful of brochures off the coffee table, the kind that OB-GYN offices gave out to prospective mothers, and waved them vaguely in Steve's direction. "Clint said he told you," she said.

"Yeah. How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Tired. Sick. And my boobs hurt." Karma seemed to realize a moment later what she had just said — and who she had just said it to — and quickly added with a halfhearted air of embarrassment: "Sorry. I-"

"Karma?" Steve said gently. "I would really rather you be yourself in front of me. You don't have to apologize for it."

Karma shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "I never know how to talk to you," she admitted. "Clint talks about you one way, but how they talked about you in school was... something else."

"Well," Steve said philosophically, smoothing out the wrinkles in his slacks, "you should know that I spent eight months of my life married to a pregnant woman. And I spent more than a decade working with an ex-KGB spy who had no filter when it came to talking about bodily functions. I've heard worse than that." He pondered that for a moment, remembering that trip to Rome when Nat had come down with a bad case of Montezuma's revenge and complained about it vociferously despite Steve's repeated assurances that he really didn't need the details. "A lot worse, actually."

Karma smiled faintly.

"Can I get you something?" Steve asked.

"Oh." Karma lifted her hands uncertainly. "Not really. I kinda have to make myself eat, because I know I'll just feel sicker if I don't, but nothing ever really sounds good any more. I'm just gonna puke it up anyway."

Steve nodded knowingly. "Peggy lived on dry toast and ginger tea for a couple months, seems like. Said the thought of eating anything else turned her stomach."

"Maybe I should try that," Karma said after a little thought. "I've been choking down crackers, but it's like... eating sawdust."

"Would you like me to make it for you?"

"I don't think I have any bread or anything," Karma admitted, glancing toward her kitchen. "I haven't been to the store in a while. I'm just... not super motivated right now, to tell you the truth. And Clint's started working overtime, trying to save up money. Because of this." She gestured vaguely at her belly.

Steve nodded sympathetically as he pulled out his cell phone and typed a quick message. "Clint was pretty upset when he came by the other day," he said, glancing up after hitting send. "How's he doing?"

Karma shrugged one shoulder. "Lousy," she said.

"And you?"

"Lousy. We spend all day telling each other 'I'll be the crappy parent, but you'll be the good one,' and neither one of us believes the other." She laughed, although without amusement.

"For what it's worth, I think you'll both do fine," Steve said. "And all of us are ready to help with anything you need."

Karma gave him a look that was a little too knowing. "No one likes to be a project," she said bluntly.

"I don't think of you as a project. I think of you as family."

"We're not even married," Karma shot back.

"You're important to Clint. That means you're important to us."

Karma looked down at her hands and was quiet for a long time. "Look, you and your family are nice," she said at last. "But I've known other people who were nice. At first." Her gaze hardened, and then she suddenly clamped her mouth shut, as though she wanted to say more but had thought better of it.

"I don't blame you for not being too quick to give your trust," Steve said gently. "But it isn't healthy to try going it alone. People aren't made to live like that. I think you know that. You gave your trust to Clint, even after everything that happened to you."

Karma laughed shortly. "Yeah, I'm real smart that way. Can't trust men not to hurt me, so what do I do? Move in with a man so strong he's pretty much unstoppable."

"You are smart. Because you know he would only ever protect you."

"Do I?" Karma scowled fiercely, and then reluctantly added, "I do know that. I do trust Clint, I just... don't trust my own judgment. Not anymore. That's why I know-" She shook her head, bitterness etched on her face. "-I'll be a rotten mother."

"You said you thought Clint would be a good father," Steve said. "Why do you think that?"

Karma distractedly picked at some lint on her tank top as she thought. "He's a good person," she said slowly. "Thinks of other people more than himself. Some people don't know it from looking at him, but he can be really gentle. You know, he... he wants to be like you more than anything else," she suddenly blurted out, with the air of admitting something she wasn't sure she should. "Doesn't think he can, but he wants to be. I think... maybe he could. He just won't believe it."

There was a sudden fizzling sound, and a small golden portal opened up next to Steve and a disembodied arm emerged from it and handed a plate to him.

"Thanks, honey," Steve said, just before the portal snapped shut again.

"I texted my daughter," he explained to Karma, whose mouth had fallen open. "Here. Dry toast and ginger tea."

"Thank you," Karma said in a small voice, accepting the plate as she eyed the place where the portal had just disappeared.

"Has Clint ever told you about my friend Thor?" Steve asked.

"He doesn't talk about that stuff much," Karma said, taking a hesitant nibble of the toast. "He showed me your comics once. I kinda skimmed through them, but..." She shrugged. "To be honest, it all sounded kinda crazy. Gods and magic and aliens..."

Steve smiled. "I know. Not sure I would have believed it if it hadn't happened to me. But you know, Clint reminds me a lot of Thor."

"What, the God of- of-" Karma searched for the word.

"Thunder," Steve supplied.

"Thunder. Right."

"He was a lot like Clint. Strong, but controlled. Protective. Gentle when he needed to be. Always thinking he had to live up to his father's greatness, always sure he would never be able to."

Karma looked intrigued by the change of topic. "But he was a god. I mean, he could fly and everything. And that hammer... he could pick up the hammer. Didn't that mean that he was, you know, worthy or whatever?"

"He lost the hammer," Steve said. "He lost his home planet, lost half his people, couldn't save his brother, couldn't stop Thanos. He lost everything, and he blamed himself."

"Rough gig," Karma murmured, her hands cupped around the warm teacup.

"He thought he was a failure. So he did the same thing your Clint did once," Steve said. "He stopped even trying to do what he was meant to do, and tried to drown himself in alcohol instead. All those years after the Snap... I don't think I saw Thor sober even once."

Karma took in a long, slow breath and let it out shakily, but she didn't say anything.

"And when we finally came to him with a plan to undo what had been done," Steve continued, "I could see that he didn't really think it would work. At least, he didn't think he could do his part."

A faint crease touched Karma's brow. "But he went on that mission with you anyway?" she asked.

Steve nodded. "He didn't have any faith in himself. But he did have hope."

"I thought they were the same thing."

Steve smiled slightly. "Well, according to the mock sermon my grandson Steven has been practicing on me for a class he's taking, they aren't. Faith is when you have enough trust that something is true that you can act as though it is true, even though you're not completely sure. Hope is different. Hope is when you can't bring yourself to trust in something... but you want it to be true. You keep yourself open to the possibility that it could be. It's like... faith with the training wheels still on."

"Training wheels. Cute," Karma said sardonically. "So what you're trying to say is, it's okay if me and Clint don't really have faith that we can do this. As long as we hope we can."

"Boy, I thought I was gonna to have to spell it out for you," Steve said with good humor.

"Because if we let our training wheels fall off, we're going to fall on our a-" Karma paused. "Uh, our butts."

"You know, you really have a way with words," Steve said. "I might get you to write my motivational speeches from now on."

"Yeah, I can't see that ending well." Karma looked down at her plate and seemed surprised to see that she had eaten all the toast and drank most of the tea. "Wow. I can't wait until I throw all of that back up."

"Sometimes things are better the second time around," Steve said, straight-faced.

Karma laughed before she could help it. "Not this time," she managed to get out as she pushed a purple strand of hair behind her ear. For the first time since he'd arrived, she looked genuinely relaxed. She took in a deep breath and then let it out again with another, softer laugh. She looked different without the usual cynical twist to her expression. Younger, somehow. And suddenly, Steve realized instinctively: this is how Clint sees her. Always. Not how she is, but how she could be. What she would have been if not for the burdens that had been laid on her shoulders from far too early of an age. What she still could be again.

And what she was, was beautiful.

"Hey," Steve said more seriously, and Karma turned her attention back to him. "Peggy's been asking around the family, and a lot of our grandkids are saying they have baby gear and clothes in storage that they're probably not going to need again. So you might start hearing from them in the next few days. I think some of them would like to come see how you're doing and bring some things you could use."

Karma hesitated only a second, and then nodded a little. "Okay. That's... really nice of them."

"Okay." Steve felt himself relax in his turn. With Natty and Sammy and Maggie and Amanda, not to mention his grandsons' wives, she'd be in good hands. "You two still planning to come to the cottage for Thanksgiving?"

Karma looked relieved by the change of subject. "You should see the recipes Clint has been poring over for his contribution. I'm warning you now... he's planning to get fancy."

"Well, I just want it down in the record books that I was the one who taught him how to cook."

Karma smiled across the coffee table at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, don't worry. He never forgets that."

April 12, 2010

Steven Capecci knew the moment Bruce Banner transformed into the Hulk.

Dusk was descending over the favela when the last shift ended and workers poured out of Rocinha's soda factory, laughing and chatting in small groups as they headed home or out for a drink. The few who noticed him gave no more than a passing curious glance as they walked by where he leaned back casually against a chain link fence, chin ducked down and a baseball cap shading his face.

The area cleared out quickly, and by the time the manager came out alone to close the gate and padlock the chain around it, it was full dark and all was quiet; the man never even glanced at the shadowed nook where Steven waited.

Once the manager disappeared from view, though, Steven could not stop himself from pacing back and forth in front of the gate as he kept his ears perked, listening for the sounds he knew to expect tonight.

There was really no reason to be nervous, he told himself. True, he was about to place himself in a position he had never before been in: one in opposition to the armed forces of the United States. After so many years of service and sacrifice, it was an understatement to say this was not a comfortable place to be.

But at least he wasn't here to help Bruce Banner fight soldiers. If there was one thing Bruce didn't need help with, it was that. Despite General Ross's best attempts to prepare for the worst case scenario, he wouldn't have any weapons or manpower at his disposal tonight that could even slow, much less stop, the Hulk. Of course, he didn't know that yet. No one had ever launched a full-scale attack on the Hulk. There was still so much unknown.

Steven halted his pacing, suddenly alert: In the distance, he could hear running feet. Just one set at first, and then more, accompanied by indistinct shouting. In the faint moonlight Steven spotted a man in a red hoodie desperately squeezing through the gap in a loosely padlocked gate some distance away and then sprinting through the employee entrance of the factory, with several Brazilian men in civilian clothing hot on his heels.

Less than a minute later came the sound of a vehicle engine, and Steven quickly leaned back into the shadows as a large unmarked black van roared up the narrow street toward him and then barreled straight through the padlocked main gate, the abruptly loosed chain whipping out and striking a stack of discarded soda bottle crates stored by the entrance of the factory, knocking them over with a wooden clatter. The van screeched to a halt by the docking bay, and men dressed in black and toting guns poured out and dashed inside without hesitation.

Steven waited, heart thumping, but he didn't have long to wait. From inside the factory he could hear the tinkle of breaking glass, and then-

A roar.

A roar of primal rage that split the night and froze the blood.

There was a pregnant pause, and then Steven clearly heard a man shouting from inside the black van in a voice roughened by overuse: "That is the target! Use every tranq you've got! Do it now!"

More confused crashes and shouts. And then came the rat-tat-tat of automated weapons fire, and the bestial roars that followed.

Steven bent down and retied his shoelaces firmly in preparation for when the fight inevitably moved outdoors. The best thing for him to do would be to avoid the soldiers entirely, if possible. Because his goal here tonight was one that was both less ambitious — and more important — than fighting a battle.

He was here to help Bruce Banner keep his hands clean from the blood of innocent civilians.

Luckily, the lateness of the hour meant that the streets were largely empty, at least here in the manufacturing district. Things might get a little dicier once the Hulk broke out of the factory. Presumably he wouldn't have anything other than escape on his mind, but there was still a lot of urban sprawl between here and the jungle. Past the factories, in the commercial district, there would be crowds of people going to and from bars and nightclubs. The Hulk might not intend to hurt anyone other than his attackers, but surgical strikes were not exactly his forte. It would be up to Steven to clear people out of his path before they got hurt.

He had just finished tying the third knot in his shoelace when suddenly every window in the factory lit up with a painfully bright white light. Then came a sustained sound of screeching metal from inside. It seemed to go on and on, and when it finally faded away, there was only a short pause before bullets blasted out again.

And then there was an explosion.

This time, the windows lit up with vivid orange light, and there was more crashing glass.

The guns fell silent.

"No! No!" a man shouted in frustration and anger from inside the van.

Then Steven heard something he wasn't expecting, and he turned his head inquisitively. There was a vehicle approaching the factory. Not another military vehicle, judging by the sound. A motorcycle, maybe, or...

A moped came around the corner and headed toward him. A thin man wearing shorts, a T-shirt and a lightweight helmet was driving it, and a woman was seated behind him with her long dark hair flying back in the wind. Civilians. Steven had to suppress his alarm, and instantly leaped into the middle of the narrow road, both hands outstretched.

"Pare!" he shouted as they slowed to a stop in front of him. "Volte!"

The driver looked taken aback, especially when he caught sight of the twisted and broken gate to the factory square, but the woman behind him dismounted the moped with such abruptness that she nearly slipped in the loose gravel scattered across the asphalt before recovering her balance and looking at him in astonishment.

"Steven?" she said, eyes wide.

He stared back, his pulse suddenly spiking. "Beatrisa?" he said in disbelief.

And then a scowl creased her forehead — he had never seen that particular expression on her face before, and it sent an electric sensation up and down his spine, not exactly unpleasant, either — and Beatrisa put her hands on her hips and said indignantly: "Why do you never call before you come?!"

He reached out and gripped both her shoulders, struck by a sudden fear he hadn't felt ten seconds before. "What are you doing here?" he demanded in bewilderment, and then, not waiting for an answer, said forcefully: "You have to get out of here!"

"No, we have to find Bruce!" she said just as forcefully, grabbing his arms in return. "Steven... something bad happened! Inacio called me" — she gestured at the thin man still sitting on the moped, and then Steven remembered meeting him briefly during his last trip; he was the landlord for Bruce's building — "-and he said there were men running around his place everywhere! Men with guns!" Beatrisa panted for breath. "I remember what you said, that Bruce is scared of soldiers, so I go to make sure he is okay. But when I go there, his door is broken and the computer you sent him is gone! I think somebody robbed him!"

"No, Beatrisa-"

"And I think, maybe he is working late at the factory tonight," she continued breathlessly, "so I have Inacio bring me here, I want to make sure Bruce knows before he comes home, so he doesn't get scared when he sees all the soldiers-"

"You came to rescue him?" Steven asked, more in wonderment than disbelief.

A deafening roar sounded from inside the factory, and there was a sudden flurry of movement inside the parked black van in response... including the distinctive cocking of guns.

Beatrisa looked toward the factory for a long moment, and then turned to ask Steven with wide eyes: "Is there an animal loose in there?"

Steven cleared his throat. "Uh..."

The outer wall of the factory exploded outward, and chunks of masonry flew through a cloud of dust and rained down on the factory square, denting the roof of the black van and thunking down onto the pavement all around. Beatrisa and Inacio both cried out in alarm, although thankfully the falling debris didn't reach them here in the street... but what the three of them saw next shocked them all into silence.

A great, hulking figure emerged from the billowing dust, casually tossing aside the heavy machinery it had just used to break its way out of the factory. It was far too large to be a man, at least 8 feet tall, with arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. It kept its chin ducked down slightly, hiding most of its face in shadow, but there was just enough moonlight to see its expression:

Angry. Really, really angry.

Beatrisa was standing stock-still, looking up at the creature in horror, arms held rigidly at her sides, but Inacio — still astride the moped — made an odd choking sound and tried to lean back away from the awful sight. All he succeeded in doing was to tip over the moped and fall sprawling to the pavement, one leg trapped underneath. The moped's horn sounded, and then kept sounding, clearly stuck. The Hulk jerked his head toward the noise with a startled grunt, and then took a menacing step toward the moped, growling deep in his chest.

Looking around desperately, Steven's eye fell on a chunk of stone that had fallen nearby and he almost picked it up with the idea that he could use it as a projectile to draw the Hulk's attention away from them and toward himself. But in the next instant he knew that would be a terrible mistake: if he antagonized the Hulk, if he presented a threat of any kind, the creature would only get angrier, and if he lost all control Steven would not be able to protect anyone.

It was why he hadn't even bothered to bring a gun tonight.

The Hulk took another step toward them, the footfall heavy enough to make the pavement rumble under their feet, and then to Steven's shock, Beatrisa darted over to Inacio and hooked her hands under his arms to try to drag him out from under the fallen moped, its horn still blaring into the night. Startled by the sudden movement, the Hulk lifted his thick arm menacingly, one enormous hand clenching into a fist.

There was no time to think, no time to plan, no time to do anything but feel a wild desperation to get between Beatrisa and the Hulk. In three rapid strides, Steven had himself there.

"No!" he shouted, facing the Hulk and holding his hands out protectively. "No! Don't sm-"

The Hulk smashed him.

One meaty arm collided with his chest with the force of a battering ram, and Steven found himself flying through the air so abruptly that he had no time to react before his back hit something painfully hard, and he collapsed into a heap on the ground.

Everything went fuzzy, but dimly he could hear Beatrisa screaming his name. Grunting with effort, he tried to drag himself back onto his feet, but he couldn't seem to make his muscles obey. Couldn't even see straight. A gray tunnel closed in on him as sounds went oddly muffled... and then everything went dark.

When Steven opened his eyes again, Beatrisa was in another place entirely: standing right in front of him where he lay on the pavement, facing the Hulk in a pool of light cast by the street lamp, her arms outstretched as if to make herself into a human shield.

"Don't touch him!" Beatrisa screamed.

The Hulk towered over Beatrisa, every muscle tense and trembling with silent rage. In the light it was plain to see now the human-ish features of his face: the glowing emerald eyes and the too-large teeth clenched into a grimace, the shaggy dark hair and the 5 o'clock shadow, and the tattered remnants of clothing still clinging to his sinewy body. Beatrisa looked as small as a child and as breakable as a bird standing before him.

Fear bloomed, and Steven struggled to get up, but his muscles felt like water and his awareness kept fading in and out. Painfully he managed to get up to his hands and knees before dipping out again. When he came back once more, he was sprawled on his belly again, gravel sticking to his cheek.

"Go away!" he heard Beatrisa shout as if from far away.

Gritting his teeth, Steven used every ounce of his willpower to force himself to move, and this time managed to get up into an unsteady crouch, palms pressed against the pavement, and tipped his reeling head back to look up over Beatrisa's shoulder.

The Hulk still trembled in rage, looking down on the two of them, but a new hint of uncertainty had crept into his expression. He leaned forward and growled briefly, but almost immediately leaned back and shook his heavy head slightly, looking confused.

"Get out of here!" Beatrisa cried, flinging her arm out toward the narrow street and pointing with a shaking finger. "Please!"

The Hulk's brow creased and he huffed out a breath, then passed a thick hand across his sweaty brow.

"Go on!" she shouted, pointing again. "Just go!"

The Hulk took a hesitant step backward, and then another, expression marked with more confusion than fury. Steven found that he was holding his breath. Could it be-? Was it possible that-?

Suddenly there was a loud scraping sound coming from nearby, and a man's gravelly voice barked out: "Go! Go! GO!" All three of them turned to see the black military van, barely visible through the cloud of dust, swerving around the rubble in the factory square and heading toward them with all possible speed.

One moment the Hulk was there only feet away from Beatrisa, and the next he wasn't, as he took two powerful bounds and disappeared around the corner of the narrow street.

"Which way? Which way?!" a man shouted, and as the van emerged from the dust cloud Steven could see gray-mustached old "Thunderbolt" Ross himself through the windshield, dressed in camouflage and leaning forward over the shoulder of the van driver, who was urgently scanning the area trying to spot the Hulk. Ross lunged further forward in the cab and spewed a string of profanity into the driver's ear at top volume, presumably to impress on him the urgency of their task but only succeeding in making the soldier look even more frantic.

Oh yeah, Steven thought sarcastically as he staggered back to his feet. Secretary of State material right there.

The van screeched to a sudden halt as its headlights swung across Steven and Beatrisa standing there in the middle of the road. Beatrisa squinted against the bright lights, turning her head to the side, but Steven pointed urgently down the street — in the opposite direction the Hulk had gone — and shouted as loud as he could, forcing the words out painfully through lungs that couldn't seem to hold a full breath: "Lá! Foi assim! That way!"

The driver hit the gas and spun the steering wheel, and the van roared down the street in the direction he had pointed. Within moments, the van turned a corner and was out of sight.

Stooping to pick up a chunk of rock the size of his fist — and grunting with the pain as he bent over — Steven wound up and hurled it as hard as he could at a street lamp some distance away. It shattered, sending down a shower of white sparks, and tires squealed in the distance as the van swerved toward it, presumably thinking their target was close.

Then Steven turned toward Beatrisa, and saw that she was staring at him in disbelief. Behind her, Bruce's landlord Inacio was cowering against the wall in a silent fit of terror.

"Are... you okay?" Beatrisa asked with wide eyes, looking Steven up and down as he fought not to wobble on his feet and mostly succeeded.

"Ouch," he muttered, putting one hand gingerly against his side with an involuntary grimace. That had been the mother of all wallops. Like nothing he'd ever felt before. A series of sharp pains stabbed his torso every time he moved, every time he breathed. Definitely some ribs broken.

"I thought you were dead," she breathed, looking him up and down like she couldn't believe her eyes.

He kept his communication short and to the point. "You... gotta go." He went over to the fallen moped, righted it with one hand and gestured to the seat urgently. "Take Inacio home. I'll... find you later. At your house."

Beatrisa hesitated. "But what are you-"

"Have to... follow."

"Follow that thing? Why?" she demanded incredulously.

"Just go. Trust me. Please!" Steven put his hands on Beatrisa's shoulders and steered her toward the moped, and to his relief she didn't resist, but swung her leg over the seat and scooted up so that Inacio, still shaking and speechless, could get on behind her.

"But Bruce-" she started.

"I'll find him," he promised her, and waited just long enough to see her start up the engine and cast a worried look back at him before driving off.

Then he took in a quick steadying breath — pain blossoming in his middle — before sprinting off in the direction the Hulk had gone.

It was very late — or, more accurately, early the next morning — by the time Steven limped his way to Beatrisa's home in Rocinha.

He paused in the grimy street to look over her house, which was old, narrow and not particularly well-built... but there was an undefinable air about it that left a welcoming impression anyway. He had never been here before, but he'd once mailed her something he had sketched for her birthday and he had committed the address to memory, thinking that maybe he would pay her a visit after tonight's mission was complete.

He hadn't pictured it happening quite this way; in fact, he had braced himself to give her some kind of vague explanation for why Bruce Banner had disappeared overnight, but he saw now that he was going to have to tell her more than he had planned. That should worry him, he thought, but all he felt was an odd sense of relief. He wanted her to know. About Bruce, about him, about his family. Everything.

He knew he couldn't tell her that much. But suddenly he came face to face with the realization that he wanted to.

None of his siblings or cousins had ever shared their family secret with anyone other than their prospective husbands or wives. That wasn't Beatrisa, not if he stayed on the path he was currently on. But an oddly rebellious sensation swelled inside Steven's chest. It was his secret to tell, after all, and if he wanted to tell Beatrisa, why shouldn't he?

He hesitated to knock on the door, realizing that Beatrisa's children were undoubtedly still sleeping this early in the morning, and so after a little thought he slipped through the broken gate to the side of the house, thinking maybe he could work out which window in the back was hers and tap on it. But to his surprise, he found the tiny backyard occupied: Beatrisa was sitting in a tattered old lawn chair, reading a thick book intently in the dawning light. She glanced up at the sound of his footsteps, and the look of deep concentration on her face changed in a flash to one of relief.

"Steven!" She put down the book, stood up quickly and crossed the tiny yard in three strides, her brown eyes looking him all over. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he assured her, but she reached up to carefully touch a scrape on his cheek, looking worried.

"Just... had a little run-in with a street sign," he said, keeping his tone light, partly so as not to alarm her, but also because he knew he wouldn't be able to stop from wincing if he drew in a full breath. His ribs still ached badly from that first blow by the Hulk.

Beatrisa relaxed slightly and lowered her hand, although he could tell she knew he was downplaying it.

"Did you find Bruce?" she asked anxiously. "Is he all right?"

"Yeah, I found him." And I have the bruises to prove it.

"How is he? Where is he?" Beatrisa turned to move a flowerpot off a second lawn chair, brushed off the dirt, and gestured for him to sit.

Steven slowly lowered himself into the rickety chair, trying not to grunt as pain stabbed his side. "Long gone by now."

He'd quickly lost track of the Hulk once they'd reached the edge of the jungle, but by then it didn't matter much. Steven was certain he would stay far away from any inhabited areas until he reverted back to his old form. The Hulk hadn't exactly been gentle as he'd barged through Rocinha, but Steven had managed to keep the civilians out of his path, at the cost of being on the receiving end of several swats of annoyance when he got a little too close to the Hulk.

Beatrisa pulled the other lawn chair over and sat down close by him, looking dismayed. "Gone? Won't he come back?" she asked.

"No. He knows about the soldiers that came to his place. He's gone for good."

She looked taken aback. "You don't mean... they were looking for him? But why?"

"They wanted his research," Steven said wearily. "Something he was working on for the United States Army before his accident. Before he came here to hide from them."

Beatrisa looked at him for a long moment, pulling back from him visibly. "You know this the whole time?" she said at last, and the sudden disapproval in her voice stabbed his conscience like a knife. "You know Bruce is a wanted man, and you never say anything?"

"I was trying to keep you safe," he said. He hung his head a little, feeling deflated. "Tonight... I didn't do such a good job of that."

"No," she said quickly, shaking her head in a quick negation. "No. You make that... that thing hit you, not me."

"He wasn't gonna hurt you," Steven said slowly. "I realized afterward. I think he recognized you. Me, he'd only seen once. But all those times you came to see Bruce? Brought him things, made sure he was okay? You were a friend. He knew that much."

She shook her head, looking confused at his statement. "I don't understand. What was that thing? What does it have to do with Bruce? And you?"

Steven cleared his throat, knowing that at this point, for good or ill, Beatrisa deserved real answers... if not all of them, not yet. "It's kinda a long story. But... my grandparents were part of a research project the Army was working on a long time ago. During World War II. Bruce was on a new team of researchers the Army put together to try to replicate the original experiment, maybe even improve on it. But something went wrong."

"What kind of project?"

Steven blew out a long breath. "Genetic enhancement. Human."

She blinked at him several times. "You don't mean... like the Captain America project? Your grandparents helped with that?"

"My parents named me after him," Steven said softly. "Steve Rogers. Our family has always been proud of our connection to him. But my grandpa, he and Bruce became friends. That's how we know..." He spoke more forcefully then. "Bruce is an innocent man, Beatrisa. The Army didn't fully explain to him the nature of the project he was working on. He isn't to blame for the accident, and he's under no obligation to go anywhere with them."

"The monster?" Beatrisa whispered, understanding dawning. "They made it?"

He nodded grimly. "Now Bruce is trying to unmake it. And the Army, they don't want him to. They want to use it."

Beatrisa's eyes widened in fear, and she laid her hand on his arm. "Oh, Steven... his computer! Bruce's computer! It must have been the soldiers who broke into his apartment! If he had his research on it..."

"Don't worry about that," he quickly reassured her. "My cousin Sammy gave him hacker-grade equipment. Encryptions, wireless network randomizers, everything. They won't be able to get much out of it."

"Mamãe?" a small voice said, and Steven and Beatrisa turned as one to see that a boy wearing pajamas was standing at the back door, dark hair rumpled, looking at them in sleepy confusion.

"Volte para a cama, lindinho," Beatrisa said quickly, and the boy, after giving Steven one last curious look, obediently shuffled back into the house.

Steven dragged his eyes from the boy back to Beatrisa, fighting a sudden stab of nervousness that he never felt around his own nieces and nephews.

"Is that Joaquim?" he asked hesitantly.

She nodded, and then gave him an odd look, half expectant, half uncertain. He knew she needed him to say something, and his mind raced trying to guess exactly what it was she wanted him to say. What would put her most at ease? What would make her understand that when it came to her children, the thing he wanted most of all was to-

Suddenly a loud pounding came from the front door of the little house, shattering the early morning quiet, and Beatrisa jumped to her feet.

"It's six o'clock in the morning," she said with a frown, looking over at Steven.

"Mamãe!" came Joaquim's voice from the house again, and suddenly he reappeared at the back door, this time looking scared, and almost on his heels came a little girl in a nightgown, who squeezed past him and threw her arms around Beatrisa's legs without a word.

The pounding came again, and a man with a gravelly voice shouted: "Exército dos Estados Unidos! Abra!" They could hear several car doors opening and shutting in the street, and running feet.

"The Army?" Beatrisa asked, looking at Steven wide-eyed as she picked up her daughter. "Here? How did they know-?"

Steven squeezed his eyes shut briefly in dismay as the realization hit. "Bruce's apartment. You arranged it for him. It's your name on the contract. When they couldn't find him last night-" He felt sick. "-they must have started digging around, trying to find out who was helping him."

"What do I tell them?" she asked urgently, looking at him intently over her little girl's head — Rita, that was her name — as she hugged her against her chest.

"The truth," Steven said firmly. "Just... not all of it. Don't mention me. If they manage to trace a line from Bruce to me to my grandpa, it wouldn't be good. For Bruce or my family. And don't tell them anything Bruce might have told you in confidence: about his past, or his plans for the future. Nothing about his experiments."

"But he never talked about his experiments or his plans to me."

"He's been careful. Good. Tell them he's a vagrant you bumped into and tried to help out, the same way you've helped so many others. They'll believe you. Because it's true."

Beatrisa put Rita down and shooed her toward Joaquim firmly, telling them quickly in Portuguese to go back to their bedroom, close the door, and not come out until they were told. Rita was obviously reluctant to go, but her older brother took her hand firmly and pulled her inside just as the men pounded on the door the third time.

"You have to go now," Beatrisa said to Steven, gently pushing him toward a gap in the broken-down back fence. "They shouldn't see you."

"Beatrisa-" He struggled for the words as he walked backwards. "Please forgive me, I never meant for-"

"I know, I know," she said impatiently, shooing him away with her hands.

"If you don't want me to come back-"

She tilted her head at him and scoffed loudly, and then unexpectedly grabbed his shirt front with both hands, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed him right on the mouth.

"Next time you come, call first," she said firmly, and pushed him away for the last time.

"Abra, abra!" a man bellowed, and as Steven squeezed through the gap in the fence, his knees feeling oddly wobbly all of a sudden, he heard Beatrisa shout back as she hurried into her house: "Estou vindo! Estou vindo! Por que você assusta meus filhos?"

Steven was very careful not to be seen as he slipped away out of the neighborhood, but it was hard to feel any sense of the danger at all. For some reason, his head was swimming once more, and he could not seem to wipe a stupid smile off his face.

TO BE CONTINUED

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