spit_it_out | (no subject)

'I don't know.'

There's nothing really left to say to that guy. Though in the wake of the fiasco in Harlem, it might be interesting to see if anything has changed.

'Reload,' says General Ross, and Bruce rolls his eyes. The man's clearly drunk already, and the smoke from his cigar almost obscures his face.

The door opens.

Bruce squints to make out the figure framed in the sunlight streaming through the door. When the man walks in, his jaw drops a little. Why is he seeing this?'

'Mmm. The smell of stale beer, and defeat. You know, I hate to say 'I told you so', General, but that super soldier program was put on ice for a reason.' The man - shorter than he looks on TV - leans comfortably against the bar. Bruce blinks, and frowns, but Tony Stark isn't finished. 'I've always felt that hardware was much more reliable.'

'Stark.' General Ross turns, squinting through the alcohol.

'General.'

'You always wear such nice suits.'

'Touche.

...I hear you have an unusual problem.'

'Thunderbolt' Ross manages to pull an sarcastically incredulous face. 'You should talk.'

'You should listen.' And the man leans in. So that's what you have to do to get through that thick skull? Be Tony Stark? 'What if I told you we were putting a team together?'

'Who's we?'

Stark says nothing. Just clears his throat, and looks at the General like he should have known better than to ask. Bruce stares at them, and then at the ghost, and then back. His brain is already working overtime.

Selvig talked about SHIELD, back at the bar. He knows the General was involved with them, and Betty told him about all their questions. So Stark - well, with his background, it's not surprising.

A few conversations from Milliways swirl in his brain. He's picked up comments about a team, though on different worlds to his. But from where he stands, it doesn't make any sense.

'If I'm here, does it mean they're talking about me?' he asks, in the general direction of the ghost. 'Because the 'problem' could be someone else.'

"This is your rodeo, cowboy."

There's enough to see without popping in on irrelevant conversations.

"Do you think of yourself as a problem?" she asks, curiously.

He eyes her sideways.

'Are you kidding me?'

Uh, duh.

"Just curious to see how you'd answer," the Ghost replies. "It's always interesting to see how people see themselves."

How the best can believe the worst, and the worst the best.

"Did you want to get closer?"

Interesting for them, maybe. Though given the ghost's job, he supposes they don't have much else to keep them occupied.

'I guess?'

He's not sure. The General's looking a bit sceptical, but Stark seems assured, as always. Bruce can't pretend he's not a bit curious.

The Ghost nods and walks closer, drawing his charge along with him.

"Just think of it as furthering your self education."

'Great.'

That helps. Really.

'...you're not serious. It's insanity.'

'Some very powerful people disagree, General. And think of it this way; if Banner's brought back into the fold - legitimately, not using your methods - then he's safer, and so is everyone else.' Stark keeps his face neutral in a way that speaks volumes. 'I know that's a priority for you.'

'I don't like your tone, Stark.'

'That's a shame. So, where is he?'

'You're here on behalf of SHIELD, and you're asking me?' Ross shakes his head, and puts his cigar back between his teeth. 'You must be slipping.'

'Not slipping. You could just save us some time, that's all.'

'I don't know where he is.'

Bruce shakes his head, and steps back.

'So this organisation's going to take over from Ross?'

It's said in the general direction of the ghost, but more to himself than anything.

'Never going to quit, are they?'

"I'm afraid the future isn't my venue. You might try asking my sister."

Though she's enigmatic, that one.

"I'm more concerned about whether you're going to quit."

The Ghost looks over at him.

"Did you wish to move on?"

'Quit...what?'

The only thing he can quit is...life.

His face is neutral though, hopefully giving no indication of whether he's considered it, or not.

"Quit whatever, man."

The Ghost lifts a shoulder in a shrug.

"Life, caffeine, cigarettes. Christmas. Quit on yourself."

"Would that really be better?"

His arms go protectively across his midriff, and he looks at the floor.

'It wouldn't necessarily be quitting on myself.'

Because the Other Guy is not him. He has to believe it.

"You'd just go along for the ride?"

The Ghost raises an eyebrow at him.

"You really think that excuse flies?"

'Excuse?'

Bruce glances at her, then away.

'The only excuses I worry about are the ones I have to come up with when people get hurt. I can't come up with one for why Betty ended up in hospital, or for the people that have died. Or for what made me so sure I was right, I tested it on myself in the first place.'

He stops abruptly. What does any of it matter?

'I'd like to go now.'

The Ghost graciously inclines her head.

"At your will, sir," she says.

She begins to walk. Whether their steps will lead them on to something new, or back to the place where she found him, should be apparent very soon.

He's relieved to find himself back in Milliways. He has more questions than he knows what to do with, but they're questions for SHIELD, and Stark, and himself. Cryptic is no use to him.

'I don't suppose there's any chance I can skip the third course?'

The future isn't something he really wants to look at right now.

"Now, honey. You'll hurt her feelings talking like that."

Only probably not. Her sister's not all that sensitive to things like that.

None of them are, really. They're not especially built for it.

"Best eat your cookies though," she adds, favoring him with a kindly smile. "While you've got a minute."

Sugar can only help.

And in half of the time it takes to blink, she's gone.

He does not eat the cookies. He does drink the milk, more for something to do than anything else.

And he uses that minute to start making notes on some paper he keeps by the bed. Things he needs to remember, stuff he needs to ask people should the opportunity arise while he's in the bar.

Maybe, also, it helps distract him from what's coming. Because he has a vague dread about this bit. With what's happened to him in recent years, he dare not hope that it'll be good.

She is wearing a robe, the hood deep and obscuring all but a flash of eye, bright and piercing.

The hand she holds out is fine-boned and delicate, and also, at this precise moment, peremptory.

They have places to be.

Edited 2012-11-12 14:00 (UTC)

That hood is...not reassuring. But it kind of helps that he knows the story. At least he was expecting something like this.

He checks the monitor on his wrist. It held steady in the 130's during the last encounter, but the numbers are already starting to creep up.

'OK.'

He stands up, not without trepidation.

'Sooner we go, sooner it's over, right?'

Or the sooner he gets to spend time looking at a Hell of his own making.

Christmas Yet to Come wraps ice-cold fingers around Bruce's wrist and, with a gentle tug, leads him off into shadow and fog.

He looks over to the thing as they walk, but there's virtually nothing to see. And he can tell there's no point trying to make conversation.

So he walks, and waits, and tries not to hear the beep of the monitor as his heart-rate rises.

The fog clears, and they're standing in front of a small house. Nothing more than a hut, really. He turns to see what else is there - but there isn't anything. The place stands at the base of a mountain, on the edge of a plain, and there isn't another habitation within sight.

And there's a lot of space left empty. From the vegetation, and the steppes, he'd guess this was China, or somewhere similar. Not America, not Canada. Not Europe.

He swallows hard. The sky is low with cloud, and dusk is well under way. There isn't a sound. His hands fold over each other, and tighten.

'Nothing to see, huh? We could go?'

There's a light in the window, though. And he really, really, doesn't want to go and look.

The ghost's hand tightens around Bruce's wrist, ice-cold grip growing ever more frigid --

And then they are standing right next to the lighted window, close enough to see inside.

The movement - if they even moved - feels like a soft blast of cold air against his face. He closes his eyes against it, and doesn't open them again once it's gone.

He has a really bad feeling about this. There definitely isn't much Christmas cheer around here. No family, no friends, no...people at all.

But they're not going anywhere, are they? Not until he faces it. He takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that this isn't real. He's in Milliways, probably still asleep. This doesn't feel like a dream, but it doesn't make it reality.

He opens his eyes.

He's looking into a tiny living room. It might have been average-sized once, but the far wall has a bed pushed up against it which takes up most of the room.

He stares for a moment, then turns his back.

'I don't want to see this.'

He knows it's pointless. But the weight in his chest is heavy enough to force the automatic reaction.

The ghost drops his hand, bone-dry fingers lifting to grip his chin, inexorably turning his face toward the gaping emptiness of the hut's now-open door.

She does not let go.

The only sound is the beeping at his wrist. 140...150...

...160, and she's not letting go. He tries to pull away, but there's no give in that grip.

170.

'All right! All right.'

He puts his hands up. The alternative isn't something he wants to contemplate. So he walks to the door, and waits there, looking at the ground until the numbers start to go backwards. And, eventually, there's no other way to stall.

Inside, there are stairs made of wood, and the dust on them is thick, and untouched. The tiny kitchen to the right has a single unwashed plate and cup sitting in the sink. It's warm because of a small wood fire, but the figure in the bed must have a problem with the cold, because he's buried under a mountain of sheepskin blankets. Or maybe it's his age. Bruce can't see much of his face, but the hair is pure silver, and there's plenty of scalp shining underneath. If he listens hard, he can hear quiet breathing, and the hill of sheepskin moves in time.

He tells himself it's not a surprise. How could this be a surprise? But it still hurts, like a shard of jagged glass through the heart. He sucks in a breath, as if in encouragement, and looks around.

Everything seems to be made of wood. It gives the place a hue of brown, and gold where the flames reflect off the surface. The table is varnished on top, but not on the legs - did he get bored, or just too tired? The wooden floors are sanded in the middle of the room, but not the edges. There aren't any pictures on display, though there's a thick book that might be a photograph album on the bookcase. The one splash of colour in the room is stuck between the 'case and the wall, next to what looks like a bow. He frowns, and wanders over.

The bow is broken. The colour comes from something round, red and blue and shiny under the layer of dust. Behind it on the floor, right back in the corner, is a helmet. Red and gold, black holes for eyes.

Bruce takes a couple of steps backwards at once.

'How far in the future is this?'

It's automatic to ask the person - thing - that might have answers, and his brain is now moving too fast to care whether it answers or not.