More Like Beasts than Men

When Bruce wakes up he's on a mountain. It's covered in trees and reminds him of the Appalachians, maybe even the Blue Ridge Mountains. That's good; he's been much farther away than coming down from a Hulk out, but Appalachia he can work with.

He steels himself and looks down, and...yep. Naked again. And his glasses are gone, too--the sixth pair Hulk's lost him this year.

There's nothing to do except start walking. He can see well enough; the moon is big and full. It's almost beautiful.

*******

He can recall only pieces of the fight that led him here. Most of it he remembers as the Hulk, and the big guy's memory is always anger-tinged and somewhat unreliable. The last memory he has as Bruce Banner is being irritated at everyone. They had been having a good time and Clint had to ruin it by getting mouthy, and of course Tony had to escalate everything. And then, rather inexplicably at the time--now he realizes that whatever had infected the HYDRA base had nailed them, also--the Hulk took over.

The ironic part is that the toxin caused him to lose control, but the second he transformed it was neutralized, and for the first time ever Hulk was one of the calmer members of the team.

The rest just comes as fragmented flashes. A memory of Steve, anger twisting his face unrecognizably as he snapped Hawkeye's arm. Hulk didn't like that at all, had grabbed Steve and sailed him high and far into the air, where he couldn't hurt anyone else.

A memory of Clint, still howling in pain, jumping onto Hulk's back like a deranged monkey, cursing and tearing futilely at green flesh with only one working arm. The Hulk actually found that pretty funny, had even laughed as he plucked Clint easily off and threw him to the ground, a lot more careful than he'd been with Steve.

A memory of Tony yelling at everyone, gesturing wildly, but not attacking.

Of Clint picking himself off the ground and charging after Steve, Tony following, all of them being drawn further into the town limits, closer to people.

Run, Bruce whispered desperately then, run away. Tear out trees, smash crevices into the earth, run forever, run till our heart explodes--just don't hurt Tony or Clint or Steve or any other people. Please just run far away and oh my god PLEASE DON'T HURT THEM.

And Hulk had listened. Had run away from houses, streets, from the places that men go. He ran until it was quiet and destroyed everything around him until the anger burned away.

*******

The Avengers arrived at the HYDRA base before SHIELD, prepared for a fight and finding one already in progress. They watched in horrified disbelief as men and women tore each other apart like animals, ripping out throats, gouging out eyes. It was a bloodbath and even the Hulk within Bruce recoiled in disgust.

"We have to stop this," Steve said, but the people were obviously beyond reason, compelled to these acts by something outside their will.

"How?" Bruce asked helplessly.

"Maybe SHIELD will be able to do something for them." Tony sounded doubtful, and with his Iron Man faceplate up Bruce couldn't really tell what he was thinking.

"Better to put them out of their misery," Clint countered pragmatically, fingers twitching toward his bow, and Bruce silently agreed. But not out loud; he'd never agree to a thing like that out loud. Steve shook his head definitively and Clint sighed and shrugged. "Your call, Cap. Who knows, maybe a few of them can be stitched back together and go on to have a great time living out life in SHIELD prison as blind, armless men."

They secured the doors so that none of those affected could escape and spread the assault, then waited for SHIELD to arrive and take over.

There wasn't really much else to be done.

*******

He hopes he'll come across an abandoned hunting cabin, or a landfill, or anything before he gets to a road or to a town. If he can just find a scrap of material to cover himself with before he runs into other people, that'd be a blessing. The Hulk is a gigantic pain in Bruce's ass, and a steady diet of humiliation is high on a long list of ways he dislikes the monster.

But despite their mutual loathing there is a small sense of brotherhood, of comraderie. Bruce doesn't have to be afraid to be lost in these woods. If he trips and breaks a leg, or he runs into a bear or something, he doesn't have to worry. The Hulk would take care of it. He'd probably deforest the entire area, as well, but he'd take care of it--of them. In turn, Bruce takes care of the people Hulk likes. That list is small, almost negligible, but it exists. At the top is Betty Ross, who Bruce protects best by staying the hell away from her. It also includes the Avengers, who are stronger and safer to be around.

It feels good to have people again.

But now Bruce is worried about them, and Hulk is, too--a sick unease that thrums beneath his skin. SHIELD surely got to them quickly; one of the last things Bruce heard was Tony calling for JARVIS to send help. Bruce wonders how long the team remained violent; the HYDRA men had obviously been fighting one another awhile before the Avengers discovered them, judging by the amount of carnage and the weary way they moved despite their ferocity. He shudders to think of how much damage Tony and Steve and Clint could do to one another in a few minutes, much less over hours. 

Bruce and Hulk hadn't hurt anyone, at least. This time. There's that, he can hold on to that.

Steve won't be able to say the same, will probably berate himself for weeks over Clint's broken arm, will mope and apologize and wring his hands every bloody moment until the cast comes off. The argument could be made, perhaps, that Hulk had hurt Steve when he threw him, but he'd really been going for distance with the throw--getting him away from Tony and Clint--rather than force. It's doubtful that Steve is even bruised from it. Of course, he had lobbed Steve further into town when he should have aimed away; a miscalculation on his part, but the Hulk isn't really known for thinking things through.

*******

Bruce wonders idly, as he does in times like this, what unknown factors might trigger a transformation. Will it happen if his feet get cut up too badly by the rocks and sticks beneath his aching feet? If he grows too cold as night falls? In the early days of the team Tony had been consumed by those kind of questions, had picked at Bruce endlessly with different scenarios.

"What about being hungry?" Tony asked at dinner one night. He speared a piece of broccoli on his fork and examined it suspiciously before taking a bite. "Could being super hungry make you Hulk out? I mean, it pisses me right off, and I'm a normal guy." He shrugged at their skeptical expressions. "Well, more normal than Bruce is, anyway."

"Okay, I'm a bit curious about that myself," Steve admitted.

"About hunger triggering an episode? I doubt it." Bruce thought about it a little more. "I suppose if I were starving, near death or something--it would be possible. But I also don't have any intention of testing that out." He gestured toward the table. "Hence, all the dinner I'm currently eating."

"But pain is a big factor." Tony raised his eyebrows and Bruce shrugged in a sure, whatever gesture. "How much pain? How little? There are different types of pain, even. Like, what about hitting your funny bone really hard?"

"Or falling on your keys?" Clint wondered. "I did that once. It wasn't enough to fall into a dumpster; I also had to land on my keys."

"What if you had a really bad headache?" Natasha asked.

"An ice cream headache!" Tony interjected. "The most terrible kind of headache, because something so painful following something so sweet is the worst of betrayals."

"How about plucking a nosehair?" Steve asked, looking pleased with himself for thinking of it. "That hurts like hell."

Natasha raised an eyebrow at Steve. "How about if you accidentally sat on a testicle?"

The four men exchanged a sick, uneasy glance, and Tony coughed and crossed his legs. "I don't intend to find that out either," Bruce managed finally. "And, hell, I'd probably be too busy vomiting to transform."

"Hey, Bruce," Clint asked around a mouthful of chicken, "would taking a really painful shit make you Hulk out? Like if you'd had really spicy hot wings or some curry or something?"

Tony threw his head back and roared in pure delight. Even Natasha laughed as Steve frowned. "That is so inappropriate--"

"I'm just asking," Clint pointed out with exaggerated, wide eyed innocence. "And I feel like, as a housemate, I deserve some advance warning if this is possible. If Bruce could conceivably go into the bathroom, groan a bit, then come bursting out as the Hulk, toilet paper hanging off his foot and everything."

Bruce had to laugh also, pressing his hands over his eyes, leaking with tears. "How? How is this even my life?"

And really, after a conversation like that people either immediately become your worst enemies or your best friends, and it's pretty obvious what side of that equation Bruce Banner came down on.

*******

He stumbles across a house at last--it's more of a glorified shack than a house, lonely at the end of a dirt road. There are no lights on inside but Bruce has no intention of knocking on the door anyway; he's not eager to have a shotgun pointed in his face and also whoever lives here doesn't deserve the inevitable Hulk-out, especially when they are just attempting to get a good night's sleep in their own damned house.

If Bruce's life were a movie there would be clothes hanging on a line, miraculously in his size, that he could steal. Maybe even some old boots laying around. But while there is a clothesline--which he discovers by walking into it and nearly shearing his head off--there's no laundry on it, because it's the middle of the fucking night. He sighs and pokes around a little more, ears perked up for anyone waking up inside, any dogs that might start barking.

There's an unplugged freezer sitting on the porch and bunch of naked Barbie dolls with ratty hair laying in a basket near the door, but otherwise it's a tidy little house and yard, the work of people who are proud and careful despite their poverty. Bruce can respect that, and admire it, but he's also a little disappointed that these folks can't be just a tiny bit cluttered and messy, because he needs some of their cast-offs to cover up with. Finally he steals the plastic tarp that covers the woodpile, feeling pretty guilty about it. Maybe he can make it up to them, later. Send some money with a note--I'm sorry I stole your tarp, but I was naked and needed to get home.

He walks alongside the dirt road for awhile, winding his way down the mountain. When he's maybe a half mile from the house he goes into the woods a little further to lay down, wrapping the tarp around himself like a burrito. It's not so bad; he's slept in far worse conditions.

*******

Bruce wakes up late the next morning groggy and achy. He's also plenty hungry, having just come off a Hulk out that included a run of at least eight hundred miles. He thinks of Tony saying Being hungry pisses me right off and smiles a bit. He briefly considers Hulking out again just to run back to Missouri, or up to New York. It's a stupid idea, a passing fancy that he dismisses immediately, but it's fun to muse about it a little, imagining the look on Nick Fury's face if he just burst into SHIELD headquarters, roaring and demanding lunch.

Then he thinks about the HYDRA men, torn limb from limb and still snarling, imagines Tony that way--or Clint or Steve--and it isn't as funny anymore. He fastens the tarp around himself to make a plastic blue toga and starts walking again.

*******

The dirt road becomes a gravel road that becomes an unpainted winding stream of asphalt. He vacillates on which direction to choose, but then decides to go west, mostly so the sun isn't in his eyes. He hears Tony in his mind, whispering What about a bad sunburn? Would that make you Hulk out?

There's nothing for hours and he's regretting his choice of direction pretty heartily before he comes across the first sign of life since the little house--what looks to be a rundown bait and tackle shop with two ancient, rusted trucks parked outside.

Bruce takes a deep breath, swallows what tiny sliver of pride he has left, and goes in.

*******

There's no pay phone--such things barely exist anymore--but everyone has a cell phone, even old men that chew on toothpicks while shooting the shit in baitshops in the middle of nowhere.

Natasha answers immediately. "Fucking finally, Bruce. Where are you?"

"In Virginia, I think," Bruce says under his breath. "Or West Virginia. Or North Carolina. One of those. I'd ask, but I've exceeded my capacity for humiliation at the moment."

"Never mind, JARVIS is tracking this and will tell me. I'm leaving now, right now. Do not move so much as one hairy toe before I get there."

"I won't, I promise. See you soon, Natasha."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she mutters before hanging up.

"Thanks, I really appreciate it." Bruce hands back the cell phone, cringing a little as the older man wipes it off on his shirt, probably unconsciously, before putting it back into the pocket of his overalls. "She's gonna come pick me up."

"Mmhmm." He continues giving the dubious evaluation he started the moment Bruce walked in. "Why the hell are you dressed like that, boy?"

Bruce sighs and shrugs helplessly. "I'd tell you, but the truth is actually more ridiculous than any lie I could come up with." He jerks his head back toward the door behind him. "Thanks for letting me use your phone," he says again. "I'll just wait outside, out of the way, until my friend gets here."

They don't say anything back, just watch suspiciously as he makes a hasty exit. He settles in the woods, out of sight but still close enough to keep his eye on the road. He also considers digging a hole and burying himself alive, then decides that might be a bit too melodramatic.

Anyway, Natasha would probably be pissed.

*******

As it gets dark the lights go off and the two trucks pull away from the bait shop, but about an hour later one of the men, the one that loaned him the phone, comes back. "Still here, fella?" he calls from his truck.

"Yeah." Bruce picks his way toward him, coming to stand at the edge of the trees. "My friend is on her way, but she's coming a pretty good distance, I guess. Just waiting for her."

"Uh huh." The man lights a cigarette, the end glowing orange in the dark. "I brought you something to wear. No need to be bare assed when your missus shows up." He holds out a large paper sack. Bruce hesitates, then crosses over to take it. "Brought you a sandwich, too."

Bruce hopes the moonlight doesn't betray the surprise in his face. "That's really nice of you, thank you."

"Ain't neither of them fancy, but better than nothing, I suppose."

"Well, I'm not a fancy guy, and I really appreciate it."

"Uh huh." Bruce sees the older man tip him another skeptically appraising look--he is really the grand master at them, making even Nick Fury seem like a blushing novice--then drives away.

*******

Natasha couldn't find anywhere flat enough to land the jet nearby, and had been forced to land much further away and then rent a car. It's almost morning and she's in a terrible mood by the time she arrives. She does a double take at the threadbare sweatshirt and pants, the folded tarp in his hands.

"What are you wearing?"

"The kindness of strangers." He sinks into the passenger seat with weary relief. "Now, tell me everything."

And she does, the best that she knows it.