Entry tags:
[mailbox]
Dr. Bruce Banner
Bramford Building, #7
City of Darrow
Bramford Building, #7
City of Darrow
Entry tags:
[voicemail]
You've reached the voicemail of Dr. Bruce Banner. I'm unavailable right now, but if you leave a message with the time you called and your number, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.
*beep*
[Muse can be reached here for all matters ranging from science to property damage the Other Guy may be responsible for. :P]
*beep*
[Muse can be reached here for all matters ranging from science to property damage the Other Guy may be responsible for. :P]
a place like this (rp for iwillpersuadeyou)
They found him...she found him...in a little village just outside of Uijeongbu.
She wasn't there, but he knew, the moment he saw the strike team that arrived when the Hydra operatives made their presence known. He did his best to keep to himself, to stay out of sight, but the moment he saw SHIELD agents on the scene...
He knew.
The debriefing took place at the Avengers headquarters, but she was still nowhere in sight. He figured that he had it coming, that, but the longer he went without catching a glimpse of Natasha, the more anxious he got. He was, of course, expecting backlash for what he'd done, some kind of response...but the worst part was the simple reality.
She was here. Somewhere, she was here. He could feel it...even the Other Guy could feel it. It was thoroughly unscientific, the notion that some sixth sense or bond was calling to his subconscious across an unknown space...but the more time went by, the tighter he wound, to the point that he was worried about a Code Green.
When he couldn't take it anymore, he went looking. He found plenty: Sam and Rhodey, amiable and welcoming. Wanda, enigmatically smiling and shaking his hand with fragile, dangerous fingers...the Vision, who managed to turn a bow and a small, elegant smile into something that felt like a hug. He even found Steve, who held him up for an hour and a half, insisting they share a cup of coffee (or in Bruce's case, an herbal tea).
Only then did he tell Bruce where Natasha's office and room were in the facility.
Her office was empty, which left him shuffling up to the door of her apartment in the dormitory wing. For a long while, he stood outside, just staring at the blank white surface. Irrationally, he thought about the dress Natasha wore at the party where Ultron was born...blood red martinis and a flirty film noir swatted back and forth between them, something that turned into more, bigger, weightier than he ever expected.
Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Bruce raised his hand...then dropped it.
And finally, knocked on her door.
She wasn't there, but he knew, the moment he saw the strike team that arrived when the Hydra operatives made their presence known. He did his best to keep to himself, to stay out of sight, but the moment he saw SHIELD agents on the scene...
He knew.
The debriefing took place at the Avengers headquarters, but she was still nowhere in sight. He figured that he had it coming, that, but the longer he went without catching a glimpse of Natasha, the more anxious he got. He was, of course, expecting backlash for what he'd done, some kind of response...but the worst part was the simple reality.
She was here. Somewhere, she was here. He could feel it...even the Other Guy could feel it. It was thoroughly unscientific, the notion that some sixth sense or bond was calling to his subconscious across an unknown space...but the more time went by, the tighter he wound, to the point that he was worried about a Code Green.
When he couldn't take it anymore, he went looking. He found plenty: Sam and Rhodey, amiable and welcoming. Wanda, enigmatically smiling and shaking his hand with fragile, dangerous fingers...the Vision, who managed to turn a bow and a small, elegant smile into something that felt like a hug. He even found Steve, who held him up for an hour and a half, insisting they share a cup of coffee (or in Bruce's case, an herbal tea).
Only then did he tell Bruce where Natasha's office and room were in the facility.
Her office was empty, which left him shuffling up to the door of her apartment in the dormitory wing. For a long while, he stood outside, just staring at the blank white surface. Irrationally, he thought about the dress Natasha wore at the party where Ultron was born...blood red martinis and a flirty film noir swatted back and forth between them, something that turned into more, bigger, weightier than he ever expected.
Drawing a deep, shaky breath, Bruce raised his hand...then dropped it.
And finally, knocked on her door.
Entry tags:
all i want is a little conversation...
It had been...quite a while since the Other Guy's return, and they still hadn't talked about it.
Bruce felt incredibly fortunate. While it was awkward, it didn't actually change anything. They still had dinner at his place every single night, he cooked five nights out of seven, and the other two, sometimes three, Kenzi still brought take out. She still let herself in if he was late at the lab, and he still had no idea how she'd gotten a key when he'd never given her one.
The only difference was that he walked her home every night now. She'd ask to leave, just early enough that it wasn't inconvenient rather than sleep on his couch because she stayed too late. When she'd help him in the kitchen, even if helping consisted of no more than sitting on the counter and eating the vegetables he was chopping to cook, there were...moments.
His hand might brush her knee, and he'd remember the way her legs felt wrapped around him. She might be pushing dishes away, and a glimpse at her ass or the way her breasts strained just a little against her latest corset would bring back the alcohol-touched memory of the way her skin tasted. He hated himself not because he kept thinking about the night they spent together, but because he enjoyed thinking about that night when he still didn't know if it even meant anything.
And it was okay if it didn't. He'd have it to treasure...one night when he felt connected to another person again, where he could feel the touch of another human being without fear, where he could let himself feel without turning it into a clinical exercise.
If nothing else, he'd come to realize one thing: while he'd never asked for this, never really opened the door for her to walk in, Kenzi wasn't just his pet thief or his problem child. Kenzi was his friend, she mattered...when he thought about her, no control, no focus on his physiological responses, it brought the same hot, tight swell of emotion that came when he thought about Tony, the only other person in his life who didn't care that he was a walking nuclear explosion and didn't judge him for being afraid.
It was Friday, and Kenzi had texted him in advance that she was bringing the food that night. By the grace of God, she wasn't trying to force him to try that Thai place she'd come to love (their noodles were awful), and at seven thirty on the dot they were sprawled out on the sofa watching a DVD she'd rented on the way to his place with food from a Chinese place a block from his house that made Egg Foo Yung just the way Bruce liked it.
He was halfway through his dinner when he finally got sick of stealing looks at her across the couch and sick to death of trying to read into her occasional explosion of commentary on the lack of realism in the zombies that were part of the movie they were watching. Taking his feet off the coffee table, he sat forward to set his styrofoam container down and grabbed the remote, pausing the DVD. Turning to face Kenzi, he raked a hand back through his hair and finally flashed her a small, almost sad smile.
"Kenzi?...babe, I'm sorry, but we've got to talk about it."
Bruce felt incredibly fortunate. While it was awkward, it didn't actually change anything. They still had dinner at his place every single night, he cooked five nights out of seven, and the other two, sometimes three, Kenzi still brought take out. She still let herself in if he was late at the lab, and he still had no idea how she'd gotten a key when he'd never given her one.
The only difference was that he walked her home every night now. She'd ask to leave, just early enough that it wasn't inconvenient rather than sleep on his couch because she stayed too late. When she'd help him in the kitchen, even if helping consisted of no more than sitting on the counter and eating the vegetables he was chopping to cook, there were...moments.
His hand might brush her knee, and he'd remember the way her legs felt wrapped around him. She might be pushing dishes away, and a glimpse at her ass or the way her breasts strained just a little against her latest corset would bring back the alcohol-touched memory of the way her skin tasted. He hated himself not because he kept thinking about the night they spent together, but because he enjoyed thinking about that night when he still didn't know if it even meant anything.
And it was okay if it didn't. He'd have it to treasure...one night when he felt connected to another person again, where he could feel the touch of another human being without fear, where he could let himself feel without turning it into a clinical exercise.
If nothing else, he'd come to realize one thing: while he'd never asked for this, never really opened the door for her to walk in, Kenzi wasn't just his pet thief or his problem child. Kenzi was his friend, she mattered...when he thought about her, no control, no focus on his physiological responses, it brought the same hot, tight swell of emotion that came when he thought about Tony, the only other person in his life who didn't care that he was a walking nuclear explosion and didn't judge him for being afraid.
It was Friday, and Kenzi had texted him in advance that she was bringing the food that night. By the grace of God, she wasn't trying to force him to try that Thai place she'd come to love (their noodles were awful), and at seven thirty on the dot they were sprawled out on the sofa watching a DVD she'd rented on the way to his place with food from a Chinese place a block from his house that made Egg Foo Yung just the way Bruce liked it.
He was halfway through his dinner when he finally got sick of stealing looks at her across the couch and sick to death of trying to read into her occasional explosion of commentary on the lack of realism in the zombies that were part of the movie they were watching. Taking his feet off the coffee table, he sat forward to set his styrofoam container down and grabbed the remote, pausing the DVD. Turning to face Kenzi, he raked a hand back through his hair and finally flashed her a small, almost sad smile.
"Kenzi?...babe, I'm sorry, but we've got to talk about it."
Entry tags:
June 2, 2014 - and if i swallow anything evil, put your finger down my throat (for Kenzi Malikov)
It was a normal night, like any other. It was his night to cook, Kenzi's night to mooch a free meal (which was every night she didn't bring over takeout), and the only strange thing was that Bruce was attempting a vegetable curry. Kenzi, of course, complained about "the lack of cow," as she put it, and then complained some more when he said it wasn't going to be all that spicy. She did it, of course, in the usual manner: theatrical groaning, long diatribes about her friend Trick back home and his usual spread on La Shoshain, and plenty of gesturing with her big spoon when he had her mixing a sauce while he chopped some squash.
By the time they were done eating and talking, it was late...well after two in the morning. For the last two weeks, there had been a pillow and blanket living on his sofa for her for the handful of nights he had been too tired to help her get home. Once he caught sight of Allison Argent coming home late from work, meekly admitting she'd been mugged, he'd flat out refused to let Kenzi head back to Chelsea Cloisters on her own.
He was exhausted, and the couch waited for her, just as his own bed waited for him...right after they cleaned up the debris left over from dinner.
"Kenz, can you pass me the--"
Bruce was putting away the dishes he'd washed, crouched in front of the base cabinet next to the sink, with his fingers curled around the frame when she slammed the cabinet door shut with her foot.
The force was just the wrong kind of shock: pain exploded through his hand, and he lost his grip on his vitals. A sharp cry of pain rang out as he drew his hand to his chest, dropping flat on his knees as he doubled over.
Adrenaline surged, his heart rate skyrocketed...and he couldn't stop it.
For an agonizing eternity, he knelt there, waiting for him to come screaming through his marrow, exploding out of every cell. He braced for the fight, readied himself to warn Kenzi to run.
It never came.
Nearly five minutes passed before he finally started to relax, uncurling and lifting his head as his body stayed quiet...calmed down, heart rate normalizing, adrenaline fading as he tried to catch his breath.
Lifting his head, he sought out Kenzi's gaze.
He wasn't turning. His hand didn't even hurt that much, now that the initial sting had worn off.
"I don't understand..."
By the time they were done eating and talking, it was late...well after two in the morning. For the last two weeks, there had been a pillow and blanket living on his sofa for her for the handful of nights he had been too tired to help her get home. Once he caught sight of Allison Argent coming home late from work, meekly admitting she'd been mugged, he'd flat out refused to let Kenzi head back to Chelsea Cloisters on her own.
He was exhausted, and the couch waited for her, just as his own bed waited for him...right after they cleaned up the debris left over from dinner.
"Kenz, can you pass me the--"
Bruce was putting away the dishes he'd washed, crouched in front of the base cabinet next to the sink, with his fingers curled around the frame when she slammed the cabinet door shut with her foot.
The force was just the wrong kind of shock: pain exploded through his hand, and he lost his grip on his vitals. A sharp cry of pain rang out as he drew his hand to his chest, dropping flat on his knees as he doubled over.
Adrenaline surged, his heart rate skyrocketed...and he couldn't stop it.
For an agonizing eternity, he knelt there, waiting for him to come screaming through his marrow, exploding out of every cell. He braced for the fight, readied himself to warn Kenzi to run.
It never came.
Nearly five minutes passed before he finally started to relax, uncurling and lifting his head as his body stayed quiet...calmed down, heart rate normalizing, adrenaline fading as he tried to catch his breath.
Lifting his head, he sought out Kenzi's gaze.
He wasn't turning. His hand didn't even hurt that much, now that the initial sting had worn off.
"I don't understand..."
Entry tags:
nobody said it would be easy, nobody gives you guarantees...
He shouldn't have been this nervous. He shouldn't have been this anxious.
Bruce was both anxious and nervous.
It hadn't even been two days yet, but Bruce was trying to get settled. He had an apartment, money, everything he could possibly need to live his life...except for the fact that he hadn't had a life to live in five years, give or take. Walking the streets, getting his mail, buying groceries...none of it was anything he knew how to do anymore.
When he saw a cop car, he still reflexively stopped in his tracks and turned away to keep his face from being seen. When a voice called out too sharply, he still felt his heart rate jump. Hearing his own name was just plain miserable, as was evidenced from a bad encounter that morning with a neighbor he'd just met, a bright-eyed seventeen year old named Allison.
Bruce had been on the run so long, he didn't know what it was to stop.
He was trying to focus on that now, given that there was nothing in the apartment to eat, and he didn't want to live on takeout. It was an experiment, a trial to see if he could establish a routine. Routine was a good way to keep control, and exposure to the aggravations of a semi-normal daily life would be a solid means of maintaining homeostasis: remaining functional without an incident involving the Other Guy.
Step one in his experiment: grocery shopping.
All in all, it was a successful venture. He still needed to see about getting new glasses, but his eyes didn't bother him overly much as he squinted at a few labels, and shot a few dirty looks at the local boy who seemed to be dead set on blocking the juice aisle for as long as he possibly could. He got jostled, held up, complimented on his shirt (something about it resembling one that a guy named Todd Chad wore), and nearly shortchanged at the register. He left the grocery store with four bags, correct change...and came nowhere near pushing his stress limits.
It was the first time Bruce actually had fun grocery shopping since well before the accident...since he'd still been with Betty.
He let the wistful pang of missing her wash over him with a sigh, brought back to himself only as a young man in a hoodie jostled him from behind as he stood just outside the entry of the supermarket. He paused, then glanced to the side...
"Not a bad lift!" he called out to the young man...or rather, a young woman, now identified by the rather stylish high-heeled boots she wore. "But I've been mugged twice and pickpocketed half a dozen times, so I've seen better!"
Turning more fully towards the culprit, still facing away from him, he raised an eyebrow. "Now you gonna give me back my wallet? Or am I gonna have to call the cops?"
Bruce was both anxious and nervous.
It hadn't even been two days yet, but Bruce was trying to get settled. He had an apartment, money, everything he could possibly need to live his life...except for the fact that he hadn't had a life to live in five years, give or take. Walking the streets, getting his mail, buying groceries...none of it was anything he knew how to do anymore.
When he saw a cop car, he still reflexively stopped in his tracks and turned away to keep his face from being seen. When a voice called out too sharply, he still felt his heart rate jump. Hearing his own name was just plain miserable, as was evidenced from a bad encounter that morning with a neighbor he'd just met, a bright-eyed seventeen year old named Allison.
Bruce had been on the run so long, he didn't know what it was to stop.
He was trying to focus on that now, given that there was nothing in the apartment to eat, and he didn't want to live on takeout. It was an experiment, a trial to see if he could establish a routine. Routine was a good way to keep control, and exposure to the aggravations of a semi-normal daily life would be a solid means of maintaining homeostasis: remaining functional without an incident involving the Other Guy.
Step one in his experiment: grocery shopping.
All in all, it was a successful venture. He still needed to see about getting new glasses, but his eyes didn't bother him overly much as he squinted at a few labels, and shot a few dirty looks at the local boy who seemed to be dead set on blocking the juice aisle for as long as he possibly could. He got jostled, held up, complimented on his shirt (something about it resembling one that a guy named Todd Chad wore), and nearly shortchanged at the register. He left the grocery store with four bags, correct change...and came nowhere near pushing his stress limits.
It was the first time Bruce actually had fun grocery shopping since well before the accident...since he'd still been with Betty.
He let the wistful pang of missing her wash over him with a sigh, brought back to himself only as a young man in a hoodie jostled him from behind as he stood just outside the entry of the supermarket. He paused, then glanced to the side...
"Not a bad lift!" he called out to the young man...or rather, a young woman, now identified by the rather stylish high-heeled boots she wore. "But I've been mugged twice and pickpocketed half a dozen times, so I've seen better!"
Turning more fully towards the culprit, still facing away from him, he raised an eyebrow. "Now you gonna give me back my wallet? Or am I gonna have to call the cops?"
Entry tags:
this is why he fights (rp for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iwillpersuadeyou)
"Stop shooting him!"
"What the hell else am I supposed to do?!"
"Not shoot him, that'd be a good start!"
The Hulk barely understood what was happening as Tin Man and Hawk Eye fought with each other. Tin Man was telling him no, stop, don't, he understood that. He liked Tin Man. Tin Man liked him.
Tin Man understood. He always understood.
In truth, none of the other Avengers understood precisely what the hell was going on, after they had beaten back yet another incursion of both frost giants and Chiqtauri, attacking in tandem. The streets were a mess, everyone seemed to be okay...then they had all realized the last time anyone saw Natasha, she'd been taking on a squad with Hawkeye and the Hulk.
The group found her in a pile of rubble, unconscious and clearly out cold, and that's where things had stopped, because the Hulk was on her in an instant. Clint started shooting, to no avail, and it took all Tony's fast talking to stop him from doing worse as the green behemoth stood over Natasha's prone form, bellowing and beating his chest, ready to tear apart the first person that dared to try and get past him.
"Just give him some breathing room, huh?" Tony barked from behind his helmet, his voice hissing through the comms. "Maybe...I dunno, just see what he does. He's not hurting her."
"But she could be injured." Steve pointed out.
The Hulk tuned them all out, unaware that Tony was watching him closely as he turned his back and crouched low, fists resting on the ground as he peered closely at the Red Lady, still laying still and not moving in a way that made him angrier than he already was.
With a low, questioning growl, the Hulk reached out with one massive finger and gently nudged her shoulder. When that didn't seem to help, he growled at her.
That didn't work, so he finally took one hand and, very very carefully rolled her over so he could see her face. He knew the Other could help her, but he couldn't protect her. That meant he had to stay.
...but he wanted to help her. The Hulk just didn't know how.
"What the hell else am I supposed to do?!"
"Not shoot him, that'd be a good start!"
The Hulk barely understood what was happening as Tin Man and Hawk Eye fought with each other. Tin Man was telling him no, stop, don't, he understood that. He liked Tin Man. Tin Man liked him.
Tin Man understood. He always understood.
In truth, none of the other Avengers understood precisely what the hell was going on, after they had beaten back yet another incursion of both frost giants and Chiqtauri, attacking in tandem. The streets were a mess, everyone seemed to be okay...then they had all realized the last time anyone saw Natasha, she'd been taking on a squad with Hawkeye and the Hulk.
The group found her in a pile of rubble, unconscious and clearly out cold, and that's where things had stopped, because the Hulk was on her in an instant. Clint started shooting, to no avail, and it took all Tony's fast talking to stop him from doing worse as the green behemoth stood over Natasha's prone form, bellowing and beating his chest, ready to tear apart the first person that dared to try and get past him.
"Just give him some breathing room, huh?" Tony barked from behind his helmet, his voice hissing through the comms. "Maybe...I dunno, just see what he does. He's not hurting her."
"But she could be injured." Steve pointed out.
The Hulk tuned them all out, unaware that Tony was watching him closely as he turned his back and crouched low, fists resting on the ground as he peered closely at the Red Lady, still laying still and not moving in a way that made him angrier than he already was.
With a low, questioning growl, the Hulk reached out with one massive finger and gently nudged her shoulder. When that didn't seem to help, he growled at her.
That didn't work, so he finally took one hand and, very very carefully rolled her over so he could see her face. He knew the Other could help her, but he couldn't protect her. That meant he had to stay.
...but he wanted to help her. The Hulk just didn't know how.