spit_it_out | (no subject)

The bar deposits him back in the spot it took him from. The cabin is the same, rolling as the ship does, and filled with the distant hum of great engines somewhere below. It smells of oil and metal, and there’s a pervading chill that the portable heater doesn’t quite manage to overcome. There are no other voices. The only other people on this freighter are a skeleton crew that sleep half a deck away. After a minute or two, he half-turns to check the wall behind him. There is no door.

He'd looked into various ways of getting to the Far East. The only viable options are flying or boat, and while a plane would be easiest, it's not that simple. If something triggered Him, then everyone on board would die. Some days he thinks he's got a decent handle on it, or anyway, better than he used to. But then there are the days he can feel it under the surface of his mind, only a few fragile layers of skin away from bursting through. It’s obvious there are elements he can't predict, and quite a lot he can't control. So flying went out the window pretty quickly, especially when he figured planes would make life easier for anyone tracking him.

And they have to be tracking him. Whoever 'they' may be. Ross isn't likely to give up that easy, though with Blonsky acting as a huge neon sign of guilt, the man should have enough to be dealing with at the moment. But if not Ross, someone else. Governments don't let things like him walk around free.

He walks to the cot, and lies down. The bar falls away with more ease than he thought it might. It was a strange few months – agonising, at times – but it wasn’t his real life. This is real life. An oil-stained box in the depths of some tanker, out in the middle of the ocean.

It probably shouldn't feel like such a relief. But that's OK. He'll take relief where he can get it, and anyway, it's bound to go away soon enough. It'll do for now.