"Death is nothing to us, since when we are, death has not come, and when death has come, we are not. "- Epicurus.
Bruce notices the missing gun miles later, and he can't help but feel frustrated (he always is). He sighs, settles on a boulder to rest. The sun burns his skin, and he allows it. Green is uglier than red. He tries to forget of strange men with green eyes, and poisoned soup. A short amount of time later, he straightens. His eyelids are heavy, and his muscles are sluggish, but he manages to stand.
Move, Banner. He complies listlessly, ignoring his stomach, his aching muscles. He cannot afford capture. He won't.
Still, intentions and the physical body do not always work together, and he finds his face introduced to the dirt before the sun falls.
…
He wakes to the smell of fire, burning and cracking in the night air. He slants a look, and his suspicions are confirmed. Harry is stirring a pot above the fire, offering a soft grin when he notices the stare. The man didn't even bother to remove Bruce from his face plant.
He rubs his face, fixes himself into a sitting position. The heat from the fire nips at his worn shoes. Should probably get new ones soon, somehow.
"So, Harry, are you going to admit to following me, or is this just another persistent attempt at room service?"
Harry chuckles, and Bruce can't help but think it's morbid, all white teeth and black holes. Like he could swallow you hole, and spit you out in the same instant. Here, features highlighted by the fire, Bruce cannot hold back his ire, his fear. He tries to anyways.
"Someone as young as you shouldn't be working for something like S.H.I.E.L.D," Bruce announces, as if his opinion mattered, held merit.
"You'll be surprised how young they start," Harry says, doesn't look up from the pot as he pours some soup into his bowl. Bruce narrows his eyes when pale hands offer him the bowl.
"Thanks for the offer," he says drily, "but I think we can all learn from past encounters that might not be best."
"Nonsense," Harry insists, "it's better. Promise."
Even Bruce knows how malnourished he is, and is not stubborn enough to turn down anything that would fill his stomach, even soup that resembled horse manure. He accepts it.
It is incredibly better, but compared to the original, it is not put into high regard anyways.
"What meat is this?" Bruce queries, poking the clump of flesh in his meal.
"Whatever makes you feel better," Harry says, sits down.
"And you're not eating because?"
"Not hungry."
Bruce hums, compliant for now; he does not seek conflict, does not seek confrontation. They come to him anyways, drawn to him like he was fire and them, marshmallows. Lean in too close and they get burnt, recoil as if they did not expect the reaction. Didn't expect the other guy.
"Feeling better?" Harry is saying now, when Bruce not so subtly asks for seconds.
"Thank you," Bruce says, and though he knows Harry is not necessarily doing these things for him, but for his companion, he acknowledges the help.
Harry looks shocked for a moment, before smiling. "My pleasure, Mr. Banner."
When Bruce does not seek any further conversation, Harry looks just a little disappointed.
…
Bruce cannot sleep in the Harry's presence, and he does not know if Harry acknowledges and leaves, or departs to do some other business. He is so quiet, Bruce never notices when he even leaves, nor realizes when he comes back until he seeks rest.
Bruce doesn't know why he doesn't object to Harry's presence. Perhaps, wasting his breath wouldn't change anything, so he does not vocally protest. He convinces himself this is why, and not because he is pathetic enough to wish for company with someone from SHIELD who claimed he was only helping, or keeping company.
"Are you asleep, Mr. Banner?"
"No."
"I see," Harry says, but does not move to leave. Bruce stares at him from across the shabby, too small room, and sighs.
"Why are you here, Harry?" Bruce asks, softly, turning eyes to the cracks in the ceiling, the leaks.
"Are you not lonely, Mr. Banner?"
"No," is the stiff answer. "Lonely suggests I want company, but I only need its absence."
"And why is that?"
"Doesn't your agency tell you that kind of stuff? Or do you not know why you're even here in the first place?"
Harry surveys Bruce with careful eyes. "You speak as if you know my reason for being here, and yet you ask me why?"
"I'm a fickle man who needs to hear confirmation," Bruce retorts.
Harry laughs. "Mr. Banner, you are not a man at all."
Bruce should have anticipated this, but the sting is still loud and ringing in his ears. He tries not to show his recoil too obviously. Why should he condemn someone who shares the same sentiments?
Harry leans in, all sharp edges and green eyes, says, "You are much more."
Bruce thinks he would rather have a hateful prick than an insane megalomaniac for company. And considers if the statement is even a compliment.
Harry dims the lights, and gets up from his position on the grimy floor.
"Sleep tight, Mr. Banner," Harry says.
"Where do you go?" Bruce asks, curious and just a little cautious. Did he have others with him, tracking Bruce's every movement? Sometimes, Bruce thinks he'd rather have confrontation than people hiding behind trees, watching him.
"Have a job, I'm afraid," Harry answers, and is gone before Bruce can reply. The wind sweeps in the open door, and Bruce snorts. Was he trying to show off? He toys with the thought of leaving, ditching. But, this is not the first, and Harry is apparently keeping tabs on him. Appearing at every turn with a smile, and a simple "Hello, Mr. Banner."
It is not something he wishes to grow accustomed to.
He does anyways.
"You help them."
Bruce doesn't look up from the little boy he is treating, prods the swollen elbow. "Yes."
"Despite it being detrimental to your cover. To their health."
Bruce falters for a moment, before wrapping the cloth around the boy's arm to staunch the bleeding. He smiles at the child's nervous look, taps a finger to his lips. Despite the language barrier, the boy nods with a solemn look, as if accepting an important mission. He hops off the table, and disappears.
Harry tips his head to the side. "They're calling you a miracle worker."
"Is that so?" Bruce asks, wipes his hands.
"You do not deny it."
Bruce gives Harry a long stare. "Last I checked, you only spoke English."
A vague, forced smile. "Actions and intentions break any language barrier. If you looked hard enough."
"Right," Bruce says, doubt marring his tone.
"It would be better to stay away from civilization. The animals and trees won't remember your face."
Mirth curls Bruce's lips. "But you will."
"Different," Harry waves off.
"SHIELD already has me on their map."
"That will not change. But the others don't."
Bruce frowns.
"People will slow them down. They are not monsters."
"But you are." A pregnant pause in which Bruce stares and Harry stares back.
"I'm hurt, Harry," Bruce says, carding a hand through his hair, "we've been together- what? Months, and you think I'm a monster?"
"Sarcasm does not suit you, Mr. Banner."
"Neither is the truth," Bruce says simply. Harry leaves after that.
He hasn't thought about Death for a fairly long time, Bruce realizes. Slants a look to Harry who is offering a banana to a monkey. The monkey shrieks in terror, and departs quickly, disappearing into the sausage trees. Harry watches with a wry twist to his lips.
"The animals avoid you," Bruce observes.
"As they do you, yes," says Harry, as he walks over and deposits the banana in Bruce's satchel.
"Are you a monster too?" Bruce teases. Harry only offers a vague smile, again. Bruce doesn't want to think about that.
"Let's go. The animals here can be territorial."
"Are you afraid of monkeys, Harry?"
"For them, Mr. Banner," Harry corrects, and Bruce quiets, slinging the satchel over his shoulders.
…
Harry is gone when he tries again. The green eyed man is right. He is hazardous to people, yet he stays close. Bruce is selfish. He realizes that. Cowardice stills the blade a mere inch from his chest.
The other guy stirs, and Bruce abandons the pathetic knife. In the end, Bruce is the one who stops himself. The other guy is hot on his mind, burning, and Bruce closes his eyes. He is angry. With himself, with Harry, with the little boy tugging at his pants, pointing to the cut on his knee.
The other guy quiets after a while. And Banner realizes how alive the other is. Different.
Is Bruce selfish or selfless? He doesn't know.
Instead, he smiles at little boy, beckons him closer so he can inspect the injury. Tending to it puts his mind to rest, or rather distracts it. The boy is not broken, and that's all Bruce can ask for right now.
Green is not a pretty color.
/N: anoxia is the complete deprivation of oxygen. the more you know. the quote makes this story legit. i'm starting to enjoy this story, so it shall be updated more so than The Ancients are Rusting. hope you enjoyed. reviews would be adored :).