spit_it_out | (no subject)

His head jerks in rhythm with the bus. When it’s smooth, it lowers gently, a slow arc towards sleep. And then the wheels hit a pothole and he’s upright again, blinking painfully in the light reflected off miles of endless sand. He stays alert long enough to register how awful it feels to be sticky all over, his clothes twisted and damp, and glued to his skin. Then the heat takes over, and he drifts. Until the next bump, and he’s awake, and it starts all over again.

He lost count of the hours somewhere in Tunisia. He has been on buses forever, and will never be able to get off. Cairo seems like a mirage he’ll always be reaching for. People talk incessantly here, and chant, and shout, and there are animals in cages everywhere. It’s what he expected, but it’s been days, and he hadn’t realised how frayed he was. Every elbow he catches in the ribs makes him grit his teeth, every shout too close to his ear makes him want to put his arms over his head, and scream at it all to go away. His pulse monitor flashes steadily. He tries to ignore it.

Just when he thinks he can take no more: Cairo.

It’s good. He’d been about to leave the bus, and start walking. Not that the city is much better, but at least he can find a cheap room, and close the door on it all for a night. Which he does, with relief so strong it nearly knocks him down.

The next morning, he starts scouting. There’s a Starbucks on the outskirts of the city, set in a tiny piazza that has a few alleys running off it. He checks them out. Most of them end up in open space, away from houses and shops. It’s probably the best he’s going to get, so he finds a café, and sends the email.

He tries not to think about it too much the night before. The man’s on his way, there’s nothing he can do. And it should be routine enough, if he can make himself accept that they’re not about to turn up with gunships and smoke bombs. Surely they wouldn’t dare with this many people around. That’s why he chose it.

The morning of: he almost doesn’t go. But, to hell with it. If it’ll get SHIELD off his back, it’ll be worth it. So he climbs to the spot he found yesterday, and waits. He’s willing to bet, this far out from the tourist traps, the guy will stick out like a sore thumb.

He’s not wrong.

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There's a long pause.

When Bruce speaks, it's between clenched teeth.

'I'm not his to 'sign off'.'

Fury is not a doctor, not a surgeon, not any kind of official, recognisable, authority. If he's put himself in charge of people like Bruce, it's at his own desire. And that's not acceptable.

'And it's not a weapon.'

"Sorry. You seemed to think we wanted the... other guy."

For a moment, he almost feels cold, even here.

"And I was assuming you didn't think that that was for us to look at the view."

He frowns. Is this guy being deliberately obtuse?

'Well, you don't get one without the other, no matter how surplus I am to people like you.'

He picks up his latte, and starts counting his pulse rate. Just in case.

'And you wouldn't like the view if you saw it.'

It's not pretty.

Thinly, "That much I'm aware of."

He frowns, too, sipping macchiato without really tasting it.

"...Sorry, are we talking at cross-purposes? I get the feeling neither of us is communicating very well."

Hey, when all else fails, there's always the truth.

Bruce pauses as he puts his cup down, one finger moving it in its saucer so the handle is at an exact right angle to the table edge.

'I don't think so.'

Or maybe they are. He doesn't care. He didn't want to be here in the first place.

'Are you trying to imply you don't want the Other Guy?'

Okay, to hell with it: he might as well try bluntness.

"Never mind implying, I'll say it straight out. Not only do we not want him, we would be prepared to go to some trouble to help you keep him out of the picture, if that's the road you decide you'd like to take."

Coulson's fingers drum gently on the table. "That is, if you want our help, we would be willing. I can't make any guarantees regarding success, but we would be willing to try."

Honesty is all he's been looking for - though whether it's the truth is an entirely different thing.

He sits back, and surveys Coulson from under the visor of his baseball cap.

'I don't need your help with that,' he points out, eventually.

'All you have to do is stay the hell away. No more meetings like this.'

The aforementioned files strongly suggest otherwise, but this is really not the time for smart remarks; Coulson just looks back at Bruce, steady-eyed despite the glare of the sun.

"Well, if you change your mind about that, let us know."

He passes him a business card: it shows only a logo, an email address and a telephone number - no name and no address.

Bruce takes it, and looks at it. He feels the laugh coming, and can do nothing to stop it.

This is how they get you. A card, a promise of help. And then if - when - something happens, they're there in your mind, just a phone call away. A benign possibility until you need them. And then you're theirs.

He rips up the card. It's melodramatic, and he feels stupid the instant the paper gives way to his strength. But there. Done.

'What help can you possibly offer me, Agent Coulson? What can anyone do that the Other Guy won't-'

He breaks off. He doesn't sound angry now. Just resigned. In pain, almost.

'It's only my own government that have hounded me. Fury told me Ross has been stopped - I don't want to know how.'

He shakes his head, and looks down. None of this is going to matter soon anyway. He doesn't know why he's bothering.

'I'm not coming back to the United States. Put that in your report.'

Edited 2013-05-31 19:38 (UTC)

He raises his eyebrows, just gently.

"No-one in SHIELD is planning to bring you back, Doctor Banner. Not unless you ask us, anyway. And if it helps, a friend of mine is currently spending her down-time making Ross's life as unpleasant as she can manage it."

And then he adds, just as mildly: "We're the good guys, Doctor
Or at least we try to be."

And it's true, kind of - or at any rate he believes it. He couldn't work for SHIELD if he didn't.

'Yeah, that's what you would say.'

He pulls his cap off, and runs his hand across his forehead. He doesn't look at Coulson. It's like he's been distracted - which is true, given that he's just remembered how pointless this is.

There's a beep from his wrist. He checks the heart monitor; still only 130, but slowly rising.

'I'm leaving. I hope our paths won't cross again.'

"Frankly, we can only hope."

Coulson sighs, so mildly it's almost unnoticeable. He doesn't stand when Bruce does; no need to make the guy feel like he's being followed.

"Good luck, Doctor Banner."

'Yeah. Thanks.'

His tone is as dry as all the sand out there. He looks down at Coulson for a moment, just watching him.

He supposes this is the kind of guy they would send. Someone innocuous, though his intelligence is obvious. Someone a guy like him might be inclined to trust. For the barest second, he considers it could be possible - now the moment has come to leave, it's never been more clear how on his own he is. And that's how it has to be, but there's still a pang. Severing all contact with home is never completely painless.

But he doesn't have a choice. It really is safer for everyone this way.

'Have a nice life.'

He jams his cap back on his head, and takes a few steps away.

Later, he won't be able to decide whether what happens next is good luck, or bad. Because he can't help one glance back into the coffee shop. And on the wall behind Coulson, there's a closed-circuit camera...and it's moving with him.

He stops. The camera stops.

He wants to laugh; at himself, for almost believing the man for a second there. At his life, and how completely stupid it is. To hide the disappointment, and from the reminder that they'll really never let him go.

He doesn't say anything. Just shakes his head at the camera, and then at Coulson.

So be it. He didn't want to come anyway. And if he has it in his power, it'll be the last picture they get.