A/N: HHHHHEEEEELLLLOOOOO! Guys, I feel ashamed that it took so long to finish this (the one I didn't already have prewritten) please, please, please forgive me even though I know I don't deserve it. But here it is, at long last, CHAPTER 2! In the second installment of season one, we find ourselves looking in on Bruce Banner and how far his life has come from when we last saw him. *Side note: Later on, I hope to write a companion series that fills the gaps between the show and this fiction, so stayed tuned.* I hope you enjoy this little glimpse of what's happened, what's currently happening, and what's gonna happen! Things start to pick up, and only get crazier from here. Enjoy. Thanks to the many people who helped get this chapter finished: Penpal678910, Avenger22 and Silverpedals1402!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Marvel, except for a few action figures and a shirt. But I do own this idea and the characters (that aren't cannon) involved!
Chapter 2: Without Orders
118th street, Harlem, New York. Friday, February 14th, 2042. 6:14 am.
"Are you finished packing yet, Blake?"
His father's call sounds through their Harlem townhouse. Bruce Banner stands in the kitchen and aims his question towards the open loft that his son claimed as his bedroom. But 17-teen-year old Blake can't be bothered to answer him currently. No, he's too busy searching high and low for his favorite beanie to protect his frizzy brown head from this chilling Valentine's Day weather. The short young man rummages through the baskets in his closet, but to no avail.
"Hey, dad! Have you seen my beanie?" Blake yells.
"Which one?" his father answers, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
"Wow, dad. Thanks for the help," Blake grumbles to himself. He continues to search through his loft. The scrawny young man pulls a clear container full of hats from under his stripped-down bed, and rummages through it. Nothing.
"I give up!"
Blake huffs, snatches up the bright neon orange backpack hanging on his desk chair and stomps downstairs. He meets his dad in the living room with an exasperated start to the day.
Bruce stands in front of him, holding up a bright orange and navy striped knit hat. "Is this the one? It was sitting on the back of the couch."
Blake rolls his amber colored eyes and sighs. "Thanks."
Bruce hands over the beanie and Blake struggles to shove his hair up in it. He distinctively hears a snicker come from his father's mouth. Not in the mood, dad, Blake thinks. It was bad enough he was so excited for this trip he could barely sleep last night, not to mention he put a new scratch on his new cherry red glasses. But he seriously cannot deal with his dad laughing at his unruly brown hair. Not today.
"So are you packed? I assume since you have your backpack that you got everything," Bruce says.
"I'm all packed, dad," he says, holding a thumbs-up.
Bruce smiles. "Good, then we can get started covering the furniture."
Bruce pulls a worn, white sheet off the top of a stack folded neatly on an end table by the couch. The two begin methodically covering the couch and the two chairs parallel to it for the seven-month trip before them. One might think the two of them were perfectionists, considering how precise their movements are. They even make sure to tuck the sheets' edges under the feet of the couch.
But the sound of Bruce's holo-phone buzzing against the kitchen counter pulls his father towards the kitchen. Blake continues to cover the furniture but keeps his eyes on his dad as he answers the phone.
"Hello?" Bruce starts. But from the look on his face, whoever's on the other end must not be in a good mood.
"Woah, slow down there Jen," Bruce says. As soon as the name comes out of his mouth, Blake feels a mixed reaction wash over him.
Don't get him wrong, he loves his cousin Jennifer Walters. Blake knows she would do anything for him and his dad—and has. But lately, when she calls, it ends up being a hushed argument between her and Bruce. Arguments Blake is supposed to ignore. "What does she want, dad?"
He steps over to the kitchen and stares across the counter, but Bruce holds up a hand to him. "We don't leave for another forty-five minutes what's up?" It doesn't take long before the color drains from his dad's already pale face, and he excuses himself to talk privately. He steps outside into the freezing weather, completely forgetting to grab his heavy coat. That can't be good, Blake thinks.
The teen comes to stand by the Cherrywood front door, balancing on his tiptoes to peek out the little arch of glass above his head. He can hear Bruce raise his voice, but the words are too muffled to make out. Blake begins to nervously nibble on his thumbnail as he contemplates cracking the door and listening.
"No!" he tells himself. "I can't…but I want to."
After a few moments of switching between being a good kid and wanting to know what they're talking about, he decides to open the door. Blake slowly and easily slides the door open, just enough for him to clearly hear words.
"Jennifer, if you called just to convince me to let Blake sit this trip out, you're wasting your breath," Bruce says harshly.
"Bruce, if you'll just stop with the defense for five minutes and hear me out, I know you'll see you're making a mistake," she says over the speaker. "Look, I know that these medical mission trips are important to both you and Blake, but I'm worried that if you take him this time, you'll be putting him in danger."
Danger? Blake leans in closer, unsure of what's next.
"We won't even be near the battlefield, Jen," comes Bruce's voice. "You should know by now that I would never purposely put my son in harm's way."
"I know that Bruce, but think about it. What if China suddenly decides to come after all the refugees escaping into Nepal and India? What will you do then?"
"That's just a theory," he reasons.
"It's a plausible theory," Jennifer rebuts.
Blake's eyes narrow at the conversation unfolding on his front steps. What the heck are they arguing over? he wonders. But as the anger-charged words continue to come from both parties, it's not hard to understand they're arguing over him.
Jennifer stands firm on the opinion that taking Blake on this medical mission trip—one that's been three years in the making—is a terrible idea. He picks up on her points about the civil dispute that broke out over three years ago between East and West China. But his dad says that the line of villages Bruce plans on stopping in will be more than a hundred miles from the battlefield.
"He won't be safe!" Jen says.
"He's safe as long as he's with me," Bruce calmly replies.
Blake simply shakes his head. Why are they fighting over me like this? he thinks. It's not like dad doesn't take care of me or anything. But the conversation is nowhere near being over, and he can tell it's about to escalate even more when both go silent. Slight panic sets in—partly Blake afraid to get caught eavesdropping, partly afraid to hear what's next.
"He needs to go with me and be a part of this," Bruce finally says.
"This," being a mission that was started before Blake was born. A mission solely focused on taking medicine and supplies to the parts of the world that need it. His mom and dad started their own "Doctors Without Orders," before he was a thought. Alongside Mr. Stark and T'Challa—his dad's friends—it was a group venture to better the world. And after Betty's passing, Blake knows how important it is to his dad for them to do this together.
But when Jennifer speaks again, Blake isn't prepared for what she says.
"He needs to go, or you need him to go? Bruce, don't even try to tell me this isn't about keeping an eye on him. It's always been about keeping an eye on him. You may have convinced yourself otherwise, but I know you're afraid he'll turn out like you."
"You know that's physically impossible. Betty and I did everything we could to prevent the passing of radiation onto him, and besides that, I've monitored him since he was a baby. I test his blood every year. He is not a Gamma mutant," Bruce insists.
Wait…what?
"Maybe not now, but there's always been a chance, or you would've allowed him to go to regular school instead of homeschooling him." Jennifer sighs loudly before the line goes silent momentarily. "I'm just worried about him. Worried about what this constant traveling back and forth is doing to him emotionally and socially. Does he even know the names of the other teens in his neighborhood? Or what about the fact that his best friend lives in London? You need to ask yourself, Bruce…is this really the way Betty would want the two of you to live?"
Before another word can be uttered, Blake closes the front door. He doesn't want to hear any more. He doesn't think he can handle it anymore. He straightens his leaned over body and blinks hard. The feeling he intruded is quickly replaced by an uncomfortable chill in his bones. Maybe it's from the bitter cold that drifted through the open door, but he has a feeling it's not.
In an attempt to ignore the damaging suggestions from his cousin, he decides to finish covering the furniture. Once the chairs and couch are done, and he's made sure the beds are stripped and covered, he sits up on the kitchen island. He waits, hoping he can act normally when Bruce comes back in. But a creeping uneasiness grips his stomach, an uneasiness he can't shake after what he's heard.
I'll just act natural…yeah, he thinks. But how can he act naturally after that?
Bruce walks back in the house with a painted smile on his face.
"So, what did she need?" Blake asks, casually swinging his feet back and forth.
"Fine, she just wanted to make sure she knew how often to come by and water the plants."
Blake watches his father's stiff body closely, trying to decide whether Bruce can see right through him. But with a glance towards his wrist watch, he decides not to wonder.
"Wow, five-nineteen already? We better get moving." Knowing their plane leaves at 7:00, he jumps off the counter and motions towards the stack of silver cases by the door.
Bruce looks around and pats his pockets a couple of times before pulling his jacket off the coat rack. "You didn't happen to call a taxi while I was out, did you?" he asks.
"You called one yesterday, remember?" Blake reminds his disheveled father. He leans down to grab a few silver cases, all filled with necessary medical equipment for the work before them. Blake's amber eyes lift towards his dad, but he finds it's hard to look him in the eyes.
"Ready?" Bruce asks.
Bruce stares at his son until their eyes meet, uncomfortably locking momentarily. Blake knows if he doesn't refocus now, his dad will know that he heard everything. And he's not sure could handle that kind of a conversation this early. So, nervously, he breaks their gaze and faces the door, an orange pack on his back and a silver case within his grip.
"Let's go."
Kahir Village-Northeast of Mothaur, Bihar, India. Sunday, September 7th. 5:46 pm. Seven months later.
The yellow Indian sun begins its evening descent. A few hot rays squeeze past the leaves of a shade tree Blake sits under, a rather large rock his perch at the edge of the village. The heat from the sun isn't as intense as earlier months, but still forces sweat to bead up through the dust and grim already collected on his face. The teen would love nothing more than a nice cold shower and a set of clean clothes, but out here in the middle of bone-dry India, showers are hard to come by. And although his gray vans shoes look beige, at least the neon green t-shirt he's wearing hasn't been sweated through yet.
The village kids play in front of him in the sunlight and kick around a beat-up soccer ball. The soccer ball belongs to Blake's friend Adju Amir, the village leader's eldest son. Even though Blake is the least athletic guy here—especially compared to Adju—he usually attempts to kick the ball around with them. But for now, he sits and watches his and Adju's dad pack the dusty forest green Jeep wrangler across the road. The Jeep is pulled in front of the little stone house he and Bruce have called home the past seven months.
Blake zones in on his dad lifting the hard, silver cases filled with medical equipment into the Jeep. But even through the glare on his glasses, he can tell his thin framed father is struggling to hoist the heavy luggage in the haze of the dry season. Abdul Amir stands beside him, a hefty and muscular man who towers over Bruce. He could easily load the Jeep on his own within a few minutes, but Bruce refuses to let him help.
The teen purses his lips. Don't take it personally, Abdul, he thinks, recalling how his dad ignored his offer to pack. "He never lets me anywhere near the equipment either," he mumbles under his breath.
"What?" Adju runs over to his American friend, taking the soccer ball with him. A loud "hey!" raises from the other kids, but the Indian teen seems more concerned with why Blake is acting so anti-social. "What's up?"
The question snaps Blake from his thoughts. "Nothing, I guess," he laughs. "Just thinking."
Adju rolls his dark eyes. "You think too much. Come on, let's play before you and your father depart." Adju holds his hand out to his friend. Blake smiles up at him and takes his hand, allowing Adju to pull him up.
"Okay," Blake says. "One round." The two kick the ball back to the other kids and get a group game going. But even playing around isn't enough to distract Blake from his troubled thoughts.
Blake always hates leaving day. Always has, always will. The disheartening yet necessary part of each trip is enough to make him wanna cry. That's the thing about these trips, when he and his dad arrive, they don't know anyone. It's super easy to be awkward—to not care. But then, they get to know the people around them. Then, Blake makes friends, and making friends is the most difficult part because eventually, he knows he'll have to leave. And this part of India isn't exactly booming with Wifi hotspots for contacting people.
The ball rolls to Blake's feet. The kids are yelling at him to kick it, but he just stares down at the worn and dusty soccer ball. He glances towards his wrist watch, and knows his dad will be calling him to leave soon. Blake's tired amber eyes drift back to the kids around him—another group of friends he'll walk away from.
"Come on, Blake," Adju calls, an understanding smile on his face.
Blake reluctantly nods and kicks the ball as hard as he can, sending it sailing through the air. The kids run after it, but Blake spins around and runs back towards the house.
"Oh good, I was just about to call you over," Bruce greets. He shuts the back door on the Jeep, a proud smile on his face from cramming seven silver cases in the less-than-spacious back end. "Jeep's packed, and we're all ready. All that's left is your ole' orange."
Blake chuckles. He and his father share an inside joke about his backpack—how much it's been through and how it always seems to get lost. The funny thing is it always finds its way home.
"I'll grab it then." Blake walks inside the one-bedroom stone house and surveys the empty room. The hand-made wooden cots have been stripped of their bedding. Their suitcases have been packed and tossed in the Jeep's backseat, no longer strewn in a controlled mess at the end of their beds. Everything has been cleared out, leaving no presence of the doctor and his son on the dirt floor. Blake sits on the cot he claimed, the one he jammed into the corner to make himself feel safe.
His eyes glance around the room and he pushes out a breath. His shoulders sink as he recalls all the good and bad times that have filled the last seven months of his life. The moment they arrived, when one of the Chinese refugees was carried in here. He had a leg wound that had been festering since he came to the village a month before. And a week later when a little girl came in with a broken tooth. And all the many other odd things that happened to the Banner's after that.
This shouldn't be so hard, he thinks. It's not like I haven't done it a hundred times before. His fingers grip the edge of the bed, not wanting to leave one more time. But he has to, he needs to. He must keep moving, or else he'll never keep up with his dad. Blake finally stands and picks up his backpack. He slings it over his shoulder and stands in the open doorway, looking back one more time.
"Alavida, Kahir, India," he says, halfheartedly saluting the house.
Stepping back into the bright outside, he meets his dad by the back of the vehicle. Bruce rests a hand on Blake's shoulder and smiles.
"Come on, we need to leave for Delhi within the next few minutes if we want to catch our plane in time," Bruce says. But Blake pulls away from his dad and walks around to the passenger's side. He can feel Bruce's concerned gaze following him, but it doesn't matter. All the teen can think about is how Jennifer was right about everything.
The conversation he overheard all those months ago echoes through his mind. He replays his cousin's words in his head over and over again until he remembers it word for word. It's true, he doesn't have any friends back home. He doesn't have a school life to think about or people to interact with. And the more he realizes this, the more he can't bear to leave another mission site—the only place he's ever felt comfortable.
Within a few minutes, not only have the playing kids gathered around the Jeep, but many of the villagers and refugees have joined the group, all crowding up to say farewell to the "Good Doctors." Blake and Bruce climb into the Jeep and hang out of the doors to get a good look at everyone. Out of nowhere, a young Chinese man zips past the crowd and comes to stand below Bruce.
"Nǐ hǎo, Yao Long," Bruce greets with a bow of his head.
"Nǐ hǎo, Admiral Banner," Yao says, bowing and showing a toothy grin. Bruce and Blake look over the Jeep's frame at each other and laugh at their Chinese friend.
When the two arrived in the Kahir village area, the people assumed that they were a part of the International Guard, and not doctors without borders. The small group of Chinese refugees the community had graciously taken in didn't know much English at the time. But from troops they'd been around before fleeing China, they picked up a few words. And even though the International Guard is army, and Admiral is a Naval term, they took to calling Bruce by it. Neither Blake nor Bruce have had the heart or patience to explain to them that they're simply doctors, unaffiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D.
"We—my family—wish to gratify you for your work and compassion," Yao says, proud of his newfound English.
"Xièxiè," Bruce thanks him. His usage of Chinese brings a grin to Yao's face.
"Thank you to all of you," he says, now addressing the crowd. "When Blake and I arrived seven months ago in response to the war, we didn't know what to expect. But the love and care this community has shown not only to the Refugees, but to us—has exceeded anything we could have imagined."
Bruce looks Blake's way, but then teen repositions his gaze, unable to look in his father's eyes. "The physical wounds my son and I helped heal will never compare to the emotional wounds the good people of Kahir have healed," he continues, turning back to the crowd.
Abdul bows his head with a hand over his heart, and Bruce takes one last look at the faces before him. Both young and old, Chinese and Indian, scarred and blemish free. This community is so different from the others they've been in before.
"The war in China misplaced so many people, including those among us, but this community has shown what it truly means to be unified," Bruce says, a quiver in his voice becoming audible. "We thank you for your hospitality and we hope that since the war is over now, all of the refugees can go home soon, too."
The group cheers and throws their hands up for the Banner's. Abdul and Bruce shake hands before he sits down and starts the Jeep. Adju runs around to Blake's side and gives him a high five before the vehicle begins to roll away.
Blake continues to stand and holds tightly onto the Jeep's steel frame. He waves as the village of Kahir becomes a distant vision in the dust. The young man finally sits down in the cab and buckles himself in. Blake shifts his body away from his father as they find their way onto an adjoining dirt road. He watches closely in the side-view mirror until he can no longer see the single tree at the edge of town, or the line of houses sitting on either side of the road. He stares into the mirror until nothing is left to stare at but dirt. Dull, beige dirt.
The two sit in silence as they ride along, passing by one or two small villages on the road. Blake has decided not to speak to his dad, if possible, until they get to London. Because once they get to London, he won't even have to see him until their flight back to New York City. No, he'll be too busy actually enjoying himself with Gavin Peters—his only close friend. He's got it all planned.
We'll just keep driving along without speaking, he thinks. Then when we get on the plane to Heathrow, we'll probably both sleep through the flight. And when we finally get to London, the Peters will pick us up, and I'll spend the rest of the evening talking and joking around with Gavin. Not once will I have to think about going home. It'll be perfect.
But a plan, no matter how perfect, never happens as intended.
"Hey," Bruce says out of nowhere. "You've been pretty quiet all morning, anything I should be worried about?"
"No. I just haven't felt like talking today," Blake says, his tone rigid and cold.
Bruce gives a thoughtful "huh," but voices no reply. Blake is positive his dad probably doesn't know what to say next, or he's picking apart what his son said. Either way, he stays silent in the driver's seat. And, much to Blake's pleasure, an hour or two passes by without either speaking a word. The teen isn't sure if that's a good thing, or if he should be prepared for a passive-aggressive argument with his father.
No such argument comes as the next couple of traveling hours pass by silently. Bruce steers the Jeep onto paved roads, weaving in and out of traffic to find the right route. The sun—now sitting on the horizon—leads them towards the booming capital city of New Delhi. The beauty of civilization lights up the pursuing darkness of night. Gorgeously architectural buildings and culturally significant statues come into view, taking Blake's breath away. He remembers passing by them when they landed seven months ago, but there's something about seeing them at night that makes them more bewitching.
Blake has been to many places around the world in his seven years of mission trips. And from each trip he recalls the most interesting things that stood out to him. In Canada and Alaska, it was the Glaciers and icebergs, and the glowing hues of the Northern lights that reflected off the ice. When they visited South Africa, it was the wildlife that came and went as they pleased, and the scarcity of trees on the dusty plains. Northwest China, the mountains that changed colors when the evening sun hit them. And India, the beautiful Capitol buildings. These things collect in the forefront of his memories.
Ask me about the world, and I can tell you in great detail how wonderful and truly lovely it is. But ask me about my neighborhood, or if I know my next-door neighbor's name? I wouldn't know how to begin.
The sight-seeing ends as Bruce switches roads. Soon, Indira Gandhi International Airport comes into view. After they make a quick stop by the rental car building, the two leave the Jeep that's been their faithful sidekick since February. And as soon as they leave the ATV behind, they find a shuttle that takes them and their luggage to the check-in doors of Terminal 3. Processing takes several minutes, but luckily, they had their tickets ready, thanks to Bruce's board-partner, trip organizer, and friend Rick Jones.
After their tickets and passports have been checked, the two neatly stack their silver cases on a cart and roll them through the extravagantly decorated airport to customs. But apparently, the amount of cases causes a couple of TSA officers to give Banner's questioning looks.
A younger officer and an older approach Blake and Bruce with wary-eyed glances.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Bruce says. Blake waits uncomfortably while his dad roots through his backpack for the permission papers. "We were given permission from S.H.I.E.L.D. to fly this equipment with us. We're doctors."
He hands the papers to one of the men, an older looking Indian fellow with graying temples. The man scratches his forehead and reads over the permission papers. "Okay. I'm not going to question S.H.I.E.L.D. but you must pay an excessive baggage fee."
"Of course," Bruce complies. The TSA officers count the seven silver cases and their two pieces of personal luggage while Bruce opens his wallet to extra bag fees. Once their backpacks have been rummaged through and checked thoroughly, Blake and Bruce move on to the International departure. The teen can't help but look back to find the two officers both shake their heads, laughing to themselves. He can imagine that he and his dad probably seem suspicious, or just plain weird to them.
The International departure spreads out farther than the main gate, but the bright oranges, reds and gold carpet and modern lighting carry over. Gift shops and snack stops are scattered up and down the walkways leading to the departure pier out the east side of the building. But when Blake notices his dad looking down at his watch, his eyes land on his own wristwatch. They have less than five minutes to get to their plane.
"I thought we had more time!" Bruce says, rushing Blake towards the pier. "We need to get to our plane now."
"I'm right behind you," Blake says, struggling to run and push the luggage cart at the same time.
The two make a break for the cargo drop-off that will send their equipment ahead to America, and they jog down to section A, all the way at the end of the pier. Of course, Blake thinks. Their plane would be farthest away.
"I see gate seven! We're almost there," Blake calls to his dad. But Bruce is ahead of him. He speeds up and runs evenly with his dad now as they approach their gate. A young woman dressed in her airport uniform stands at the entrance and greets them with a smile.
"Flight 1704 to London," she directs. The short tunnel the girl points down opens out to the brilliant white of the Air India jet glowing in the spotlights of the tarmac, parked and waiting for them.
"Thanks," Bruce says breathlessly, handing her their tickets. The two slow to a speed-walk and finally make their way on board the plane.
The cool, air-conditioned atmosphere is a nice contrast to the dry summer heat the two have lived in the past few months. A warm smile and a "welcome" from a flight attendant greets them, and she leads them to two comfortable looking seats on the far-right aisle against the window.
But as relaxing as the idea of a soft, cushioned chair sounds, Blake hesitates sitting down. Bruce takes his suitcase and backpack from his hands and shoves it in the overhead compartment.
"You're not gonna jump at the window seat?" he asks, noting that Blake is still standing.
"You can have it."
Bruce raises an eyebrow at his son's odd behavior but shrugs it off and takes the window seat. Blake slinks into the chair next to him and sighs heavily. Dang, these are comfy, he thinks, crossing his arms over his chest as if he didn't want them to be comfortable. The teen turns and looks past his dad out the window to see how near they are to take-off, since he needs time to prepare. The only part about flying he despises is taking off and landing. Because the irrational, paranoid voice in his head reminds him that more plane accidents happen after take-off and before landing. Nervousness sets in and Blake can feel his leg shaking into overdrive, so much so, that his chair starts rattling. Bruce must feel the reverberations because his hand lands on his son's right knee, stilling it.
"We haven't even taken off yet," Bruce reasons.
"I know," Blake says, shooing his dad's hand away. He turns his head and scans the aisles. He watches the last of the passengers board and sit down, while a flight attendant pulls the door shut. Blake's eyes dart towards the window again as the engines start up. Here we go, he thinks, closing his eyes. The "Buckle Up" sign lights up at the front of the cabin, and the plane begins to move down the runway. Within a few minutes, the Jet full of people is in the air and headed to Heathrow International in London, England.
"We're in the air now," Bruce whispers. "I think it's safe to open your eyes."
Blake's crack open to see nothing but dark sky out the window. He sighs heavily and relaxes in his seat. At least we're in the air now, not that I want to be here.
The teen's eyes shut again and he inhales deeply. They can't get to London fast enough for him. At least if he can't be in India, he can be there, where his friend is. After he joined his father's missions at ten, the two spent a lot of time there with the Peters. It became the second home Blake wishes the first home could be more like. Even just a little bit.
The closer London gets, the better. So, to pass the time gap, Blake settles in, hopefully to sleep through some of the flight. But as soon as he gets comfortable, his dad softly touches his shoulder.
"Blake," Bruce whispers. His father's voice is calm but expectant. Blake inwardly groans and opens his eyes.
"Yes, dad?"
"You've been too quiet today. I know how hard leaving day is, but maybe if you talked about it, it wouldn't be so hard?"
Blake remains silent and unmoving as Bruce waits for him to say something. But what comes out of his mouth next, neither were expecting. "No."
"Excuse me?" Bruce questions.
"You heard me. I don't want to talk about it," he says, raising his voice. Bruce looks around to see if anyone heard him, but Blake isn't finished. No, he's just getting started. "I don't want to talk about leaving or going home. You know what? It'd be nice if we didn't even mention Harlem until we land in JFK."
Blake has never seen his father so perplexed before. "Firstly, don't raise your voice at me, and second; if you have a problem with me, then spit it out," Bruce says firmly.
Blake shifts towards his dad. "Okay dad, you want the truth, here it is. I do have a problem with you, and I have a problem with myself. I hate the way we live, going from place to place, leaving when I've just gotten comfortable there. I know going in that it's not permanent, but a part of me doesn't care. Part of me doesn't care if we ever go home because I have nothing at home."
Bruce sits in silence, puzzlement written on his face as Blake continues.
"I have no friends at home, nothing to look forward to when we get back, like school or a job. Why couldn't you just let me grow up normally? Sure, ten years went by when I was at home, and homeschooling was cool then. But I'm over. I've been over it. I'm tired of moving so fast and I'm tired of feeling isolated," Blake pauses, staring his dad in the eyes. "There's the truth, dad. If it were up to me, I would never go home. Because I have no reason to."
And just like that, all the tension and pressure that had built up in the teen is released.
Bruce simply drops his eyes to the floor and says nothing. Blake turns his body back towards the aisle and reclines his seat slightly, resting his head for the overnight trip through the time zones. He shuts his eyes, hoping that after his peace was spoken that he'll be able to sleep. Luckily, the collective tiredness of the past seven months catches up to him and before long, he's fast asleep. The rest of the flight is spent dreaming of empty houses and a darkened future.
Heathrow Airport, London, England. Sunday, September 7th. 5:35 pm.
Blake has had some awkward times in his life so far. Like when he was eleven and a restaurant waitress asked his dad if he wanted a six and under menu for him. Or when he was 14 and that girl in the dentist's office kept staring at him while he waited to get called back for a cleaning.
But sitting on this cold, wrought-iron bench outside Terminal 4 with his dad probably takes the cake. He and Bruce sit on opposite ends as they wait for the Peters to pick them up. Their luggage sits stacked in between them, simply filling in the gap. Never has he been so ready to see Phil and Janna's old, beat up, black BMW Alpina pull up. Anything to spare him enduring this silence. He can feel it, any minute now Bruce is going to bring up the way he acted on the plane.
Maybe if I speak first—act like nothing happened—I can cut off his chance to say something, he thinks. "Do you think they're stuck in traffic?" Blake spouts abruptly.
Bruce gives him a thoughtful glance before answering. "I don't know. It does seem pretty busy here, so it's a possibility."
A constant rotation of taxis around Terminal 4's drive whiz by the Banners. But with no sign of their British friends anywhere, they begin to wonder if they're coming at all. The Peters, ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists and good friends of Bruce's, have allowed the two to stay at their home in Isleworth each time they pass through London. And even though their next plane for New York doesn't leave until later tonight, they have very little time to waste. Clouds overhead begin to gather and thicken and fade to a dark gray. And as the temperature suddenly drops, bringing with it a chilling breeze, Blake has a feeling they're about to get rained on.
"I hope they get here soon, I'm too tired to dig out a rain jacket," Blake says.
"Well, you may need to."
"Bruce! Blake!" yells a voice from the curbing in front of them.
The two snap their heads towards the voice, thankful to see Phillip, Janna, their son Gavin, and that old BMW practically falling apart in the drive. The Banner's rise from the bench to greet them and end up in a group hug.
"Glad you guys finally showed up," Blake jokes, getting pulled into the hug.
"What Blake means is we were beginning to wonder where you guys were," Bruce says.
The five break apart. "We would've been here sooner, but the traffic was absolute murder!" Phil explains, taking Blake's luggage and tossing it in the trunk with Bruce's.
"Oh Phil, don't you dare act like it wasn't partly that car's fault!" Janna says, pointing at the BMW. "Anyway, I've got supper waiting on everyone at home and I don't want it to get cold, so let's go!"
The crew hops in, Phil driving and Bruce his co-pilot, while Janna takes a seat in the back with Blake and Gavin. As soon as Blake finds his spot in the middle, he plants his backpack firmly between his feet.
"You sure this thing is gonna make it, Mrs. Janna?" Blake wonders. Gavin elbows him hard in his ribs and smirks.
"I thought we were going to break apart on the drive over," he laughs. Gavin, with spiky copper hair, and a mischievous light behind his dark brown eyes, begins telling his friend about everything that's happened to him since they last video chatted. Blake relaxes into the back bench comfortably and smiles, listening closely to what Gavin says.
Apparently, he doesn't like school, which brings up the "I'm-jealous-you're-a-homeschooler" rant. An eye roll later and Gavin moves on to complaining about his terrible wifi, or his "hinky net," as he calls it. But as he continues to run through the highs and lows of the past few months, Blake's amber eyes begin to drift towards his dad. Bruce's gaze is positioned out the side window, no doubt looking at the many beautiful estates they pass by on the Great Southwest road. But Blake can't help but wonder what's currently going through his father's mind.
Is he mad at me? Blake thinks. I wonder if I made him feel bad…well…good! I hope he feels bad. I think?
Soon the car brings them to the northwest neighborhood of Isleworth. They reach the roundabout that takes them into the Peters' neighborhood on Springwell. But after Phil makes the turn onto Burns Way, the car begins to shudder.
"Dad! It's doing it again," Gavin points out.
"I can hear that, boy," Phil replies. Phil starts slowly caressing the dashboard. "Come on ole' girl, we're almost home."
Burns Way transitions into Browning Way, but the vehicle begins slowing down as they turn. Their home is just up the road, simply a turn away. But the "ole' girl" isn't having it. The BMW begins shaking harder than before, and within the blink of an eye, shuts off completely. It slowly rolls to a stop and the passengers look around at each other.
Phillip sinks into the driver's seat and sighs. "Boys, would you mind so much helping me push this hunk of rubbish up the road a tad?"
The boys in the back glance at each other, but Gavin and Blake can barely hold their laughter.
"We'd be glad to, Mr. Phil," Blake offers, suppressing his laughter. His first real laugh in days.
Janna walks around and hops into the driver's seat, taking the steering wheel while the others get out and push the car down the road. Considering how small the car is, Blake didn't think it would be hard to push at all, but he soon realizes he was wrong. Even with the combined strength of all four of them shoving it forward, the car isn't going anywhere fast. They come to the turn onto Springwell, and Janna yells out the window.
"We're almost there, boys!"
The four continue to trudge along when a chilling gust sweeps down the street. A soft thundering sound echoes in the distance and without warning, rain begins to pelt their backs.
"Really?!" Blake yells at the sky. The young man wipes at his cherry glasses futilely. "Now I can't see."
"Just take them off. I'll hold them for you," Bruce offers, holding out a hand to take them. Blake stares at his dad a moment before handing over his glasses. Bruce tucks the spectacles safely away in his shirt pocket. "Just keep walking straight."
Now completely soaked and dripping, the guys push the car through the crowded neighbor, until the Peters' shotgun house finally comes into view. They shout triumphantly and push harder against the back bumper, jolting it forward. Janna turns the wheel sharp into the squared concrete drive enclosed by a small brick wall, but the boys struggle to push it up on the curb. They all give it one last push, and Janna quickly parks it.
"Come on, boys!" she yells as she runs to unlock the front door. Gavin and Blake trail behind her, but without his glasses, Blake struggles to see. He slowly walks forward, but the rain begins to come down harder. The drops pelt his exposed arms as he wobbles to the front door. Just as he's about to miss the step up on the front door, he feels a set of arms grab hold of his back and guide him.
"I got you," comes Bruce's comforting voice.
"Thanks dad," Blake says, his voice a quiet mumble. Now I really have no idea what's going on in his head.
The dripping wet group crowds into the small entrance of the house. Phil somehow managed to grab both of their backpacks before he came in, a relieved sight to Blake. The teen turns around to look through the glass on the front door just in time to see the rain cease completely. Of course, it stops raining, he thinks, rolling his eyes.
"Everyone stay put and I'll go fetch some towels," Janna tells the men. "But don't step foot off that rug!" She points to the black rubber welcome mat under their feet, and heads up the stairs directly in front of them.
"Yes mum," Phil says, winking at her. "But hurry, we're freezing!"
Bruce places Blake's glasses in his hands. "You might need these."
Blake unfolds the glasses and slides them on. He peers through the water-sprayed lenses, happy to have his sight back. The teen looks around at the entrance, one he hasn't stood in since last year. The "shoe bench," as Janna calls it, stills sits by the wall on his left, with wicker baskets underneath that hold various sneakers and sandals. The hooked shelf still hangs opposite of the bench with several hoodies and sweaters draped over the silver hooks. The hard floor beneath him is still scuffed from all the times he and Bruce have trekked through here with their rolling suitcases. Next, the smell of a pork roast fills the air. With one deep inhale, the scent warms Blake to the bones. Janna glides back down the stairs with her arms full of brown and tan colored towels.
"Janna, you didn't have to cook a big meal for us," Bruce says, passing a towel to Blake.
"Bruce, it's Sunday! I always cook a big supper on Sunday," Janna explains.
"Roast, carrots, peas and potatoes," Phil adds. "She even got some sweet apple sauce to go with it."
A grin tugs at Blake's lips as the aroma becomes too intoxicating to bear. "Mrs. Janna, as hungry as I am, I don't think I can properly enjoy such a meal in these clothes," Blake says, gesturing to his soaked clothing articles.
"Yeah mum, how 'bout we all change first?" Gavin adds. "I don't want to hear my shoes squishing all throughout supper."
Janna purses her lips and nods. "Yes. Yes, of course. Everyone go freshen up, then meet back at the dining room table. That'll give me time to set the table."
The boys begin to walk in different directions, but Janna stops them. "Hold it! Wet shoes on the rug, please!"
Blake gladly snatches off his vans and bright green socks. If there's one thing he hates, it's wet socks. He is convinced that wet socks are a form of torture.
"Well," Phil starts, turning towards their brightly colored bags. "I sure hope those knapsacks repel water, because if you've got any clothes in there, they'll be just as wet as the ones on you," he laughs. Blake and Bruce unzip their respective backpacks and pull out some fresh, dry clothes.
"Blake, you can change in my bathroom," Gavin offers. The two boys run up the stairs and take the first door on the right. The door opens to Gavin's messy room. Clothes strewn about, his darkly colored bed half made and a wad of tangled up wires piled up by his desk.
"Wow, you cleaned up in here," Blake remarks.
"Oh, ha-ha. Funny." Gavin mockingly curls his lip, and picks up a loose shoe from the floor, throwing at Blake. Blake ducks just in time, allowing the shoe to fly by his head. He darts into the bathroom and slams to the door behind him to start changing.
"Missed!" he says through the door.
"I won't next time. Remember, there's only one way out of that bathroom!" Gavin retorts.
Blake rolls his eyes and places his dry clothes on the counter. He pulls off his soaked shirt and twists it over the sink, attempting to wring out some of the water. But, while he does so, he notices that—oddly enough—the bathroom is spotless. No clothes lying around, no shoes littering the floor or wires to trip over. Just soft, fluffy rugs underfoot, with a matching shower curtain and towels.
"Nice," Blake comments.
"So Blake, I couldn't help but notice your dad seemed quiet in the car," Gavin says loudly.
"Yeah, so?" he answers as he replaces his cargo shorts with a fresh set of blue jeans. He hangs his wet clothes over the shower curtain rod to dry, and finishes changing.
"I just thought something might be wrong. You know, since your dad and my dad love to talk."
A clean t-shirt now hangs on his scrawny body as he begins to dry his damp hair. "Well, we did kinda get into a fight on the plane."
"I knew it!" Gavin exclaims as Blake reenters his room—now in dry clothes and sporting the wet-grunge hairstyle. "Well, I didn't know that exactly, but I knew something was wrong! What happened?"
Blake straddles his friend's desk chair and slumps over the back. "I really don't remember everything I said, but it got pretty heated. I remember closing my eyes during take-off—you'd think as many years as I've been flying, I would've gotten over it by now. But I was shaking my leg because I was nervous. Dad put his hand on my knee to stop it from jiggling so much."
"Were you shaking the whole plane?" Gavin asks jokingly.
"No," Blake rolls his eyes. "But I did snap at him. Then a little bit later, dad asked me why I was so quiet, and if I wanted to talk."
"And?"
"And…I don't know what came over me! It was like something inside me snapped, and all this pressure from who knows where just blew. I know I was upset because it was leaving day, but I started accusing him of some pretty bad things."
Gavin curiously raises his eyebrows. "What kind of bad things?"
"Oh you know, robbing me of the normal childhood I could've had. Keeping me isolated during the short time we're home," Blake says, leaning back against the desk behind him. "I'm also relatively sure I blamed him for not having any friends—other than you, of course!"
"Of course," Gavin smiles. "So, what did he say?"
"Nothing. He just sat there, and took every disrespectful thing I had to say."
"Wow," Gavin says, leaning back on his elbows.
Blake props his head on his crossed arms. "Yeah." The next voice that comes is Janna's from downstairs.
"Dinner!" she calls. The boys stand and make their way into the dining room to the left.
"Have you asked him about college yet?" Gavin whispers as they approach the table.
"Are you kidding? After what I said to him today, we may not get past small talk for weeks."
The Oakwood table before them is set with gold colored plates, paper napkins and shiny silverware. An ivory runner and yellow sunflowers decorate the oval-shaped table, and the boys take a seat beside each other. Phil and Bruce come to the table moments later, each sitting directly across from their sons.
"You need any help in there, love?" Phil aims his question over his shoulder, towards the kitchen archway to the right.
No answer is needed when the short woman walks into the dining room balancing a weighted down plate of juicy pork roast in her arms. "Here we are," she says, gently placing the plate in the center of the table. Janna takes a seat at the head of the table, but tells the men to take turns on the food, like civilized people. The warm fragrance of the roast is dancing around Blake's nose, and those carrots and potatoes laying around the meat isn't helping his growling stomach.
Everyone takes their turns loading up their plates with the delicious looking meal, but all move too slowly for Blake. Ironically, he ends up being the last to have the roast passed to him.
"All right boys, let me take a bite first," Janna says. The Peters have a tradition where whoever cooked the meal, gets to taste first, just to see if it's good enough for the others to eat. But right now, the tradition couldn't be more annoying considering how long Janna takes to decide whether she likes it or not. Blake watches closely as she narrows her green eyes and purses her lips in thought. Now on the edge of his chair, he inches his hands closer and closer to his fork and knife. Come on Mrs. Janna, he thinks. I'm dying of hunger over here.
And finally, she speaks. "Seems good enough to me." And on that note, the four guys dig in.
131 Springwell Road, Isleworth. 6:17 pm.
Laughter erupts from the partially cleared dining table after dinner has been devoured. Blake recalls weird happenings from their adventure in India to the Peters. Janna and Phil share stories alongside him from the times they went to India, stories Blake has heard many times before. But talking about their trips is something they enjoy, and why would he dare interrupt? He simply sits back in his chair and listens as if he's never heard it before. However, the conversations and storytelling has been void of Bruce's input all evening. Not a peep has escaped his lips, save for the occasional nod, smile or chuckle. And Blake can't help but feel responsible.
I didn't think it would be this bad, he thinks. What if he doesn't say anything at all until we get home? Or…what if…what if he stops talking to me all together? The thoughts rushing to his mind are enough to give him a headache. But the headache takes a back burner when he notices Janna gathering dishes, and struggling to carry them all.
Blake begins to stand but Bruce has beat him to it. "Janna," he says, "here. Let me wash the dishes tonight."
"Absolutely not! I will not have you come all the way from India, push Phil's car up the road in the rain, then wash my dishes!" She manages to steady all five dinner plates but struggles when she reaches for the silverware.
"Here Mrs. Janna, let me," Blake says, taking to plates from her arms. Bruce picks up the forks and knives, while Gavin snatches up the glasses of water.
She huffs a sigh and begins to smile. "If you boys insist."
"You and Dad go chill in the den, we won't be long," Gavin winks.
Phil and Janna take each other by the hand, walking towards their living room while the other three head through the arch into the kitchen. Bright yellow walls make the kitchen pop along with the white subway tiles that line the counter. The open floor gives plenty of room to work around, even with the breakfast table taking up the left end of the room.
Blake and Bruce pile their dishes in the sink, and Gavin places the cups on the counter. "Hey Gavin," Bruce says. The teens glance at each other as a boom of thunder echoes outside. "Blake and I can take it from here."
Blake shoots a look of distress towards his friend but he's already on his way out of the kitchen. "Of course, Mr. Bruce. The dishes are all yours." Bruce smiles awkwardly until Gavin is out of earshot, but instead of pouncing on Blake, he starts washing the dishes.
The sink fills with hot water and soap, bubbling up in white puffs. Bruce waits a moment for the dishes to soak. "You wanna wash or rinse?" he asks. Blake stands to the side and tries to get a read on his dad, but no vibe sticks out.
"I guess I can rinse." Blake steps closer to his dad and stands in front of the empty side of the sink, ready to place wet dishes in the plastic drain board to his left.
The silence that envelops the kitchen is a pained one. Blake isn't sure whether he should prepare for the worst, or simply cope with the unsettling tension between them. Is there even any tension? Blake knows there's some on his side, but his dad has been acting weird since they woke up on the plane earlier. He just stepped past Blake and carefully pulled the luggage out of the overhead without a word. The walk through the terminal—not a single word uttered. Even now, he keeps silent. If there were ever a time Blake wished he could read minds, now is it.
The monotonous squeaking of the sponge against the plates grinds on Blake's nerves. But along with the occasional clap of thunder, the water spilling out of the faucet and off the dishes is enough to fill the space between them. And to Blake, it's actually kind of soothing—the steady flow of clear warm water dripping into the white sink. The way the soap suds from the silverware swirl around as they shrink down the drain. Now that he has something to focus on, the quiet isn't so bad. It's nice.
But the wordless washing finally comes to an end when Bruce parts his lips to speak. "Blake," he says.
The teen reluctantly answers, "Yeah dad?"
He waits a moment, obviously articulating his words. "On the plane earlier—"
"I know what I said was harsh dad, and I'm really sorry I just…I was upset," Blake cuts in.
"I know." Bruce's honey brown eyes never stray from the plate he scrubs. "But in all fairness, you were right."
Blake blinks, frozen in his position. "Wait…I was?"
"Yes," Bruce answers. "About everything. It's just taken me a while to admit it." Blake lifts his eyes to his father's face, waiting for his next words. Bruce's brow furrows in thought as he continues softly.
"Before you—before Betty—I was always moving. Running was all I knew how to do. Sure, I had the Avengers for a while, but I was still on the move. Never stopping." Bruce's words catch in his throat, as if recalling a memory from a time in his life Blake still knows nothing about. "But Betty helped change all of that, she helped change me. And when you came along, I had so many reasons to stay."
The teen listens intently, watching his dad's expression change as his story progresses. Happiness and sadness come and go, but a hollow appearance lingers. A hollowness Blake can hear through the ever calm of his dad's voice.
"But after Betty…passed, I just—I couldn't stay anymore. It's not that you weren't reason enough to be still, I just wanted to go back to what was comfortable," he pauses, rubbing a fork between the wash cloth in his hands. "But I wasn't about to leave you behind. And when I saw how your face lit up with excitement on that first trip I took you on, I thought everything would be okay…and it was for a while. You didn't seem to mind pulling out of your homeschool group to travel the world with your dad."
Blake's gaze drifts down to the silverware waiting to be rinsed. He remembers that first trip. The two of them went to Mexico, not exactly the safest place for a ten-year-old, but he was too beside himself with the amazement of being in another country. Those were good times.
"I know the last couple of years have been hard. I was so wrapped up in getting us to China to help with the war, I didn't notice how uncomfortable you were becoming with all of this. I guess the wonder of traveling to new places wore off."
"It wasn't just that, dad…" Blake admits, his eyes resting on his father again.
A heavy sigh escapes Bruce's lips. "I know. It was the fact that I was trying to drag you along with the life I wanted to live. A life that isn't you." Bruce wrings out the washcloth and drapes it over the faucet, clenching his hands on the edge of the counter. And for the first time in the conversation, Bruce meets his son's eyes. Their gazes lock for a moment, both silently trying to understand the other before drifting back to their tasks.
"I know that you've been looking at colleges—City College in Manhattanville is a good school," he says, dipping his hands back into the sink.
Blake's amber eyes widen. "You know about that?"
Bruce chuckles. "Of course I know. You had the information packet stuffed in one of your not-so-secret hiding places at home. Although, I thought maybe you would want to go to a larger school."
A smile breaks out across the teen's face. "That option hasn't been completely ruled out yet."
"I didn't think it was," Bruce smirks. "I just wish you'd talked to me about it sooner. We could've had some kind of plan worked out."
Blake's smile fades and is replaced by a downcast expression as he thinks about all the times he wanted to talk to his dad about graduating early and going to college. But Bruce was so consumed with organizing this trip, he wanted so badly to help with the civil war efforts in China, Blake's wants took a back seat. The many nights Blake thought about getting up from his bed and walking downstairs to talk come back to his mind. But every time he was stopped by fear that he might seem selfish. And being selfish is the last thing Blake wants, considering how hard Bruce raised him not to be.
"I didn't want it to seem like I was putting my wants ahead of yours. I mean, you worked so hard to get us as far as India…I just couldn't do it," he says, rinsing the dishes Bruce lays in his side of the sink.
Bruce shakes his head, a grin pulling at his lips. "Talking about your future is far from selfish, Blake." He wraps a soapy hand around Blake's shoulder. "If something's up, please come talk to me. I don't want anything to come between such a good partnership."
Blake's smile returns. "We are a pretty good team, aren't we?"
The two share a moment before Bruce answers. "The best."
"Dad," Blake starts.
"Yeah?"
"Your hand is soaking my shirt."
Bruce recoils his hand, finding a dry spot on his palm. "I'm sorry! I—uh...guess I wasn't paying attention."
Blake laughs it off, picking up a kitchen towel and patting his shoulder dry. "It's okay."
The two finish washing the dishes from dinner, and soon they retire to the den with the Peters. The boys head back upstairs to Gavin's room to watch TV until their eyes blur, while Bruce, Phil and Janna stay downstairs in the family room, talking about their kids and what the future might hold for them.
The next few hours of interaction pass by quickly, and before long it's time to leave for the airport again, this time, with New York as the destination. The Peters had planned on giving them a ride back to Heathrow, that is, before the Alpina broke down and they had to push it in the rain. With that idea tossed out the window, Phil decides to call a taxi, or as they call it in London, a "hackney."
With the cab on its way, Blake and Bruce don their backpacks and step outside to unload their luggage from the BMW's trunk. The Banners stand at the end of the driveway and the Peters join them as they wait for the cab. Their visit might have been short, but it was well worth it to Blake. To be able to spend time with his friend in person opposed to over the internet, and to finally talk to his dad about what's been bothering him. Blake would sum this up as a good visit, minus pushing the car in the rain of course.
Within a minute, a black cab rolls up to the sidewalk. The driver rolls down the front passenger window and smiles. "You must be the Banners."
"Yes sir," Blake says, returning a smile. Bruce takes their luggage and loads it in the back of the cab, then turns back to their friends to say goodbye.
Bruce grabs Phil's hand and shakes it warmly. "It was great to see you guys. Thanks for everything."
"It was wonderful to have the two of you back," Janna says, kissing Bruce on the cheek.
"Until next time," Blake starts, offering Gavin a fist bump.
Gavin smirks. "Next time, I won't miss," he winks, ramming his fist into Blake's.
And once more, the Banners and Peters part ways, another visit in the history books.
"So," Bruce starts, looking at his son with a smile. "Are you ready to go home?"
The question resonates in Blake's mind. Earlier today, Blake wasn't even sure he knew what home meant, but after sharing his troubles with his dad in a slightly dramatic way, this question isn't a difficult one. The last few years, he's spent so much time and emotion needlessly forcing himself to believe that his home wasn't home. He's spent so much time thinking the house he grew up in was just that, a house. A house that would never be anything more than a reminder that he was happier when he was a kid. A reminder that felt like a prison.
But now, those thoughts slowly chip away as his mind makes room for ideas about the future. A future in New York, at home. A future he'll make for himself in the place he's now excited to go back to. Because now, Blake's home is starting to look a lot more like an open door than a prison.
And knowing this gives him the confidence to look his father in the eyes and smile. "Yeah dad, let's go home."
118th street, Harlem, New York. Sunday, September 7th. 5:58 p.m.
Time hopping across time zones is enough to mess with you, but it doesn't matter if it's seven in the morning or ten at night, Blake is happy to be home—finally.
The Banner's drag all their luggage from the taxi cab they loaded down when they arrived at JFK. The driver gave the two a funny look, but didn't refuse the generous tip Bruce offered. Now, the doctors come to stand on the sidewalk in front of their townhouse, surrounded by luggage and ready for some much-needed rest.
Bruce pulls his house keys from his backpack and climbs the concrete steps leading to the front door, with Blake right behind him. He shoves the key into the lock and opens the door. The cherry wood door creaks open to reveal their living room and kitchen, in spotless condition.
"Wow! Jen took great care of this place," Blake comments, stepping inside.
"Yeah, doesn't even smell musty," Bruce adds. The two look around, taking in every square inch of their home to see what's changed, or in this case what hasn't changed. The furniture is still covered in dirty white cloth, but the plants in the window seat by the door look greener than when they left seven months ago. The boys drop their backpacks on the floor by the door and begin rolling luggage in, carefully carrying the silver cases up the steps. Before they finish, Blake is sure his father told him to "be careful" at least nine times. To which he replied each time, "I got it dad."
All seven cases are now stacked neatly on the kitchen island, and the airport taxi speeds away from the sidewalk after Bruce hands over the fare for the trip. Bruce steps back inside, closing the door behind him.
"So dad, what do you wanna unpack first?" Blake asks, tapping his fingers on a silver case.
"How about we take care of that tomorrow, huh?"
Blake shrugs, halfheartedly nodding in agreement and joining his father in plopping down on the couch. Without removing the sheet before they sit, the two send up a cloud of dust around them, a cloud that coats them thoroughly. Once the dust settles, the two glance at each other and laugh. And just as they start to relax—for the first time in seven months—Bruce's holo-phone can be heard ringing from his backpack.
The man grunts, rolling his eyes as he forces himself up. He riffles through the various zippered pouches on his pack before finding the bar. The center button blinks bright green, and Bruce extends it to answer.
"Hello?" Blake turns his body and peers over the back of the couch, watching his dad's expressions react to the caller. "Yes Rick, we're home."
The teen smiles. Rick Jones—probably one of the most excitable young men he's ever met—always checks in with them after their flights to make sure they stick to the schedule. A tight schedule Rick put a lot of time and effort into planning with Bruce. Rick came on board the mission when Blake was eleven. He was just a college student then, studying communications. But when he showed interest to Bruce on helping while at a conference, Bruce and Tony took him on as an intern. He helps plan, organize and raise funds for the trips, even adding a little input from time to time. And over the past few years, he and the Banners have become close friends.
Blake decides to get up and take his suitcase and backpack upstairs to the loft, leaving his dad to talk business with Rick. He rolls his body off the couch and wraps a hand around the handle to his suitcase, lugging it up the hardwood stairs, thumping on each step. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, he pauses to take in the nakedness of his room. Nothing is out of place on his desk, his telescope still points out the small attic window across the room, and the shelf in his closet still holds clothes. But there's something about his uncovered mattress and lack of hanging clothes that makes his room seem lifeless.
I suppose I'll just have to fix that, huh?
And so, he grabs a thick stack of cloth from narrow chest-of-drawers by his closet—matching sheets, pillowcases and a quilt. The teen snatches the dirty white sheet from his bed and begins making it up with the set he pulled out. He continues from there and unpacks his suitcase, tossing many of his clothes into the laundry hamper for washing later. Within a few minutes, the naked look that made Blake feel uneasy has been replaced with a lived-in vibe. He proudly props his fists on his hips and smiles, glancing around at his work.
"Well done, Blake." The curly-headed teen jumps onto his bed and sighs heavily. But his moment of enjoyment ends when he hears Bruce raise his voice downstairs. With a raised eyebrow, he gets up and cautiously steps over towards the top of the stairs to listen.
"What do you mean Med Corp is pulling out?" Bruce says. "Why would they do that?"
Uh-oh, Blake thinks at the mention of one of their main funding partners—the funding partner that supplies them with new medical equipment every year. He hops down two steps at a time to see what's up. "Dad?"
On reaching the kitchen, Blake is met with a hand asking him to wait while his father's cheeks slowly turn red in frustration. "What?"
Blake impatiently taps his foot as he searches Bruce's expression, trying to pick up on something that might hint at what's happening. But no such hint reveals itself, and the teen is left guessing.
"Well, what did Goodyear say? Did he give a reason as to why?" Bruce continues to Rick. Blake raises his brow expectantly but his dad holds up his free hand, wordlessly asking for a minute.
The young Banner rolls his amber eyes. "I never get to know what's going on until after it matters…" he mumbles. But when his eyes land back on his father, something in the phone conversation has caused a shift in the mood. A shift that drains every trace of color from Bruce's face, turning him as white as a sheet.
"What is it, dad?" Blake asks, leaning in with widening eyes.
Bruce's once bright honey-colored eyes lift to meet Blake's, his jaw suspended in shock. "Charles Goodyear is dead."
Disbelief and confusion overtake the teen as he attempts to wrap his head around what his father has told him. Charles Goodyear—the CEO of Med Corp and a friend of Bruce's—is dead? Blake can't believe it. There's just no way…But the expression Bruce still holds says otherwise.
"Are you sure?" Blake asks.
"Rick just told me he was found dead in his home. Apparently it was a heart attack," Bruce answers. "Listen Rick, I'm gonna put you on speaker."
Blake's eyes narrow suspiciously as his father turns on the in-call speaker. Mr. Goodyear is probably one of the healthiest people Blake knows—knew. There's no way he died of a heart attack. "Well what's gonna happen to the company? To us?" Blake wonders.
"One of Goodyear's underlings, Leonard Getz, is gunning for his position, and until they have things sorted out, they've pulled their funding on us and everyone else," Rick answers, his usually happy voice grave.
"Getz," Bruce says angrily, placing the phone on the counter. "I should've known."
"Wait, who's Leonard Getz?" Blake asks.
Bruce sighs, shaking his head as if recalling a bad memory. "Leonard Getz is the son of a former A.I.M. Scientist Supreme. I never felt right about him working for Med Corp—he was always too nice to Charles. Now I know why."
"Woah now, Bruce. We can't accuse people of committing murder," Rick interrupts in a nervous tone. "The best thing for us to do is just stay out of the way, for now at least."
"Rick, we can't let them do this. You know as well as I do that if they appoint Getz head of the company, they'll stop supplying us permanently. Us and every other charity Charles took on," Bruce points out.
Blake sighs heavily. "So what are we gonna do now?"
"I've already spoken to Mr. Stark and he said he'd be willing to help supply your trips with new equipment," Rick says.
"No! I'm not going to ask Tony to do any more than he already does," Bruce replies harshly.
"Well, I've already set up a meeting for us with him. He said he'd even video call T'Challa in Wakanda for advice," Rick explains, pausing. "Look Bruce, I get that you feel like you'd be taking advantage of your friends, but they want to help you. Especially if Med Corp is turning to the dark side."
"He makes a good point, Dad," Blake says. The teen and his father stare at each other for a moment. "That's what friends are for, right?"
Blake offers a comforting smile and finally, Bruce nods, accepting defeat. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, Rick, we'll meet with Tony. But asking Tony to be our mission supplier will be our last resort. We'll work something else out before we ask for more from him."
"Okay then, we agreed on next Monday. You know, to give you two some time to adjust and rest up," Rick says, a warmth returning to his voice. "Welcome home, guys."
"Thanks, man," Blake says as Bruce ends the call. Silence fills the room and Bruce stares down at his holo-phone.
Blake wraps an arm around his dad's shoulders. "Everything will work out, Dad. You'll see."
Bruce glances at his son with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I know," he says, pulling Blake into a side hug.
Even though this night didn't turn out at all how he expected it to, Blake is content. Not necessarily okay with what's happening at the current moment, but content with the fact that now, no matter what, Blake knows for sure that he and his father will face their struggles together. As a team. And a team is what it will take to face the struggle that has only just begun.
Outside their home sits a man cloaked in darkness and watching out the window of an empty townhome across from the Banner's own. The house has been vacant for years, and it doesn't seem as though this man has moved in, as the room he waits in is dark and void of furniture. But even more curious, the man holds a finger to his left ear, while his other hand rests on a long hard case propped against the wall. The voices of the Banners can be heard through an earpiece. But with the tap of his finger, a new voice can be heard.
"What do you hear?" comes a woman's voice, low and soft but with a raspy quality.
"The Banners are headed to Stark Tower soon to meet up with Mr. Big-Shot about funding problems. Med Corp or some mess," says the man. "Looks like it may go down over the weekend."
The woman offers a thoughtful sound before replying. "Perfect. A public place is exactly where we want this to happen."
"Are you sure about this? I mean, he's just a kid."
"I didn't hire you to ask questions, I hired you to do a job."
The man sighs, rubbing his forehead exasperatedly. "What do you want me to do?"
"What we talked about. Get a clear shot, then shoot. Or need I remind you again how vital the result of this experiment is?"
"No."
"Good," she says, pausing. "Then let the revolution begin."
A/N: Confused yet? I know I am! Please drop me a review and tell me what you think! Stay tuned.
Up next: Captain America's legacy.
Hey I just posted this...and this is crazy...but since you've read it...review it maybe?