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“Are you sure we need to be here?”
Bruce hoped he didn’t sound too despondent. He didn’t have much hope about his success in that endeavour though, as he’d often been told he was dreadfully bad at hiding his emotions. It wasn't that he was disappointed to be in this pumpkin field in preparation for Halloween per see. He’d never been in a pumpkin field before and thus didn’t have anything to be disappointed about anyways, but…
Brock turned back to him with a look Bruce couldn't decipher, blinded as he was by the light of the torch the other was carrying. "I brought you here for an Authentic Halloween Pumpkin Carving Experience," the other said, voice so full of emotion that Bruce couldn't help but straighten up. Bruce didn’t exactly know which emotion it was, only able to discern Brock’s conviction in what he was saying. He could literally hear the capital letters in that sentence underlining the importance of the words.
Unbeknownst to him, that emotion was called false confidence, and Brock Rumlow had long since become an expert at it.
The glare of the flashlight became stronger and Bruce winced away. "Do you want to have an Authentic Halloween Pumpkin Carving Experience or not?" Brock repeated, in a low tone that Bruce thought might have been meant to sound threatening.
As it was, Bruce had been all in favour of that pumpkin carving experience initially. It was just that he hadn't quite realised they'd go hunting for a pumpkin in the middle of the night. He'd left the choice of the venue to Brock, by virtue of him being the only who had ever gone pumpkin hunting, and Bruce had been fine with it, truly. It was just... Now that they were there, in the middle of the night, in this seemingly abandoned field…
"I do want that... Pumpkin Carving Experience," he said, trying to inject some cheer in his voice. He grimaced as he failed, and Brock's face was dubious now, so Bruce hastened to explain himself. "It's just-" He gestured to the darkness around them, echoing with an ominous silence. "Are we even allowed to be here?"
This was adamantly not going the way Brock Rumlow expected.
"Of course we are," Brock said. You know, like a liar. God only knows who he was trying to convince, but neither he nor Bruce seemed to believe him, so he hurried on in an effort to make them both forget the question. "You need to carve the pumpkin in the field for it to be worth anything, you know. It's not a challenge to carry a whole pumpkin back home. The point is to carve it perfectly in the field, then manage to carry it back without destroying your work on the way."
Bruce nodded in what could either be agreement in confusion. "Oh, I see," said Bruce, who had never ever done anything Halloween and thus had no frame of reference for any of it. Brock seemed so certain however, so he thought surely the other man must know what he was talking about.
Here was the thing. Brock Rumlow had no idea what he was talking about. As a military kid whose parents traveled often, he mostly had second-hand knowledge of Halloween traditions, and though he'd seen plenty of carved pumpkins (mostly on TV), he certainly had never carved one of them himself, let alone picked one up from a field.
Here was another thing. Brock Rumlow knew for a fact they were adamantly not allowed to be in this pumpkin field. He'd seen the several signs forbidding entrance on their way there, but he'd had the foresight to take Bruce's glasses off in the car with the excuse of making their destination a surprise. So long as they didn't make too much noise (and even then), they shouldn't alert the owner and would probably be left alone. Hopefully.
Still. When in doubt, deflect deflect deflect!
“So! These pumpkins aren’t going to carve themselves. Come here and I’ll show you how it’s done,” he said, taking out two of his knives, and handing one over to Bruce. Kids did this for Halloween all the time so surely Bruce and Brock could manage it as well.
Carving a pumpkin was actually a quite relaxing activity, Bruce decided after a few minutes of trying. He'd never been very comfortable with knives, especially since the ones Brock had brought seemed to be meant for cutting up people, not vegetables. Not that he was entirely certain what knives intened for people looked like, but these had a sharp serrated edge that looked far more dangerous than ordinary kitchen implements.
He shook his head and focused on the rictus of a grin he'd been painstakingly carving on his pumpkin for the last few minutes. What was he thinking, of course Brock's knives hadn't been used on people, what kind of scenarios was he making up in his head.
Unbeknownst to Bruce, Brock's knives had in fact been used on people, and rather extensively at that. Had Bruce known about that, he would probably have given Brock the benefit of the doubt and assumed his friend didn’t know about it.
He would have been wrong.
Brock was very aware of who this knife had been used on, as it was Brock’s favourite knife and the fact that he had given it to Bruce should have given him some inkling as to the depth of the trust between them.
As it was, Bruce didn’t know any of that and was simply surprised at the ease with which the knife carved into the pumpkin, a jagged grin slowly taking shape. The activity was almost meditative in a way. With the force of habit, Bruce let his breathing fall into an even rhythm, letting his hand move automatically. The night was quiet. Brock’s quiet fidgeting was the only thing breaking it aside from the usual sounds of nature, and Bruce really hadn’t expected to feel so peaceful on what Brock had dubbed an iconic Halloween experience.
He raised his head to tell Brock just that when his pumpkin suddenly burst right in front of his eyes.
Bruce froze for a moment as his heart suddenly stuttered to a stop. When it started beating again, Bruce felt numb even though his heart was threatening to beat out of his chest. Slowly regaining the use of his limbs, Bruce carefully raised his gaze, keeping his breathing steady.
It wasn’t a projectile, he realised as his eyes slid over the carcass of his pumpkin to land on the furry cylindrical shape protruding out of it. It didn’t seem to stop though. The long shape gave way to thick corded muscle, and didn’t solely seem to stretch in height, but also in length. Bruce’s flashlight had fallen to the ground, and he numbly groped for it until he grasped it again.
He clutched it in his hands, holding it with a death grip as he pondered what to do. He didn’t know whether he wanted to illuminate the shape after all. There were a thousand things it could be, but there were also a thousand things Bruce hadn’t considered, each more terrifying than the last. He wasn’t sure whether the confirmation would be worth the inevitable panic that would follow.
He began backing off slowly, so very slowly that he would barely believe he was moving if he wasn't the one doing the motions himself. The thing didn't move with him, but he felt observed nonetheless.
The scrutiny made him freeze, and he finally gathered the courage to look up. And kept looking up, up, up.
"No one told me there were fucking moose in this place," Bruce heard Brock curse under his breath next to him.
Bruce didn't answer, too busy staring at the eyes of the elk in front of him. Wasn't staring in the eyes a sign of aggression for most animals? a distant area of his brain wondered. Fortunately, the rest of his body was more proactive, keeping him scooting back, until Brock’s shout grabbed the animal’s attention.
“Hey asshole, pick on a guy your own size!”
Now, it was important to note that due to being a human of reasonable height, Brock Rumlow in no way shape or form approached anything close to being equal to the moose in size. Anyone could have told him that. Bruce could have told him that, but he was rather distracted by the way the moose was moving instead.
The moose seemed to be moving hesitantly, or at least not as surely as Bruce thought an animal of that size should be. It swayed as it stepped forward and back, head moving left and right like it was trying to listen on something. Bruce had never seen a moose, but he was able to observe and all this led him to one conclusion.
That animal was adamantly not sober. Now, it must be said that for all that Bruce had a very close up view on drunk behaviour (and even more on belligerently drunk behaviour), all of that experience had been obtained through observation of human drunk behaviour. He wasn’t sure from where he found the confidence to affirm that the moose was drunk, considering that a) this was his first time encountering a moose ever, and b) he'd never encountered an intoxicated animal before. However, confident he was, and thus intoxicated this moose shall be.
Brock wasn't intoxicated, which should have pushed the battle to his advantage. However, Bruce knew enough about animals in general to know there was only one way this could end.
"Brock, I don't think you should-"
But it was too late.
Bruce couldn't have told exactly in what order the next sequence of events happened. There was a flash of a knife, a blur, something ramming into him and then he knew no more.
When Bruce came to, it was with the usual thrumming heartbeat that told him there had been an appearance from his alter ego. Adrenaline flooded his veins, and the possibilities of what could have happened immediately flooded his brain. Had he hurt Brock? Had he hurt the moose? Had he hurt something else that had approached while he was out of it?
Clenching his hand anxiously, Bruce felt something soft between his fingers and turned his head to see what it was. He didn’t know how he’d missed it, but there the moose was, still and docile as could be. It was… alive? Surprisingly enough? Bruce didn’t even know Hulk could be delicate enough to pet rather than destroy.
“Turns out your other half’s an artist Bruce, who knew?”
Bruce startled, turning to the other side to see Brock looking at him with a curious expression on his face. That… wasn’t the reaction he expected from a first meeting with the Hulk, but the relief he felt at the tangible proof that Brock was alive was undeniable. He smiled, and then the words registered.
“What do you mean an artist?” Of all the descriptors one could think to apply to the Hulk “artist” was quite far down the list. Destroyer, certainly. Weapon of mass destruction, maybe. But artist? “Really?” Bruce said incredulously.
Brock gestured to something behind Bruce, and Bruce turned with some sort of anticipation pulling at his core.
Orange. Orange was all he could see, and then he looked up. And up. And up. “What the hell?”
There were pumpkins. There were many pumpkins, stacked over one another. Some of them had been broken or twisted to make for more shapes, while others seemed to have symbols and shapes scratched into them.
It was artsy, by some definition of the word. It was also something Bruce had never imagined the Hulk being capable of. All he could do was stare in awe at the creation.
“So.” Brock’s was far too close to his ear and Bruce jolted away. “What do you think of your Authentic Halloween Pumpkin Carving Experience?”
Bruce looked back at the sculpture, backing off slightly to be able to get all of it within the light of his flashlight. “I’m not sure it was authentic,” he began drily. “And I don’t know if you expect us to get this back home, but it certainly was an experience.”
And it was one Bruce would never forget.