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Bruce wakes, afterwards, in a cornfield. For one baffling, mind-fuck of a moment, he wonders if this is the afterlife and if it's possible that it looks like Paraná. But then he flexes his fingers, feels the soft, dire echo of another's hands, the muted strain of another's shoulders, and he knows that the bullet didn't do its job. He's naked, and he's hurting, and he's still alive.
He'd always imagined that if he tried to take his life it would be out of hatred – for himself or the other guy – or maybe despair. But the idea, when it came, was quiet and unexpected, the gentle turn of a key in a lock. It was exhaustion that made an unanswerable claim, that dulled any fear, that transformed the prospect of violence into a desperate gift. That he'd leave behind people he loved didn't matter. On the other side of the line he'd crossed, the knowledge felt immaterial, a thousand miles removed from the circumstances in which he lived. His life stretched before him, a hundred days, a thousand more in which he could never quite trust he'd ride the current of his anger without it overwhelming him, without it making him a danger, without the army breaking down his door.
He lies now in the field, warm dirt beneath his back, cradled by the space carved by the other guy's body, corn plants broken and bent to expose the sky. His fingers graze over his skull, skim the unbroken bone that he'd tried to shatter, and he wonders at the twist of electricity, the wild dance of cells that summoned anger quickly enough to break a bullet's path. He lets his head thud back against the earth and closes his eyes against the sun, tries to ignore the breeze and the birdsong and the knowledge that he has to get up and make new decisions, has to find a place to go, to live.
_____
The story tumbles out in a half-dozen words – believe me, I tried – on a helicarrier, in a room full of people he barely knows. That he's under the influence of a scepter glowing with reflected power explains a lot; that the others don't condemn him is the bigger surprise.
When he comes to again it's in the rubble of a disused warehouse, the memory of Natasha's fear a terrible truth seen through someone else's eyes. There's concrete and brick and rebar beneath him, but he isn't bloodied and his bones are whole. There's one guard on duty, sentinel against shadows from the factory's dreams, and he opines that Bruce has a condition, and throws him some pants, and he shares his sandwich, and he isn't afraid.
"You . . . saw, right?" Bruce asks, because Betty's the only one who's ever stood her ground before.
"Son, I've seen rats in here I'd swear were planning on murdering me cold, taking my gun, and stealing my truck," Bob offers. "Green – " he waves a hand "—whatevers got no claim on my fears."
Bruce laughs, and the sound is rusty but lightens the space inside his body where the heaviness of waiting usually rests.
_____
It takes time to find them, to steal a bike, to dodge the cops and the bankers, the schoolkids, the tourists, to follow where the Chitauri lead. The city's slowly, violently fraying. There's rubble in his path, but he finds his team, and they're glad to see him. Natasha doesn't look at him like he'll break or splinter or swell and smash. Another key snicks in another lock.
He chooses his anger, pulls it up from the places he's stowed it, shedding the resignation that's dogged him for so long. It races through his veins, rushes out to meet danger – it sings, he realizes, listening now. And then he's small, and the Hulk is large, and his instincts shift away from subtlety and grace, but there's something beautiful in the arc of his fist, seen from this distance, in the press of air as the other guy leaps, in the cathartic boil of his fuck-you yell.
They fight, and he hits, and he moves with purpose, striking at everything the Chitauri represent. He mangles the hatred and ill-will they carry, twists in the air to make music out of death.
_____
The vinyl seat of Bruce's chair is cracked. He sits in his second-hand clothes, dust in his hair, grit on his skin, and he eats. They all eat – lamb and chicken, tabbouleh, fattoush – and they don't say a word because there's nothing to be said, the food is delicious, and they saved the world, and they're something like friends.
The agents come, as he supposes the agents always will, and he climbs into the back of an SUV with Tony close behind. Manhattan's alive with the joy of reprieve, but they're quiet despite the noise, despite the questions unasked that are buzzing like flies.
"I was serious," Tony says eventually. "About the top ten floors."
"They still there?" Bruce asks.
Tony twists to look out of the van's rear window. "Still there," he says cheerfully. "I mean really, you'd have a blast, and I'd love to see what you can do with the prototype for – which is getting ahead of myself, but it's been a long time since – point being, you'd have a good time and I'd – " Tony pauses, smiles ruefully. "I know a little bit about self-destruction."
Bruce nods. "A little bit."
"A little. I don't recommend vodka, repressed fear, and a Mark IV suit in pretty much any combination."
Bruce stares at his hands, at his broken nails, and he tugs on a thread that's hanging from his cuff. It unravels three, four, five, six stitches, then holds. "Top ten floors," he says, considering trust and possibility. "I'd like that," he says, and he means it, and he's glad.