Contrary to what Bruce had allowed people to believe, he had in fact been getting paid by SHIELD for his work. He just hadn’t been keeping most of it. He skimmed off what little he needed for clothes (before Howard had supplied him with an entirely new wardrobe and several threats about actually wearing them, that is), food and the occasional goodie for himself. And, because SHIELD provided him with a place to sleep, that left approximately 90% of his pay to be donated to a different charity every week; something he did anonymously.

Bruce was fairly certain that no one knew what he was doing- not that they had a reason to care; it was his money, after all. He just felt a certain compulsion to give back. He helped to fund research into new medications, low cost housing in war-torn countries, provide school books to low-income families; basically any charity which used the money to actually help got his attention. He also worked on the side as a consultant for Doctors in the field, under the alias David Jones. While he didn’t have a full medical background, the biological chemistry of medicine was something he could handle.

It filled his days, anyway, and gave him a greater sense of purpose than he currently had at SHIELD or in the years prior to his recruitment.

Bruce grinned and placed his cell in one of the protective pockets of his rain gear. He had an extra set for Howard, too, but he doubted that Stark Sr. would be interested in donning the violent yellow apparel until he fully understood the necessity for wearing the gear inside.

Though Bruce usually had a ‘no meddling’ attitude when it came to other people’s lives, it was eating him up that Tony and Howard had a second chance, of sorts. Both men seemed to be struggling with their new roles (or revisited, in Tony’s case), and in Bruce’s experience, sometimes the best way to help was to be indirect.

What Bruce had planned for Howard was supposed to help him relax and have some fun while enjoying some candy-style violence. And, if in the process, Howard and Bruce remembered what it was like to be young and dumb (Howard was twenty-something and in Bruce’s opinion, he still qualified for the title, anyway), then his mission would be considered a success.

callmecap:

gammapulsed:

callmecap:

The bell on the door jingled when it opened, letting in some of the noise from the road outside. Steve took a look around the diner, ignoring the looks he was getting from the nearby patrons.  Doctor Banner was easy enough to spot in the small crowd of afternoon eaters and Steve had never been one to forget a face.  Especially not after he spent the entire flight pouring over the man’s file. 

He slid the dusty backpack off of his shoulder and doffed his baseball cap before walking over to the bar.  The hostess got a warm a smile before Steve focused his attention back on Bruce.  ”Excuse me,” He said politely, standing back enough so’s not to loom over the other man. “Mind if I sit here?”

Bruce subtly looked from one end of the bar to the other; there were plenty of seats. “Yeah, sure.” He said and pulled his own backpack from the seat next to him and set it on the floor, in between his feet. The man was the cleanest thing in the place and from the way he carried himself, he was probably military. Bruce gave him points for not sneaking around. Or tranqing him.

He really hated tranq darts.

“I gather you’re not here for the stellar cuisine.”

“Well,” Steve winced and smiled apologetically, “Not exactly. Though I could do with a cup of coffee if you wouldn’t mind, Miss-” he paused to glance at her name tag, “Caroline?”  The hostess’ frosty attitude couldn’t quite keep up with the sincerity of his smile, though it probably helped that his left arm was still in a sling.

The coffee was black as tar but Steve only added a half a teaspoon of sugar before taking a sip thoughtfully.  After a moment he turned and spoke.

“Listen, Doctor Banner, I don’t want to make you nervous.”  He said, his blue eyes watching the other man with concern. “My name is Steve Rogers and I’d like it if you’d hear me out before deciding how to answer.  I promise I’m not from any military or government you know. And if you say ‘no’ I’ll leave you alone.  No one is with me so if you want to walk out and leave no one is going to stop you.  I just want five minutes of your time. If you don’t mind, that is.” 

Bruce snorted. “Steve Rogers, as in ..” He made vague gesture and saluted, limply. Either this man was serious and by some twist of fate or time travel, he was the real deal, Or, and Bruce strongly suspected that this was more likely, he was suffering from some form of PTSD. It’s possible that he knew of Hulk and Bruce simply because he was a survivor from Culver incident and was trying to live out some alternate ending where he hadn’t provoked violence from Hulk.

Bruce took in the sling and ‘Steve’s’ otherwise clear gaze and open demeanor and wondered how this man had come to find him. That information alone was enough to warrant further discussion. Bruce realized that Rick might have been a piece to the puzzle but was intrigued, nonetheless.

“Sure.” He shrugged. “I have time. And a burger on the way, if you don’t mind me eating in front of you.”

callmecap:

The bell on the door jingled when it opened, letting in some of the noise from the road outside. Steve took a look around the diner, ignoring the looks he was getting from the nearby patrons.  Doctor Banner was easy enough to spot in the small crowd of afternoon eaters and Steve had never been one to forget a face.  Especially not after he spent the entire flight pouring over the man’s file. 

He slid the dusty backpack off of his shoulder and doffed his baseball cap before walking over to the bar.  The hostess got a warm a smile before Steve focused his attention back on Bruce.  ”Excuse me,” He said politely, standing back enough so’s not to loom over the other man. “Mind if I sit here?”

Bruce subtly looked from one end of the bar to the other; there were plenty of seats. “Yeah, sure.” He said and pulled his own backpack from the seat next to him and set it on the floor, in between his feet. The man was the cleanest thing in the place and from the way he carried himself, was probably military. Bruce gave him points for not sneaking around. Or tranqing him.

He really hated tranq darts.

“I gather you’re not here for the stellar cuisine.”

Another two weeks and several hundred miles found Bruce near Bailey, Colorado. He had no particular business there, other than it was where his current ride had shaken him awake and told him to ‘git goin’, son’. Bruce thanked the man, a grizzled, bearded fellow, and had walked into town. 

Bailey was a tiny town which appeared suddenly, on a bend in the road and disappeared just as quickly. There were more tourists than residents, however, so Bruce felt reasonably comfortable in staying long enough to eat something and find another ride out. They would have seen just enough people for him to remain a face in the crowd.

Most locals referred him to the Cut Throat Cafe, not because it was particularly good, but because it was really the only place they could offer. Bruce sat himself at the bar after receiving a chilling glare from the hostess, who was busy picking her nails and flirting with someone on her phone, and ordered a burger. One of the good things that came from also sometimes being the Hulk was that Bruce would never be subject to food poisoning; which, judging from the layer of grime which coated everything in the joint, was a real possibility.

Bruce slid the sticky, laminated menu back across the bar top and took a sip of the cola he’d ordered. There weren’t a whole lot of good candidates for hitching in the ‘cafe’- he had no desire to ride anywhere with the local folk. He’d probably have to hike north along 285 for a few miles to find a willing passer-by.

Bruce wakes up back in Brazil, spends several weeks trekking to Canada to get a grip on his alter ego.

A trip southeast finds Bruce in Tsaile, Arizona where he is awakened by a severe thunderstorm to the east; he is unaware that this is a brawl between Loki and Thor (as well as Iron Man and Captain America).

Further east, he encounters a young Rick Jones, who has wandered away from his family. Alamogordo isn’t far, but it puts the fugitive uncomfortably close to Holloman AFB. Bruce takes his chances. Pt 1 / Pt 2 / Pt 3 / Pt 4

Ever watchful, Nick Fury has delegated the recruitment of Bruce to Steve Rogers; is he the best man for the job?

Tune in next time!

The past few days and nights had been trying for Bruce, psychologically. It wasn’t Rick’s fault, however. He liked kids- they were the future, as they saying went. He and Betty had talked, briefly, about having children and Bruce, complicated even before the procedure, had always waffled and changed the subject. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them, he did. It was just he had hang-ups on his own father and his childhood.

Obviously, everyone had their issues with how the were raised; too many rules or not enough. Too much candy, too many toys, too few friends. Bruce’s issues were of a different nature, however. His father had hated him from the moment he’d taken his first breath and had been consumed with jealousy over his wife’s affection towards their son. Somewhat ironically, Brian Banner had been convinced that his infant son was a monster, tainted to the genetic level by the radiation from his own work in atomic physics.

Despite all that, he actually did want kids, but it had always been ‘some day’ after they married, some day they would have kids and move to wherever and be happy together, forever. 

Someday never came, of course and Bruce suspected that it never existed at all. Not for him, at least. Betty still had her life with Leonard Sampson in Virginia, assuming he waited for her. And, from what little he learned from Leonard the night they had spoken over glasses of wine, Bruce could say that he did like him. He seemed pleasant and helpful, he provided for Betty and treated her well. He loved her as Bruce did, even if his resentment towards Bruce was apparent.

‘It’s just as well.’ Bruce thought, as he watched Rick bounce around like the frog he was imitating. If he’d had kids before Culver, they would be no better off than he had been as a child and he’d have left Betty widowed and a single mother.

“David!” Rick shrieked, suddenly. Bruce nearly had a heart attack before he realized that Rick had seen the city of Alamogordo, just beyond the tree line. The terrain they had covered was quite rough; they were at a high spot, for now.

Bruce picked him up and set him on his shoulders and Rick laughed. “Yes, you’re almost home.”

“David?”

Bruce shifted to look at Rick, who was sitting near the fire pit they had built a few hours ago. “Rick?” He answered from his position, reclined against a tree. It had taking some coaxing, but the kid had finally dropped the ‘mister’ when he addressed Bruce; it didn’t seem right, given the situation.

Rick averted his eyes and didn’t say anything for a minute, focusing instead on twisting a stick through one of the loops of his shoelaces. “..my parents are gonna be really mad at me, aren’t they?” Rick was so quiet when he asked, Bruce had to take a moment to process.

“Oh, Rick- no they won’t. I promise you that they won’t be anything but relieved to see you.” But if they see him with with their child, they would be horrified. Bruce sat up and leaned forward to show Rick that he was sincere, but Rick still wasn’t looking at him. He was still focused on his feet, on the dirt, and on not letting Bruce see that he was crying.

“Hey, no, it’s okay Rick-” Bruce cursed that he should be so awkward and unsure about how to comfort people and remained frozen, scared to upset Rick any further.

Kids could have severe emotional whiplash but, in this case, he could understand it. Rick had wandered away from his parents and now he was scared that he was going to catch hell for getting lost. The reality was that his parents were probably at least a hundred times more scared that he had died or was kidnapped or any number of terrible things.

Fortunately for Bruce, Rick was less concerned with ‘situation appropriate behavior’, and found comfort crying into Bruce’s shirt, again. Bruce had nothing but sympathy and held him tightly as he shifted to lean back against the tree. Once Rick had cried himself into an exhausted sleep, Bruce set him down on his old sleeping bag, away from the fire. This might be the only time he had to catch any food for them, and though he hated the idea of leaving Rick unattended, it was necessary.

Only two more days.

Part one |

”..what’s that sound?”

Bruce looked down at Rick. The little boy had his eyes shielded as he looked up towards the canopy of the trees, trying to discern where the cacophony of noise emanated.

“Cicadas.” He said, after a moment. It took a while to realize that they had been listening to them for hours, by that point. Bruce was so used to the sounds of nature that he was able to tune them out; a kind of auditory fatigue.

“Oh.” Rick squeezed Bruce’s hand as they continued walking. “What’s a Cicada?”

“It’s a flying insect; they are really interesting because they live in the ground for several years before they crawl out to finish their life cycle.” Of course the really fascinating part of that was that all the time spent underground was prime numbers, which gave them a head start over their predators. “I bet if we look hard enough, we can find one of their shells; they don’t have wings when they crawl out of the ground, then they shed that skin, kind of like how a snake will shed? Well, there will be a dried cicada-shaped husk left over.”

Rick looked up at Bruce with wide eyes. He seemed to be asking permission without really verbalizing it and Bruce smiled at him; if he wanted to go look around for one, he was fine with that. Rick grinned and ran several feet in front of Bruce and peered into the scrub brush that lined the path where they were walking.

They continued on for several miles and Rick maintained a steady orbit around Bruce, returning to show him everything that interested him; Slugs, interesting fungus, a skeleton of a mouse, an owl pellet- all of which produced no less than 50 questions, each.

Lunch was an interesting affair. Bruce had to summon patience to an extent he’d never had to try, before. Every time a rabbit would get close to the trap he’d set, Rick would titter and be generally child-like and the prey would jet off in the opposite direction. Rick would run off after it, shrieking and laughing.

They didn’t manage to catch anything.

Clearly, he’d have to catch that day’s meals while Rick was sleeping. Didn’t kids take naps anymore?

“Hey, kid-”

Crap. Bruce crouched down and waited for the child to stop crying and notice him; it wouldn’t due to scare him any more than he already was.

It had taken him several minutes to just convince himself that it was perfectly fine to approach the kid, anyway. There was no telling why he was crying, how he had gotten into this remote section of New Mexico Forest or why he was even here. Looking closer at him, though, Bruce decided that he’d probably wandered away from his camp and had gotten lost. Judging by the mud and current distress, Bruce also guessed that he’d been out here for at least a few days.

The danger with helping this kid - not that he would actually consider leaving him there- was that he could either be captured or reported for kidnapping and then captured. Worse, he was actually putting the kid in more danger by just being around him. But, in this remote forest, it was more likely that the kid would starve or be preyed upon by wildlife than anything Bruce could bring to the table. Even if he was tracked here, the General wasn’t so cold hearted that he’d put a child in danger.

Bruce was bowled over as the kid ran directly for him, having finally noticed him. He latched onto Bruce’s waist and cried even harder into his shirt. “Hey- it’s ..” Bruce looked around, forever paranoid, and gently picked the child up and held him close, hugging him and rubbing small, hopefully comforting, circles on his back. “What’s your name?”

The kid sniffled and mashed his forehead against Bruce’s chest, tired and starting to wind down. “Rick. W- .. what’s yours?” He was very quiet and Bruce was aware that he’d have to get some information before Rick drifted off to sleep. “David,” He lied with some regret, “Can you tell me how long you’ve been in the forest, Rick?”

Bruce shifted the child to one arm and supported him on his hip as he stood and started walking. They would need to get to a city, soon. Alone, it would take at least two days but with the kid, it would take a little longer.

“..no.” Rick tightened his hold and Bruce pat his back, again. “It’s alright.”

They would need to get to a safe place to bunk down for the night- it was already eight in the evening and the sun was beginning to set. Bruce needed to find something for the kid to eat and it was probably going to be something like squirrel or rabbit. He looked down at Rick and considered. Was this kid a picky eater? Would he care? No, it was more likely that after however long he was lost, he wouldn’t think of turning down a meal.

Bruce awoke suddenly and with no time to transition between deep sleep and wakefulness.

Everything was quiet.

He rubbed at his eyes and sighed, deeply, before lying back against his backpack-turned-pillow.The adrenaline which had poured into his bloodstream had started to ebb and it left his limbs jerky and numb.

Had he been dreaming?

Bruce started to shiver a little. The night was cold and he wasn’t dressed well for it.  Something shuffled across the sandy ground, rooting in the soil. Bruce shifted and narrowed his eyes against the darkness; an armadillo peered back. They stared at one another for several moments before the animal continued on its way. Bruce rolled over again to try to get a little more sleep.

It was only midnight.

Lightning split across the sky to the east, so distant that it was some time before the rumble of thunder reached him; Bruce was glad that it wasn’t looking much like rain above him. He enjoyed thunder storms a little less when he was caught out in them. Bruce watched it for a few moments, judging it’s movement. It seemed to be hanging heavily over New Mexico so there was little chance of him getting more than a spectacular light show, which suited him just fine.

Bruce wasn’t quite sure where he was and he was much too tired to care. After several weeks of working for less than he wanted to admit, Bruce had managed to talk his way onto a series of fishing boats, traveling north on the Pacific. They were dubious of his ability to not kill himself or others, but Bruce was persistent. He pulled his weight and was invaluable to the on-board engineer and, on occasion, cooked. It took a few months of back-breaking labor as he worked his way from crew to crew and soon he had gained the trust of the first Captain.

That Captain had made a call to a friend of his and so on, for many months. Eventually, the last crew had dropped him off a few miles off shore near the Canadian border. Bruce had to assure them that yes, he could swim it and no, he wouldn’t die. (Of course he couldn’t tell him exactly how he could do all this, so they came away with the notion that he was crazy.) He didn’t have anything of value with him- probably one of the reasons the men tolerated him; he never asked for any pay. He wouldn’t have a use for it, anyway.

The cabin that he’d been looking for was a few miles from the nearest city and it was close to the river. He’d be away from people but not so far that he couldn’t ‘acquire’ the things he needed.

The problem that arises from ‘going with the flow’, Bruce found, was that when one is on a journey, as he was, you sometimes find yourself going in the wrong direction. Barranquilla was, to put it succinctly, a mess. It was a coastal city, however, so there was a very good chance that Bruce could barter his way onto a fishing boat or a freighter going north, without much fanfare. The downside was that the US had recently purchased some land for a military base, so the chances of him being spotted were, ultimately, higher.

More dangerous, however, was entry back into the US; even though it was a stopping point on his way to Canada, it was still difficult to cross the borders. Usually money could buy his way but, this time, he didn’t have that luxury. He was left with illegal entry as a fugitive from the military and no incentive for anyone to do him any favors.

Bruce realized that he may just have to spend some time in a bordering city working up the funds to grease his way into the crab-trap that was the United States.

Bruce had been hitching and moving north for eight days, by now. He’s lost a little more weight from a completely unpredictable availability of edible food and from the amount of walking he’s had to do in the muggy heat that Brazil had to offer. He’s bartered rides from several farmers in exchange for fixing various bits of farm equipment.

The boat he was on now was a lucky find. (Or steal, if one chose to look at it that way.) It was almost unusable but Bruce had patched it up and taken it, anyway. The wood of the boat was nearly waterlogged and he was halfway to sunk, but the vessel remained afloat and it served his purposes just fine. He’d be able to make it to Itacoatira, at least. He might even be able to hitch a ride to Manaus, if luck remained on his side.

It never did, though.

Bruce would make it as far as Urucará before the little boat gave up and forced him to swim ashore. It was well into the evening by then, and traveling would be a bit more dangerous.

He would have to stay there for the night and go through his options in the morning.

Bruce had slept for nearly twelve hours; only the need to drink and eat roused him, finally. It took him several moments of blinking and rubbing his eyes before he was able to focus without his glasses- something he’d need to replace rather quickly, or suffer headaches.

He could tell that the sun was already starting to sink below the horizon but it wasn’t yet cool- it was, in point of fact, the hottest time of the day. Bruce pushed himself to a seated position and swayed a little as his head swam. He’ll need to do a little creative problem solving to feed himself (and that usually just means stealing something from a street vendor or an open window).

Now that there was a bit more ambient light, Bruce took the time to look around. He’s been in worse, certainly. At least this shed had a roof of sorts and some walls. There were about 30 boxes stacked up all around him, a few suitcases and some other garbage and forest material. Bruce picked up the top two records from a stack that was fairly close and turned them over; he still couldn’t quite focus enough to be sure, but he was fairly certain he was holding a copy of Raffi’s ‘Singable Songs for the Very Young’.

It was such a strange, unexpected connection to his past that he wasn’t quite prepared for it. Bruce stared at the record as though it had been planted there- maybe it had. He wasn’t so ignorant as to believe that the government wasn’t still after him. If anything, they would probably increase their efforts to capture him after his display of (thinly veiled) control over the beast.

Enough.

Bruce tossed the record aside and got up. He needed food and clothing and then, maybe, he’d figure out how to stay off the US Army’s radar.