Just saw Avengers: Age of Ultron, and I loved it :) I'm no movie critic, and it takes a lot for me to hate a movie, but this one was pretty good. Not as good as the first, I think, but really close. It had a few drawbacks for me (the out-of-nowhere Bruce/Nat romance being one of them, I didn't like it when I first heard about it online and the movie failed to convince me of their relationship), but overall I'd definitely see it again. The twins definitely became my new favorite characters :D

Sorry about that little review, kind of got off on a tangent there. I didn't mean to take so long to update, but I just had such a hard time writing this chapter. I eventually decided in telling it in a series of vignettes, to both get the idea of time passing as well as a collection of character developments, without needing to tell every single little thing that happened.

Please read and review! Or maybe PM me about the movie, I love to talk!

Chapter Fifteen

Ex Silentio

The girl was healing at an exponential rate. The skin was already mending itself back together – he could only assume something similar was happening to the muscle underneath.

Considering the severity of the wound, a regular human would be stuck in recovery for twelve weeks, probably longer, and in the hospital for at least half that time.

Despite this, however, the girl wasn't eating very much. Of course, Bruce couldn't push her to eat more than she was comfortable with, but she was consuming less than the average human intake – and considering her biology, that seemed wrong.

The girl was also putting too much physical stress on herself. Usually, a hospital could avoid this by keeping her heavily sedated; the analgesics were mildly successful on this front, but a part of him was worried that she might become accidentally addicted to it.

So when Smoke returned with more supplies, including sedatives, Bruce was grateful; and knew better than to ask where he got it from.

The girl remained on the IV for the time being. This way she still got the nutrients she needed without making her eat more than her stomach could handle. It also kept her from wandering the house and stumbling across anything she shouldn't.

As of yet, Bruce had no solution to stop her curiosity. It was unavoidable, because he was on constant monitor duty, and it seemed as though the girl was trying to stay awake just to spite him. More often than not she initiated conversation, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore it.

For instance, this one example occurred on the evening of the third day, long after Smoke had left. Bruce was reviewing paperwork in his chair as usual, with the TV on in the background, when her voice interrupted his thoughts.

"What's your favorite movie?"

Questions like that have been popping up from time to time. The girl just seemed bored, so Bruce didn't think too much of it – it didn't seem like a sincere attempt to uncover his personal life.

Still, she was persistent. "Are you still ignoring me?"

He had to restrain a sigh. "No."

"Then why didn't you answer?"

"Is it really relevant?" he asked, referring to her first question. Bruce glanced at the girl, who peered at him over her mug of soup.

"I just want to know if you have bad taste or not."

"What makes you think I have bad taste?" and before he knew it, Bruce was knee-deep in conversation and now he couldn't get out. Nice job.

"Because you're boring," the girl replied baldly.

Well, she didn't mince words, that's for sure. And yet, the very thought made him laugh (Bruce wouldn't be in hiding if the US Government thought he was boring). The girl gave him a strange look, not expecting that reaction. "What, you don't think you're boring?"

It was almost tempting to explain to her the irony of it all. But Bruce bit his tongue and said, "Nothing. Don't worry about it."

The girl turned her gaze away, grumbling under her breath in dissatisfaction. "I hate it when people say that."

"Sorry."

"Alabama."

"What?" Bruce frowned at her, just as the TV behind him went, "What is Alabama?"

He glanced around, saw Jeopardy playing, then turned back to the girl. She seemed pleased to have gotten the answer right. Had she been watching the entire time? It almost seemed rude. "You watch this show a lot?"

"Not as much as I used to."

Dammit, there he goes again, poking into things he shouldn't. He didn't want to know that about her. The girl seemed to realize what she said as well, a frown flickering across her face before she set the mug down and rolled on her side, turning her back to him as she set her head down on the pillow. She stayed that way for the rest of the night.

That was one of the few occasions where Bruce didn't have to end the conversation himself. It was sort of a relief and an ease on his mind. He went to bed later that night, only to toss and turn as the Other Guy brought back memories he'd rather forget.

Memories of the Other Guy wreaking havoc — in Brazil, in Virginia, in Canada and New York. Not just breaking things, but killing, too. Those were the worst, a constant reminder of why General Ross was after him, why maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing to turn himself in.

He was a murderer, after all. A monster. Things like him belonged in a cage.

Bruce was never fully conscious whenever the Other Guy was in control. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, they were two personalities trapped in the same body; in Bruce's opinion, been stolen from him. And like in the book, the two sides hated each other, always seeking independence somehow, to destroy the other.

It was an impossible dream, and also a terrifying one. Bruce sometimes had nightmares where it wasn't him that got full control of his body, but the Other Guy, and the change was irreversible.

These same dreams kept him up every night. Lying in bed, Bruce might sometimes feel it coming, those flashes of green, the oncoming of a nightmare. He'd avoid it by staying awake — too paranoid that the wrong dream, one that triggered his deepest fears, his adrenaline would wake up the Other Guy.

So, instead, he would read. Bruce had plenty of books, most of which he enjoyed. The boring ones sometimes put him in a nap that would at least give him some rest without the risk of falling into a deeper, dangerous sleep.

It wasn't enough, though. It was never enough.

It wasn't like he deserved it, anyways.

But despite it all, Bruce just couldn't bring himself to admit defeat, not entirely, anyways. He couldn't let Ross win. Bruce had some control; bit by bit, he was getting better, even if it was a one-step-forward-two-steps-back sort of deal.

Above all, his freedom was much too important. And he couldn't trust the scientists that would do tests on him, that would explore Gamma radiation as a possible weapon, to not abuse this power. It was Bruce's responsibility, cursed as he was, to keep anyone else from using it. And if that was how he must live his life, then so be it.

That morning, when he went down the stairs, he found the girl reading a book.

At first, Bruce didn't think much of it – then did a double take when he read the cover, a Harvard study of unproved statistical theorems, and realized she had pulled it from one of his shelves. At first, he didn't know which was more interesting – One: what did she think she was doing, moving around on her own? Or Two: she didn't actually understand the study, did she?

"...What are you doing?" he eventually asked, seriously considering if it was a good idea or not. It seemed the Universe was laughing at Bruce; no matter how hard he tried to keep distance between him and the girl, she always did something that required him to get involved in one way or another.

"Reading, duh," she replied, not looking up at him. "What does it look like, Doc?"

"Are you trying to put yourself to sleep?"

"No, I'm bored," she said, rolling her eyes and closing the book, throwing Bruce a look of annoyance. "Because someone doesn't like holding conversations, and I'd rather stick a second knife in my shoulder than stare at the ceiling for another hour."

Well, how's that for passive-aggressive? The man just frowned at her, then down at the coffee table. The girl had gathered a couple other books, some on physics, others on genetics, to read in case she ever got through with the one she was reading now.

Seriously doubting her competence (what was she playing at? Did she think impressing him was going to get her anywhere?), Bruce got an idea. He almost smiled as he said, "You know, I can give you some problems to solve, if that helps the time pass."

"Can you?" She blinked at him, actually looking excited for once. The book flopped in her lap. "I really need to do something."

That wasn't the answer he was expecting, but Bruce had already dug himself this deep. It wasn't that bad, he supposed. He knew the science, the math – the only downside, really, would be if she didn't, and perhaps accuse him of playing tricks on her. "Fine. Give me that notepad, then."

The girl reached over, wincing slightly but managing to grab the paper and pen on the coffee table before passing it over to him. Bruce took it as he sat down in his chair, ruminating on what he questions he should ask. He didn't want to make it too mind-bendingly difficult, but then again, this girl was reading college-level books, things that only people with Masters' degrees or higher could understand.

Bruce took a second to marvel at the thought. For all he knew, he was in the company of a teen genius. He couldn't be sure, the only one he'd ever known had been himself, when he was her age. Bruce certainly hadn't fought crime with that brain of his, so he doubted just how smart this girl might be. If she knew better, she'd save her efforts and put it to good use in the fields of science and medicine, and actually help people, instead of playing hero on the streets and getting herself nearly killed in the process.

But that was kids for you, always thinking they're invincible. Pah.

As he scrawled down the first question that came to mind, Bruce couldn't help but think of his own, superpower-lacking high school experience. He had been a small kid, with glasses and a tucked-in shirt, hitting all the marks for a nerdy cliché. It made him easy to pick on. Bruce had never fought back; he'd wished he could, but the few instances in which he tried usually left him in worse shape than if he just took it or ran away.

And the bullies followed him through college and professional life. Pushy professors; more mean kids; a fraternity that eventually got sick of his more-study-less-party attitude. Then, the bosses who refused to tolerate a stuttering man who couldn't do an impromptu presentation under pressure; who always ended up working late shifts because he was too weak-willed to say no to the men and women who dumped their work on him; the same people who ate his lunch from the break room fridge, knowing how easy he was to be taken advantage of, and that he wouldn't complain about it.

And, of course, General Ross, who wouldn't know the line not to be crossed even if there was a giant neon sign in bright flashing colors and carnival music pointed right at it.

Bruce sometimes suspected that was where the Other Guy came from. All that pent up frustration, anger, manifesting with one good dose of concentrated radiation. He didn't let anyone pick on him anymore, that's for sure.

(Aggravating, precocious teenagers didn't count).

"Here, try these," Bruce handed back the notepad with three questions on it, ones from classes of college-days-past that he remembered spending nights trying to solve. "That should keep you busy for a while."

"Thanks," the girl took the pad and studied the questions, her eyes flicking back and forth as she read them over and over. Unlike most students who saw a tough math question and would hang their head or make WTF faces, the girl's remained impassive. Bruce had a feeling she was putting on a show for him, so he wouldn't think he'd gotten the better of her.

He would eventually, of course. The last question was also a trick one. That was probably the peevish side of him coming out; a little act of revenge for all the bother the girl gave him. He'd like to see her waste time on that one.

Now properly set into a state of mathematical concentration, the girl was silent and unobtrusive. Bruce sighed, finally relieved to have found a way to distract the girl, since TV clearly wasn't doing its job.

With that, he got up to make breakfast.

OoOoO

"If you're not boring, then what are you?"

Good grief, why couldn't she just drop the matter? There wasn't a day that would go by without her deliberately attempting to annoy him. Bruce just wanted to read his book in peace. Weren't the math and physics questions good enough?

And he had nothing to defend, nothing to prove to the girl. If he just went along, maybe he'd kill her curiosity. "Maybe I am boring. I'm just a doctor."

"With books on physics and genetics?" the girl pointed out, skeptical. "What, do you just read these when you have nothing better to do?"

This is what Bruce got for letting the girl touch his stuff. He was starting to see the logic of Misery from that Stephen King novel, breaking the legs of her reluctant patient to keep him from moving around on his own. Then he shook his head, removing the disturbing thoughts from his mind. "Isn't that what you're doing?"

"I'm also bedridden with half a million new stitches," the girl reminded him, as if he could somehow forget that little operation. "And I wouldn't be reading them if you didn't have them in the first place."

"Oh, fine." Bruce grumbled. The more the girl pushed the matter, the less important he valued the information. If he just told her, maybe she would shut up. It wasn't that vital to his identity, after all, was it? "I, uh, I went for a PhD in physics after getting my medical degree."

"PhD?" the girl exclaimed, straightening up a little. An incredulous grin appeared on her face, and for a moment the doctor marveled at how bright and childlike she looked when happy. It was such a turn from the usual dour expression. "What, being a regular doctor wasn't tough enough for you?"

He chuckled to himself. Indeed, it would seem to take a certain level of sadism to compel a man to work so hard. "I had varying interests. And the government helped."

"You work for the government?"

Shut up shut up shut up. "Not anymore." Dammit.

"Yeah," the girl made a face, settling back into the couch. "I wouldn't want a bunch of G-Men breathing down my neck, either."

He was mildly surprised by how well she took the information; even seemed to be on his side. That would probably change had she known the truth. He raised an eyebrow, "Not a fan?"

"Well, I don't wear a mask for kicks and giggles."

"Ah, right, your little hobby," Bruce nodded to himself. Of course she wouldn't like them, they'd just get in the way.

"It's not a hobby," the girl snapped, suddenly provoked. "I don't do this for fun, you know. I mean, it is sometimes, but not enough to be worth it."

Wouldn't it be, though? Bruce thought that was why she did it; the fun of it, the thrill, the romantic idea of heroism and adventure, from reading too many comic books and watching too many movies. It was half the reason he thought her stupid. "Well, why else would you do it, then?"

She didn't answer right away, seemed to be ruminating on her answer. Then the girl said, "Because it's our responsibility. We have these powers, and we're accountable for them. If we can help people, then we should, because... because it's the right thing to do."

For a second, Bruce was speechless. He didn't expect the girl to feel a sense of duty, of all things, in regards to her abilities. He was even more surprised when he found himself sympathetic. Responsibility was never easy. Even less so when you're a kid, barely knowing who you are, who you want to be, what to do with yourself.

But it was noble of her to try. Add that with powers, a secret identity, with people you want to protect, and Bruce realized that perhaps he and the girl had a lot more in common than he first thought.

Wait, what was he doing? Don't think like that! Don't get your emotions involved in this! Bruce shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and remembered to point out, "Who's we?"

The girl blinked, apparently caught off guard. Perhaps she hadn't noticed she was speaking in plural. "Oh. I meant we, as in, me and Spider-Man."

"You know him?"

"Well, he's the only other guy in town fighting crime in spandex. The responsibility thing was his idea. It's a pretty good one, I think."

That was another thing Bruce hadn't considered. If she and Spider-Man were in cahoots, then wouldn't that imply there was someone else concerned for her well-being, aside from family? Dealing with the cops or FBI was bad enough; Bruce didn't want to face the guy who could take one multiple super-villains at once. "Wait, wouldn't he be worried about you, too, right now?"

"Yeah, but its okay," the girl replied with an easy, one-shoulder shrug. "He knows I'm all right."

"How?"

"Because I told him, that's how."

Bruce thought back to all the calls the girl made. There were only a few, aside from her cousin, Peter (why did he remember that? He shouldn't have remembered that). It was possible that she could've sent a message to him that way. "Do you know his secret identity?"

She paused. "No."

Hm, that sounded like a lie, but Bruce decided not to call her out on it. He didn't want to know any more about Spider-Man than he did about this girl. Whatever she did with her life, that was her business, and Bruce was trying (and, apparently, failing) to stay out of it. "Well, I imagine you wouldn't tell me if you did."

"You got that right, Doc."

Bruce smiled, more to himself than anyone else. Maybe she wasn't so dumb after all.

OoOoO

Then, on the fourth night, disaster occurred.

Okay, well, it wasn't exactly a disaster, but it had been quite possibly the most unexpected and destructive experience within that household since the girl had arrived.

The girl was sleeping, as usual. Bruce had been in the kitchen, sipping a freshly made cup of coffee to enable yet another one of his sleepless nights. On the news there had been reports of a supervillain showdown at the Rockefeller Center, toppling their iconic seasonal Christmas tree and injuring at least ten civilians. Although he lived in the Village and the Rockefeller center was more than thirty blocks away, it felt much closer in a dense city like this.

As far as Bruce knew, there had never been any major battles within this particular neighborhood. He'd seen Spider-Man swoop by a couple times, maybe nab a few crooks, but nothing that got his blood pressure up. Nothing like this.

What would happen if some weirdo like Doctor Octopus or Green What's-His-Face came barreling in, wreaking havoc? What happened if they knocked over the wrong house? Bruce's status as ordinary, anonymous taxpayer was a tenuous one – if he so much as burned his hand on the stove, or a big book fell on his toe, the Other Guy would come bursting out.

Maybe the Other Guy might crush those supervillains and save New York some trouble. He'd rip those stupid octopus arms off in a second, smash that Goblin into the ground. Bruce wasn't afraid of them.

He was afraid of what he might do to the people who got caught in the crossfire.

It was in the midst of this coffee-addled reverie did Bruce hear something. At first, it was only in the back of his mind, a little extra background noise that his ears didn't pick up as significant until they got louder.

A low whimper. Bruce picked his head up, frowning in the direction of the living room. Was that the girl? Why was she up again?

At first, Bruce thought she might've been trying to say something to him, perhaps somehow intuiting that he was nearby (well, he always was, but that's not the point). Then there was a keening sound, like a wounded animal. It didn't sound like the girl at all.

Concern growing, Bruce set down his coffee mug and made his way into the living room, flicking on the lights.

On the couch, the girl was writhing, tangling with the blanket. It became quickly clear that she was having a nightmare, if her closed eyes and unintelligible words were anything to go by.

But her frantic struggling against an invisible enemy was not the thing that caught Bruce's attention.

No, it was the floating books.

The first thing that went through Bruce's mind was a poltergeist, a pissed off ghost trying to scare the inhabitants of the house. Of course, this would only be funny in hindsight; Bruce figured it out pretty quick that this was not paranormal activity, but rather the manifestation of the girl's powers, only unfamiliar because he had never witnessed them before.

That was probably the core of the problem, if not her nightmares. Everything on the coffee table was in the air, tumbling through the room with reckless abandon. Even the table itself was hovering a few inches, perhaps too heavy to be thrown around like everything else, but no less in the way.

Books went flying around in random orbit, one nearly hitting Bruce's head had he not ducked at the last second.

"Whoa!" He stumbled and fell against the wall, heart starting to pound. A glance at his watch told him his heart rate was picking up, in time to the adrenalin rushing in his veins.

It wasn't dangerous. Yet.

Bruce straightened and came to the conclusion that he needed to wake the girl up. Whatever was going on, it was because her mind was convinced it was somewhere else, activating her powers as a defense mechanism.

An empty mug hit another book and spun wildly, a ceramic missile, straight into the wall. It shattered to a million pieces, leaving a small dent behind in the wall paper.

Getting to her might be an issue, though.

As much as he didn't want to, Bruce knew that he had to step into the range of potentially deadly (for her) objects. A part of him just wanted to wait out the nightmare, hoping that she'll eventually wake up and all this will stop on its own — but Bruce had made up his mind when one of the books knocked down his lamp and shattered the bulb.

Okay, it was one thing to let an abnormal girl into his house and bring her back to health; it was another matter entirely when her unconscious mind might ruin his living room (as if it hadn't been already).

Taking a step forward, Bruce flinched when the notepad smacked against his shoulder, too small to do any real damage, but still startling none the less. Nothing seemed to be targeting him, at least not yet, and Bruce managed to get to the couch unhindered. He even pushed the coffee table out of the way, frictionless as it hovered on thin air.

The girl was in such a state of terror that Bruce wasn't entirely sure how to snap her out of it. He feared touching her, partly because she might hit him on accident, and partly because he might hurt her, if she fought back too hard. Already, Bruce was afraid she might have pulled her stitches. It would be awful having to redo all that work.

Then, her hand struck out, and Bruce surprised himself when he caught her wrist. Not entirely sure where he'd gotten such reflexes, Bruce surprised himself again when he grabbed her other arm, also jerking around, if hindered by the sling. "Hey, hey, easy there!"

She seized, apparently able to sense the physical stimulus, but not enough to wake her up. Tears were streaming down her face and her breathing came out in sharp gasps, like she was running a marathon.

Bruce ducked as a book made another fly-by, and he knelt down to better avoid the projectiles — the only thing they didn't seem to hit was the girl herself, and that seemed to be a safe bet that he wouldn't be attacked here.

"Come on, wake up!" for the first time, Bruce wished he'd known her name, because it might've been easier to call her back to consciousness. He was pretty sure that had been in a study once, patients waking to their own name being called more often than anything else. "Please, wake up. It's just a bad dream; whatever it is, it's not real..."

But his words proved useless, and eventually Bruce had to resort to letting go of her wrists and grabbing the girl's shoulders, and shaking her awake (gently!). "Just open your eyes, it's not real, just wake up —!"

The girl gasped, her eyes flying open. Her elbows jerked, the one in the sling catching Bruce in the gut and knocking the wind out of him. He fell back on one arm, wheezing a little (dammit! She's getting stronger), as the girl scrambled to a sitting position, her head whipping around as though she didn't recognize the place.

Words were already flying out of her mouth before Bruce could recollect himself. "Not again, not again, not again, not again...!"

The girl finally seemed to notice the flying objects and flinched at the sight. Right on cue, everything stopped moving. There was a huge clatter as all the books and papers dropped like rocks, suddenly lifeless once more. The table made a muffled thump on the carpet as it returned to the floor.

She sucked in a huge, shuddering breath, clutching her arms to her chest, before breaking down into sobs.

Mildly stunned, Bruce shook his head and looked around at the damage. Two times in one week — the Universe was outright laughing at him now.

Well, Bruce decided he didn't give a damn about what the Universe thought was funny anymore. There was a manic, crying girl in front of him, and he wasn't entirely sure how to make it better.

But being a doctor had its perks, such as knowing how to deal with upset patients. He reached out a consoling hand, resting it on her arm. "Shh, shh, it's okay, you're safe now. It was just a bad dream."

The girl flinched at his touch, and Bruce snapped his hand back, suddenly afraid he'd hurt her. All those repressed memories, the flashbacks, of people looking at the Other Guy — at him — in fear, in terror, in hatred, came rushing back to him.

Granted, the context was different, but for some reason Bruce couldn't stop himself from thinking that this was somehow his fault.

It was clear after the fact that the girl wasn't afraid of him, just in shock from whatever mental torture she had experienced. Bruce wasn't sure if he should just let her cry it out or talk her through it. He was feeling pretty useless just kneeling there, so he said, "What happened? What did you see?"

It took her a few tries to speak, trying to work her tongue around stifling sobs and erratic breathing. "I-i-it w-wa-wasn't s-s-supposed —"

He pressed a hand to her arm again, hoping it wouldn't startle her. It didn't. "Shh. Just take your time. Deep breaths, remember?"

The girl nodded, keeping her head bowed as she sucked in one painful, hiccupy gasp after another, until they became regular and the weeping started to lessen. Her eyes still closed, she started to speak again. "I-it's was him. It wasn't s-s-supposed to be h-him. He's s-sup-p-posed to be to d-d-dead."

Bruce froze, his mind catching on the word. He had absolutely no idea what this was about, and his gut clenched with dread. This sounded much more serious than the average super-hero business. "Who? Who's supposed to be dead?"

"The man," she said, half-whispering, forcing Bruce to strain and catch her words, already marred by her half-choked sobs. "K-Koppel. The s-s-security guard. He's d-dead because of me. Or w-was."

"What happened?"

"I was f-f-fighting G-Goliath," the girl hiccupped, wiping at her face with her sleeve. "B-because of Sm-Smoke and his st-stupid-ass decision to r-rob a h-high security b-bank. Goliath was waiting, p-protecting the K-Key, what-whatever it was. He attacked us. Tw-twice. The s-second time's reason I-I'm h-here."

"Goliath's the one who stabbed you?" Bruce had a vague idea of what happened to the girl, thanks to what Smoke told him. But Smoke hadn't witnessed the entire battle, and obviously didn't hang around to see what the cops made of it. There had also been news, but reports were brief and even less clear, and Bruce never turned it on when the girl was awake.

"N-no, it was K-Koppel."

"But I thought you were fighting Goliath,"

"N-no," the girl said again, shaking her head and pressing her hands to her face. Her words were muffled when she said, "Koppel is Goliath. They turned him into a cyborg."

"They?" Creepy cyborg people were, unfortunately, not the worst thing Bruce had ever heard of. That didn't mean that the girl's story still didn't make any sense. "Who's they?"

But the girl could only shrug helplessly. "I d-don't know. I-I don't know. I don't know any-anything..."

From the tremor in her voice, Bruce was afraid that she was going to start crying again, but instead the girl went on to say, "I l-lost control. I c-couldn't th-think, c-couldn't b-b-breathe. I t-tore him apart. And n-now I can't e-even c-c-control m-my own p-powers. I b-b-broke your st-stuff. I'm-I'm losing m-my m-mind."

That seemed a bit melodramatic, although maybe his perspective was skewed in that he didn't find her powers particularly terrifying. But he knew that to validate her fears would not make them go away, so he said, "It was just a nightmare. Even the best of us get them," and sometimes the worst. "You've just been under a lot of stress. I told you not to move around too much."

The girl finally looked at him, only to roll her eyes. Unbelievable. "Gee, t-thanks, I-I really n-need the l-lecture right n-now."

She slumped back against the pillow, covering her face as the last vestiges of misery wore themselves out. Bruce looked around, eyeing the mess, wondering if he should start picking up now or wait until morning. He really didn't want to do any midnight clean-ups, but he also knew he probably wouldn't be going back to bed until she did.

The girl's hands fell into her lap. She sniffed. "C-can you say something?"

He blinked at her, frowning a little. "What? Like a bedtime story? I'm afraid I don't know a lot of those."

The girl attempted another eye roll, but she seemed too exhausted to complete it. Her head fell against the side of the couch and she sighed. "I-I don't know, j-just anything. Something else to th-think about."

"Well, okay, then," Bruce was sure he could think of something, even though it'd probably bore her. Then again, maybe that was the point. He sat back on the floor, turning a little so his back was resting against the seat of the couch, taking a second to think. Then he started to speak.

"When I was in college, there was this kid, we'll call him Phil, in my Theoretical Physics class. He was a smart guy, well, I mean, everyone was, they had to be, but this guy kind of stuck out because he didn't work well in groups. Too quiet, passive, the kind of person who'd let you copy his work just so the group got a good grade."

"S-sounds like a shmuck," the girl mumbled behind him.

Bruce chuckled to himself. "Yeah. Yeah, he kind of was. Maybe Phil thought he'd make friends that way, but I think a lot of people just took him for granted. But there was one person in particular he liked. This other student, a girl named Betty. The smartest one in the class. She had always raised her hand, had an answer to every question. Even if she might've been wrong, she wasn't afraid of anything."

"You're probably thinking this is just a silly love story, a quirky, awkward guy with a beautiful woman out of his league, like in the movies," he said, and heard a little snort in response. "But it's not. This guy, Phil, he wasn't just some innocent, socially-inept dork - he didn't care about what other people thought of him, because he was smarter than then were. He didn't think that their work was valid, especially not in comparison to his own, which to be fair, was almost better than the professor's. The problem was he let it get to his head. He was too proud to ever admit he was wrong."

"Did he think Betty was just going to fall in love with that big brain of his?" The girl asked, perhaps already guessing where this story might be going. "And completely ignore the fact that he was an asshole?"

"Maybe. A guy can dream, I suppose, but Betty wasn't an idiot. She worked with him sometimes, on projects, but it was pretty clear she only saw him as a classmate, a friend. She seemed to have a positive effect on him, though. He was a bit more open, nicer, and got a little better at talking to people. He actually made friends, thanks to her, enough that he got connections, worked on big projects before he was even done graduating. Companies and agencies were practically fighting each other just to have him for themselves."

"Sounds like a nice story to me," the girl remarked.

"Yeah, well," Bruce rubbed the back of his head. "It doesn't stay that way. See, Phil got hired by the military, for a way to make better weapons for the army. Betty was there, too, maybe part of the reason he agreed to work. And they developed this idea, something so crazy it bordered on brilliant, but the heads of the program were doubtful. It'd take time to get the experiments going, first on animals, even longer for human trials. But Phil, he knew he had it right. In fact, he had such utter faith in his own ability that he didn't give it a second thought when he decided to skip the wait and use himself as a test subject. He didn't once consider the possibility that he might be wrong."

He heard the girl shift under the blanket, and he imagined there was an expression of surprise or apprehension on her face. "What...what happened to him?"

"Oh, he died. Almost killed Betty, too." Bruce sounded almost painfully nonchalant, but it was the only way he could tell this story. "And thanks to him, the government doesn't allow any unsanctioned biochemical tests on their ground, and will seize any product thereof. The end."

"Wait, that's it?" The girl sounded so peeved that Bruce had to look at her. She was frowning at him. "That's not a happy ending at all."

"You didn't ask for one." He just shrugged.

The girl squinted at him, unamused. "Then what's the moral of the story? I don't get it."

"No, that's too easy," Bruce grunted as he got back to his feet. With the girl no longer crying, and the story over, it was time to call it a night. He had successfully worn himself out, physically and emotionally. "If I have to tell you, then you'll never learn."