It is the sound of an alarm clock blaring throughout the motel room that wakes me from my deep slumber. I weakly raise my arm to blindly tap at the small yet annoying machine to turn it off, groaning in a mixture of relief and exhaustion as I roll onto my back and blink my sleepy eyes up at the roof. The sun blaring through the gaps in the dust-covered curtains leads me to believe that it is sometime in the late morning. A glance at the empty bed to my right informs me that Bruce is already up and about, though where exactly I don't know.

After a week and a half of walking, flying and catching buses whenever we could, we finally arrived in Willowdale, Virginia, late last night. It had been far too late to go and find Bruce's friend who could help us, so we decided to find the nearest motel to sleep in just for the night. Bruce hadn't been too fond of the idea when I had first suggested it, but I managed to convince him that it was for one night only, and it sure as hell would beat sleeping on the streets, which posed a greater risk itself. Out there, we were exposed. Vulnerable. In a motel, at least, we were safe and sleeping on something a lot more comfortable than the hard ground or a sharp bench.

Once our room was booked, we briefly discussed a game plan for the morning, before passing out the moment that our heads hit the pillow. Before passing out, we had managed to decide that we would sneak into the old lab when everyone was on their lunch break, download the data, and then get the hell out of dodge, heading to the friend of Bruce's who would hopefully help us and lay low until we figure out our next move.

Lifting my head to glance at the blurry numbers flashing on the screen of the alarm clock, I learn that it's half past eleven in the morning. According to Bruce, all the staff break for lunch around one o'clock, meaning that the lab would likely – and hopefully – be empty then. I had insisted on getting to the university earlier than that, however, just so that we could get a good scope of the area and make sure that we don't miss our window of opportunity. Sighing, and oh so badly wanting to stay in bed as long as I can, I push my lazy urges down and pull myself upright.

It doesn't take me long to shower and dry my hair, and when I exit the bathroom I am greeted with the sight of Bruce sitting on the edge of his bed, two Styrofoam cups in his hands. He glances up at me from underneath his tattered, grey cap, and stands up to offer me one.

"Here. Wasn't sure what you wanted, so I, um, just stuck with your regular hot chocolate."

"Thanks." I eagerly accept the drink and bring it up to my lips to sip. It's a tad on the cold side and there's not nearly enough chocolate flavour in it, but I drink it nonetheless. Motel drinks have never been that great anyway.

"How'd you sleep?"

He shrugs. "This, uh, this is the first time in a long time that I've stayed in a motel, so um, not that great. Couldn't really sleep without thinking that Ross or someone was just gonna barge in and find us at any moment…"

I hum, taking another sip of the drink. Living on the run for the past few years has left him with a great sense of paranoia that I doubt is hard to shake. Looking over his shoulder wherever he went has become second nature at this point – it would take a lot for him to shake it off.

"Well, hopefully after today, we're one step closer to making that change."

A flicker of a brief and tiny smile spreads across his lips at my optimism, but before he can say anything my phone starts to vibrate and ring from where it is nestled in the back pocket of my jeans. Reaching back to pull it out, I feel my face fall as I am greeted with the sight of Clint's name flashing across the screen.

Noting my sudden behaviour change, Bruce asks, "Everything all good?"

There's an edge to his tone and when I look at him there is a wariness in his face that hadn't been there moments before, and it takes me a moment to realise where this wariness comes from. The last time he had seen me use this, Fury had messaged to tell me that Ross had somehow managed to find Bruce and was moments away from catching up to us. My sour reaction just then had possibly told him that the fears that had kept him up all night long the previous night were mere seconds away from becoming true.

Paranoia – it's really hard to make it go away.

"Nothing – I mean, it's my uncle," I assure him. "I – I don't think he's happy with me. I was meant to call him a while ago but sort of forgot to with everything that happened."

Oh, he's going to me more than not happy – furious or livid would be a more accurate description of my uncle still waiting on the other side of the ringing phone. I can just picture his glowering face now.

"Oh." Bruce blinks. "Well, I have to go and check us out – I'll do it now so that you can talk."

Facing my angry uncle was the last thing that I wanted to do right now, but deep down, I knew that if I didn't do it sooner rather than later then the next incoming phone call would be ten times worse. Chances are, he wouldn't be as forgiving and the scolding that I know full well that I'm about to receive will only hurt that much more. So, thanking Bruce, I wait until he has shuffled out through the creaky, chipped motel room door, before answering the call and bringing the phone up to my ear. "Hey, Clint."

"Oh, hey Lyd," my uncle greets cheerfully, but I can see right through the false tone. I can practically hear him clenching his jaw on the other end of the line and picture the deadly glare that is more than likely etched on his face. "How's things?"

"…great."

"Really? Well, that's good to hear. I just wasn't sure whether or not to call you, or to come find you, seeing as I've spent the past week worrying that you were dead."

I bite back a sigh as the false, cheerful persona fades away and his anger starts to bleed through. I knew that it was coming. And I know that it stems from a place of concern, worry and love. I just didn't expect it to be so white-hot, threatening to burn me where I stand in its path.

"Look, I'm sorry," I rush out before he gets the chance to continue, not particularly wanting to be on the receiving end of one of his lectures right now. "I was going to call you, I promise. Things just got hairy for a little bit –"

"You should have called then! You said you would!"

"As I said, I was going to," I grit out through my teeth, trying my best to remain calm. It would only make matters worse if the two of us were both angry and unwilling to listen to what the other had to say. "But to be fair, I haven't exactly had the best reception hiking in the middle of the jungle for the past couple of days!"

Now this catches Clint by surprise. His anger subsides momentarily to be replaced with stunned confusion instead, and he requests, "Come again?"

This time I can't conceal the sigh, and I run a hand down my tired face. He's not going to like what I have to say to him – chances are he won't take it very well either. But I owe him the truth, especially with how worried he has been over the past week. I feel terrible, I truly do. But I also need him to understand that unfortunately, due to circumstances out of my control, it wasn't possible at the time to get in contact with him.

"OK. Look, there was an incident back in Rocinha –"

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I promise."

"What happened?"

"Thaddeus Ross, that guy who's been tracking Bruce since he took off a couple of years ago, found him. He sent a few soldiers in, and we ran. They managed to catch up to us though, and … and it was too much for Bruce. He changed, took out some of the soldiers and then he took off. I caught up with him in Guatemala last week, and we've been working our way back to the States since."

A brief, silent spell follows my explanation, and I pin it on Clint listening to my words and taking everything in, mulling over each detail to himself. After a few moments, he says, "While I'm glad that you're back in the States, I have to ask …"

"Why drag Bruce back to the very country that he fled from?" I finish for him. "And where Ross is? Because Bruce has an associate somewhere here. We need to get the data from the experiment in his old lab and send it to said associate so that they may be able to find a cure."

"Is that even possible?"

"To be honest? I don't know. The accident changed him in a way that I think there's no going back from. But that doesn't mean that I'm not going to try and help him find one."

"And what does Fury think about all this?"

I purse my lips. "That's – that's a good question."

"… you haven't told him, have you?"

"Nope."

Clint sighs. "Lyd…"

"Fury sent me after this guy without actually clarifying what it was that he wanted me to do," I snap, hoping that my uncle knows that my newfound anger is not directed at him, but rather at my cryptic boss who seems to enjoy keeping secrets from those that work for him a little too much at times.

"His exact orders were to help Bruce with any mess that he's in and wait for him to call. So, I'm going to do exactly that. If he wanted something different, then he should have told me."

"He'd still want to know what's going on. And that you're planning on trying to find a cure for Banner."

I hold my tongue at this, begrudgingly admitting to myself that my uncle is right. As a SHIELD agent, it is my duty to report the findings and proceedings of my assignment to the person who had given it to me in the first place. It is basic protocol that we are taught from the very first day at the SHIELD academy and it is a protocol that I have strived to maintain since my very first mission. But something in my gut urged me to put down the phone every time that I picked it up in the past few days to inform my boss of everything that was happening between Bruce and I. The feeling was so strong that I had listened to it every time.

I hadn't been avoiding Clint these past few weeks. But that doesn't mean that I haven't been avoiding Fury.

I can't exactly pinpoint the reason why I haven't called him. I don't know if it's because I am afraid to tell him just how south the mission has gone, or if there is a part of me that is wary of what exactly it is that he wants with Bruce. I've seen how Fury treats people with certain abilities or dangerous skills firsthand. Hell, I've been on the receiving end of that treatment, be it ever so subtle. Maybe I don't want the same thing to happen to Bruce. Maybe I want to protect him from further being treated like a monster when there is a chance that we can reverse what has happened to him. And maybe I'm cautious of whether or not Fury even wants Bruce to be cured in the first place.

Either way, I'm not calling him. Not yet. Not until I get a clearer picture of whether or not there really is a cure out there for Bruce.

"I'll call him later," I eventually reply, the half-lie rolling easily off my tongue. "Right now, I just want to focus on getting this data, alright?"

"How long is that going to take then? All of it, actually. Helping Banner, finding a cure – how long do you think it'll take?"

My heart sinks at the questions, knowing that I'm only going to be able to give him an answer that he's not going to like. "Clint, I honestly don't know. All I know is that Bruce needs my help, and I'm not going to leave him until he's OK."

"Will he be? I mean, do you really think that he'll be OK after everything?"

I hesitate, not really having an answer to the question myself. Would Bruce be alright? To put it bluntly, he has a serious condition that causes him to lash out and lose control which sometimes ends with people getting hurt. And every time this happens, and he reverts back to Bruce, he is left with an intense feeling of guilt for everything that he has done as the Other Guy.

And when I say intense guilt, I mean intense. I've come to understand that he is a quiet man by nature, but ever since I found him in Guatemala and informed him of his actions as the Other Guy, he has been even quitter, if that is even possible. For the past week, he only really talks whenever I start a conversation with him, and usually keeps his answers relatively short. This morning had been a massive improvement, but there was still the haunted look in his dark, brown eyes that never really seemed to go away.

And the nightmares. Every night, I lay awake, forced to hear him muttering apologies in his sleep and begging the people that he hurt for forgiveness.

Begging Betty for forgiveness the most.

Let's not forget what it was like for him before I had come along and barged my way through his front door either. He's spent the past few years isolated and alone, forced to survive and remain hidden away by himself with his only companion being a dog and a stranger that he has never met before in person. It's enough to drive someone insane.

He has been through so, so much, physically, emotionally and psychologically, and there's a chance that he may not ever be able to properly move past it, even with a cure.

"I don't know," is my eventual soft and honest reply. "He's been through a lot, and I don't exactly think that a cure is going to magically fix everything. I mean, physically? Yeah, sure. But mentally…"

"Not so much."

"No. Or, at least not straight away. He may pull through this – and I hope to God that he does – but it may take some time, and it's certainly not going to be a walk in the park. But that doesn't mean that I'm not going to help him. I have to. I promised him that I would."

"I understand that you want to help him – I do, OK? But you were only meant to be gone a few days, and then everything turned to shit. This is dangerous, Lyd."

"And all the other missions that Fury, Hill and Coulson have sent me on weren't?"

"Those missions had you dealing with people that had guns – not a massive, green creature that could hurt you with a simple flick of its hand," Clint snaps back. "I get that Bruce is a good guy and didn't ask for this to happen to him, but have you ever considered that when he's changed he has no control?"

I'm shaking my head before he has even finished speaking, my mind racing back to the night in the factory. The chaos that had unfolded had been a whirlwind and parts of what I remember blur together, but there is one part that immediately jumps out at me, as clear as crystal, with my uncle's words. When Bruce had changed, he had jumped from the walkway and landed right in front of me. And, unlike many of the other soldiers in the factory, I had managed to walk away unharmed.

"I don't think that he would hurt me. When he changed back in Rocinha when the soldiers cornered us in the bottle factory, we crossed paths. He could have easily attacked me right then and there, but he didn't. He almost recognised me, if anything. I think on some subconscious level, Bruce had been there."

Possibly. Unlikely – I don't know for sure. It's a comforting thought, knowing that whenever the Other Guy emerged, Bruce was at least somewhere beneath the raging surface, reminding his alter ego that I was friend rather than foe. Keeping me safe, even if he didn't realise it. Of course, there is every chance that I am simply imagining it all, my mind conjuring up false scenarios and feeble hope to offer myself some sort of comfort from the frightening experience that had been meeting the Other Guy. Perhaps it only boils down to luck for why I had managed to make it out of that factory alive and in one piece.

Either way, I sure as hell am not going to go and voice any doubts that I may have on the matter to Clint. Not when he is silent on the other end of the line once more, and possibly considering what it is that I'm trying to say.

Feeling the fight and frustration slowly leave my body the longer that I continue to pace the small motel room, I bite back a sigh and make a beeline for one of the beds, silently sinking into the soft mattress and threading a nervous hand through my blonde waves.

I know that I am being stubborn. Infuriatingly so. But beneath that stubbornness and unwillingness to comply with what Clint is asking, I understand on some level where my uncle is coming from. Ever since he took me in when I was twelve, he has felt responsible for me. Not just in the parental aspect, but also in SHIELD as well; he had been my S.O. during my time at the Academy. He had raised me into the young woman that I am today, but I can't help but think that there is a part of him that will always see me as the young girl who had shown up on his doorstep with a grief-stricken heart and a chip on her shoulder thanks to the mother that had left her behind, especially with everything that happened to me before he found me in the facility in France.

I am forever grateful for what he did. But I am twenty-one years old: an adult. As much as I love him for his concern (knowing that it stems from a place of love), he needs to respect the choices that I make for myself.

Knowing that he only wants what is best for me, I decide to swallow the remaining of my anger and save the rest of this argument for another day. "Clint? You still there?"

"Still here, Kiddo," he assures me tiredly, before letting out a long, drawn sigh that is laced with defeat. "I'm sorry. You know that I'm only trying to look out for you, right?"

"I know."

"And that I want you to be safe."

"I promise that I'm trying to be."

He grumbles. "OK then. If you feel like you need to finish this, then help Bruce. But can you please keep me updated this time? No more wandering around in the middle of nowhere without at least giving me the heads up first."

"Done deal." A gentle knock at the motel room door suddenly echoes throughout the room, and I pull myself upright, knowing that it is more than likely Bruce waiting for me on the other side. "I should probably go. Bruce and I have somewhere that we need to be, but I promise that I will call or, at the very least, message you once we have a clearer picture of where we're going to wound up, alright?"

"Thanks, Lyd. If you need help, I'm only a phone call away, alright? Watch your sixth."

"Will do," I promise, before promptly hanging up the call and pocketing the phone in the back of my jeans. Grabbing my packed bag from the foot of my bed, I march forward and open the door to reveal an awkward Bruce waiting on the other side.

"Hey – you ready to go?"

"Yeah. The uh, the guy at the front desk said that we could leave our bags here while we're out if we wanted, so long as we come back to get them before three."

"Easy done. If all the staff still break for lunch at one like you said, then we should be back here well and truly before then. Thanks for sorting it."

He offers me a small ghost of a smile, and I watch as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his grey shirt. Nodding his head back towards the motel room behind me, he hesitatingly asks, "Did, u, did everything go OK with your phone call?"

"Mhm. It was just my uncle, Clint. Like I said before, he wasn't all that thrilled that I haven't kept in touch with him over the past few days, but it's nothing that I couldn't handle."

"I hope that you're not getting into any sort of trouble for agreeing to help me."

"What, with Clint? He's fine. He's just a little overprotective is all."

"I suppose that makes sense. With your job, and everything."

That, and the fact that I was kidnapped, tortured and experimented on for a year, I think to myself, though I don't dare to voice the words out loud. Bruce is an awkward and unsure man as it is; my bluntness would only make him more so. Instead, I sling my bag over my shoulder and offer him a simple shrug. "Well, we've got more pressing things to worry about right now. Let's go break into a college."


The grass rubbing against my bare shoulder scratches my skin as I shift to make myself more comfortable, rays of bright, warm light raining down from the sun above heating my skin that is soothed by a cool breeze in the air. My eyes are closed, but my other senses provide me with a detailed image of my surroundings. University students chattering away with one another about classes, dates and deadlines, each of their voices getting drowned out by one another so that the sound of them talking is nothing but white noise in the background. Some though, a louder and more rambunctious group of men not that far from Bruce and I, cheer and call out for one another, the ground shaking beneath the stampede of their running feet. Their eager shouts inform me that they are likely throwing something around. A football or frisbee perhaps.

The sound of car horns and bustling traffic also filters through the air, the road not far from where Bruce and I are sitting. Or, more accurately, where he's sitting. I am currently lounging back on the cross beside him, my legs stretched out and crossed over one another and my arms folded beneath my head. Sunglasses perched on the end of my nose, I let out a content sigh and decided to bask in the warmth of the sun just a little bit longer.

We have been sitting on the green lawn of Culver University for almost an hour now, waiting patiently for the staff to go on break so that we would be able to sneak through the lab. Bruce had begun to pick at his fingers and fidget with more blades of grass that I could count five minutes into our wait, likely paranoid about sitting still out in the open where it is near impossible for him to blend in with the ground. Wanting to help ease his worries, I had done my best to appear relaxed, hence my lazy position on the lawn beside him.

"Having fun down there?" He now asks.

"Absolutely."

He snorts.

"I'm just basking it all in. It's a perfect day, and this is the first time in weeks that we have the chance to sit down and catch our breaths for a moment."

"Aren't we meant to be waiting for Betty?"

"Yeah, but the task itself doesn't exactly require gruelling effort." Nonetheless, I pull myself upright upon hearing the nervous tone underlying his words, bending my knees and resting my elbows on them. "Just try to relax, Bruce. Everything will be fine. We can sit here peacefully and still look for Betty at the same time."

A quick glance at him from behind my glasses informs me that he finds the idea of relaxing impossible. Ever since we had ventured out of the motel room and onto the streets of Willowdale he has been on edge. I blame it on his fear that someone might recognise him, which prompts me to further add, "None of these students know who you are, OK? And all the professors are still inside, so we don't have to worry about them for the time being either."

He hums, unconvinced, the fear and doubt still plaguing the worn features of his face. His worry has my heart clenching with a deep sympathy for him and blood-boiling anger for the man responsible for Bruce feeling this way.

There have been no sightings of Ross since we left Rocinha, yet I feel his presence overshadowing us all the same. He had somehow managed to catch wind of Bruce's whereabouts, and if truly was as relentless as Fury and the reports claim he was, then he would stop at nothing now that he had managed to catch up with Bruce after all these years. All I can do is hope that the bastard has absolutely no clue as to where we are now and that we can send the data from the accident off to Bruce's associate sooner rather than later. The quicker we do so, the quicker we will find out if there really is a cure for Bruce.

He now sighs with defeat and leans back so that he rests all of his weight on his elbows behind him. He tries to contort his face into a carefree grin, but it turns out as a grimace instead. Still, progress is progress, and I shoot him an encouraging smile all the same.

"It feels weird to be back," he murmurs, the tension in his shoulders never easing. "I mean, everything is the same, but also different at the same time. I guess this whole scene is pretty familiar for you though."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean college. Classes, studies, football rallies …" he trails off at the sound of a chuckle working its way past my lip, and he curiously tilts his head. "What? What did I say?"

"Sorry. It's just, uh, I never really did the whole college thing. Or I did for like, a little bit, but I didn't get the full experience out of it."

"You didn't study?"

"I did for a bit, yeah. I graduated high school a couple of years early, so it's not like I could drink and go to parties all the time. No one really wanted to party with a sixteen-year-old."

"What did you study?"

"Majored in Astrophysics for half a semester. I started training at the SHIELD academy around the same time though, and it just became too much trying to do both. SHIELD was what I really wanted to do, so I gave up on the whole college thing. I always thought that I may go back once my training was complete, but then I was taken in Greece, so …" I trail off with a shrug, glad that my glasses are obscuring part of my face from him. I tilt my chin down so that my loose hair will cover the rest. I taste bile in the back of my throat at the memories that start to creep their way up from the furthest corners of my mind.

It is best not to move, subject 2-0-7.

Aching, burning, prominent, stinging pain –

"So say we do get you a cure," I bite out quickly, shoving the memories back down and ignoring the growing sting behind my eyes. "What happens then? I mean, would you come back here to teach?"

Bruce lets out a bitter laugh. "Somehow, I don't see Ross letting me get my old job back."

A flash of anger irks within me at his words. "Too bad. That bastard doesn't get a say. If you want your old job back, then you'll get your old job back."

"I don't think it's quite that simple."

"I'll make it that simple – Ross has no authority when it comes to SHIELD. They'll help you; I promise."

"You really think that they're gonna do much for me if I'm cured?"

"They will if I'm the one asking them to do it."

He tilts his head curiously at me, eyes narrowing, and lips caught between his teeth momentarily. "Why's that?"

"Let's just say that when it comes to SHIELD and its Director, I have a little bit of leeway regarding certain things."

"If you don't mind me asking, what makes you so special to them?"

"My family founded the organisation."

Surprise laces his features at my revelation and he opens his mouth to likely ask for more details on this, but the words never come out. His brown eyes lock on something beyond me and his face turns as pale as paper. Frowning, I turn to look at whatever it is that has so abruptly captured his attention and when my eyes land on what – or, more accurately, who – he is looking at, my mouth parts to form the perfect 'o'.

Betty Ross.

I've seen photos and video clips of the legendary scientist, but staring at the young woman across the quad, I conclude that Betty is even prettier in person. Her long, dark chocolate brown hair tumbles down the back of her green sundress, with stylishly cut bangs framing her face. She's thin and tall – the same height as Bruce in the heels she wears – and her blue eyes shine as her lips pull into a warm and gentle smile, lighting up her pale face as she moves along the footpath at a leisurely pace.

She's moving away from the entrance – this is our chance.

"Bruce, we should –"

Turning back around, I am surprised to see that Bruce is no longer sitting beside me but has lurched himself upright and eagerly moves to follow after Betty.

I immediately follow suit and jog after the lovestruck man, dodging past students and weaving between professors until I catch up with him, glad to see that he is keeping a safe distance between himself and Betty in case she happens to turn around and spot him.

"Bruce?"

He ignores me. Or, perhaps, his mind is trapped elsewhere, possibly lingering on memories shared with Betty as he follows her, baseball cap low over his face but eyes staring intently after her.

Sighing, I press on.

We trail behind her for another five minutes before she finally comes to a stop and plonks herself down on a bench, placing her bag beside her and pulling out her phone to check her messages. Bruce and I hover beside a tree fifteen yards away, with Bruce peeking around the trunk to watch her. Knowing that Betty has absolutely no clue as to who I am, I casually lean against the tree with my arms crossed, eyes darting between the former lovers with an aching sadness and pity. The first time that they'd been remotely close to one another in years, and she had no clue that he was merely a few yards away.

"We don't have to get the drive today, you know," I gently say. "If you want – I mean, you can always go and talk to her –"

"I can't," he hoarsely whispers. He rubs his eyes. "It's too dangerous, for both of us. I can't drag her into this mess."

"But you miss her. Don't you think that she misses you too? Or that she wonders whatever happened to you and where you might be now?"

"I tried to make contact with her once," he bleakly revealed, catching me by surprise. "It was a few months after the lab. I wanted to tell her about my change, and that I was sorry for hurting her. But her father found out and intercepted the message before she could ever get it, so I ran."

"Did you ever try again?"

"No. I figured that Ross would be watching her. So I never got to say – I never told her –"

When he fails to finish his sentence, too caught up in the swell of emotion likely building inside of him, I reach over to gently squeeze his shoulder in a comforting manner, moving my head to try and level myself with his gaze. It doesn't work, however. He only has eyes for Betty.

Still, I try my best to reason, "You can't blame yourself, Bruce. Ross forced you to run. But he's not here now; she is. Go for it."

He pauses as if almost considering my words, but before he can say anything and before I can try to convince him even more, Bruce suddenly lets out a startled yelp and ducks back behind the tree, the sudden noise and movement causing me to flinch.

"What?" I question anxiously, turning around to try and find the threat. "Did someone recognise you? Is Ross here?"

"…no. She just looked over in our direction."

I let out a breath that I didn't even realise that I was holding in the first place and leaned back against the tree while my racing heart continued to help pump the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Shaking my head – and resisting the urge to slap at the back of Bruce's cap – I inhale sharply and unclench my hands. Swearing, I shift so that I can risk taking a look around the tree, eyes immediately darting back towards an oblivious Betty still sitting on the bench.

She smiles as a tall man with short, raven black hair causally walks towards her, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pressed pants and a shy grin across his face. Placing her phone back in her bag, Betty stands up and waits until the man reaches her.

"Is she still looking?" Bruce whispers. "Did – did she see me?"

My throat constricts and prevents me from answering as I watch the man pull her in close and gives her a peck on the cheek. A pang of sadness rocks through my body for the scientist still hiding behind the tree, as I realise that while Bruce may still be hung up on Betty, it appears that she has decided to move on.

"No," is my small reply. When the happy couple pull one another closer for a full-fledged kiss, I turn my gaze away. Unfortunately, I swivel around to find that Bruce has emerged from the tree and is looking directly at Betty and the unknown man, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I'm sorry."

He swallows thickly, not tearing his eyes from the now laughing couple. "She has a life. I shouldn't be the reason that she held back from anything. Or … anyone."

"Still," is all I can think to say. "It can't be easy. You're allowed to be upset."

Of course, he is. Seeing Betty with this guy has likely shattered any hope that he may have had for reconnecting with her, and possibly starting where they had left off once he had managed to find a cure for himself. It's easy for me to see that she was the one thing that had kept him going after all this time and to see her like this … well. It had to hurt.

After we stare at the couple for a moment longer, Bruce finally gives a shake of his head. "Come on," he murmurs, the sadness easy to detect in his tone. "We've … we've been waiting for her to leave so that we can get into the lab. Now's our chance."

"Bruce, I –"

"Let's go."

He turns on his heels at the abrupt finality in his words and moves to walk back towards the building from which we had originally watched Betty emerge from, not looking back at her as he moves.

Sighing and hating the fact that he was trying to hide just how much he was hurting, I break into a light jog to follow after him.

"Right," I say as I fall into step beside him. "So, we sneak into the lab, find Betty's computer and log on to it?"

"Exactly."

"Do you know her password?"

"I think so. She's always used the same password for everything."

"OK, good. So we then download the data onto our USB and then we make our way to a public library where we can send the data to your friend."

"Yeah, Mr Blue."

My brows furrow. "Huh?"

"Mr Blue – it's the alias that I use for this guy," Bruce explains.

"Mhm. What's yours then?"

"Mr Green."

I can't contain a snort at this. "Ha. Funny."

"Guess it is a little on the nose, isn't it?" Bruce says, the corners of his mouth flickering up. And even though the ghost of a smile doesn't quite meet his eyes, I am glad that after unexpectedly encountering Betty and her boyfriend, we have managed to lighten the mood, even if just a little bit.

"Does Mr Blue happen to turn into a large, muscled blue guy with severe anger issues?" I ask as we climb up the front steps of the University.

He chuckles, reaching forward to hold open the front door for me. "Not that I know of."

I thank him, before patiently waiting for three students to make their way through the now open door first before I duck through the doorway, a louder buzz of chatter filling the air as even more students stream throughout the wide halls and numerous classrooms. I make it all of three steps before I come to a screeching halt, however, causing Bruce to accidentally run into my back.

"Lydia? What's wro …?"

When he suddenly trails off, I realise that he has spotted the security guard checking student and teacher badges before allowing them to walk through a metal detector machine on the other side of the long hall. Students line up in front of the guard, and I watch with a sinking feeling in my gut as he reprimands a young group of men trying to cut through the lone line, warning them to step back into place or else.

I curse under my breath. Without a student card, there is no way that we are getting past this guard and sneaking into the lab. God damn it.

"We can't get through," Bruce exclaims.

"I could try and fly up to a window or something? I suggest, but I shake my head before he has the chance to even consider it. "Scratch that. Me flying up to a window in broad daylight is just going to drag more unwanted attention to us."

"We could come back later? When it's dark?"

"Window alarms," I reply, reaching up to run a hand through my hair and grip harshly on the ends. "We're gonna have to think of something else."

"Stan might be able to help us."

"The friend you can trust?"

Bruce nods. "He owns a pizza shop a couple of blocks from here. It's usually closed on Monday nights, but he lives in the apartment above it. He should be home."

"Then let's go," I reply, grabbing Bruce's sleeve and pulling him back towards the entrance of the University once more.


The walk from Culver University to Stanley's Pizza Parlour is rather pleasant, the weather taking an even warmer turn as the afternoon rolls into dusk, the sun shining hues of orange across the sky. The streets are relatively quiet, the dinner rush having not started yet, making it easy for Bruce and I to blend in with the few civilians wandering the streets, none of them paying us the slightest attention. It takes half an hour to reach the pizza parlour which is a nice little building with green walls and booths built into them, red and white chequered tablecloths placed carefully on the square tables throughout the rest of the space. A counter has been built in the far corner where the employees likely take the customer orders before rushing past the silver door behind them which undoubtedly leads into the kitchen out back.

It's from this door that a small, elderly man wearing a green apron and white shirt emerges, not looking up from the towel in his hand. If he had done so, then he would have noticed Bruce and I pressed up against the windows, peering into the parlour through the front window.

He's very short, with a white moustache and snow-coloured tuffs of hair sticking out from the back and sides of his head, leaving his front and top bald and gleaming beneath the light.

Inhaling sharply, Bruce knocks a fist against the door.

"Sorry, but we're closed on Mondays," the man – who I assume is Stan – calls out, a thick Italian accent lacing his words. "Come back tomorrow when we're open."

"Stan," Bruce calls out, voice thick with emotion.

Stan stills, the towel slipping from his fingers and falling silently to the floor below, but he makes no move to retrieve it. Instead, he slowly lifts his head until he is finally staring at us through the window, his dark brown eyes crinkling with disbelief when they land on an unsure Bruce. Gasping, he rushes over to the door (as quickly as his old age will allow him) and fiddles with the lock before flinging the door open and pulling Bruce down into a bear-crushing hug.

"I knew it! I knew you would come back!" Stan cries, clinging to Bruce even harder when the latter returns the hug with equally fierce enthusiasm. "I knew you would!"

"It's good to see you too Stan," Bruce laughs, a genuinely joyful smile plastered to his face, a sight that I haven't seen in the weeks that I've known him. It's enough to make a warmth blossom in my chest.

Stan pulls back from Bruce and lifts his hands to clasp the younger man's face between them, really studying the face he holds. Though it's only been a few years since they have last seen one another, I bet that Stan sees nothing but differences lining the features of Bruce's face. How tired he seems. How much thinner he is. Purple shadows under his eyes. A sadness permanently etched in the depths of his eyes.

"Where have you been? Why did you run? Does Betty know that you're back?"

"It's a really, really long story, Stan. One that I'm happy to explain to you. But first," he steps back, gesturing towards my silent form beside him. "There's someone that I want you to meet."

I smile. "Lydia Hathaway, sir. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Stan beams and extends a hand my way as Bruce explains, "She's been helping me for the past few weeks. Lydia, this is Stanley. I've known him for years now – we can trust him."

"Helping him, eh?" Stan asks, giving my hand a firm shake. "Helping him stay out of trouble, I hope."

My smile turns tight, his words serving as a reminder of what Bruce and I have been through over the past few weeks. "Something like that."

Bruce reaches up to scratch at the back of his head. "Stan, I'm sorry that we've barged in on you like this –"

"Oh, you know you are welcome here any time, Bruce," Stan promptly cuts Bruce off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "That will never change. And anyone who is friends with Bruce is a friend of mine also. You are welcome here as well, Miss Hathaway."

"Call me Lydia."

He smiles, before he then moves to close the front door behind us, locking it once more and drawing the curtain closed. "Come out the back – I was just about to make some pizza. You must be hungry, and I want to hear all about what has happened to you in the past few years, Bruce."