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I WAS MADE TO HIT IN AMERICAAAA
He should know not to go out at night by himself. Not because he's in any danger - Captain America in New York City on a less-than-average day doesn't have much to worry about. But because, almost without exception, he gets lost. Steve tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and squints up at the buildings around him, ignoring the college student who staggers by, stops to stare at him, and bursts out laughing before moving on.
He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.
Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.
A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.
Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.
Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.
He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.
Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"
He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.
Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.
A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.
Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.
Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.
He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.
Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"
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Stopping himself from babbling, Bruce grimaces at himself. The Captain wouldn't care what he was doing, for one because it didn't really matter and for another, didn't he say he was lost? Right.
"Okay, uh. Well, if you can see any kind of street signs? I mean, I don't really know New York all that well myself, but if I can get a starting point, I can probably figure out a way to get you back to the house." He's already jumping from the bed and jogging the few steps over to the desktop computer S.H.I.E.L.D. was nice enough to outfit him with down in his cozy little bunker here, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he typed. "Unless you'd- I'm just assuming you want to get back here," he says, trying not to sound too sarcastic or bitter there. It's not the Captain's fault after all. "If you're trying to go somewhere else and need directions to there, I can do that too. So. Whichever you need. Or want. ...Er."
He's practically choking on his knees now - the foot in his mouth's probably on its way through his intestine at this point.
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He squints up at the nearest street sign and frowns, unable to make out any of the letters. They're spray-painted over and peeling off. With a sigh, he keeps walking. "I haven't seen any that I recognize."
He's silent for a moment after Bruce stops talking, the squeeze of guilt doubly intense. He's not sure what to say. Dr. Banner didn't choose this life. He didn't know what he was walking into, from the files Steve has read and the stories he's been told. He was given a lie and forced to pay for it, handed a bastardization of Dr. Ersken's work and turned into a lab rat and a prisoner.
"The mansion," Steve says, subdued. "I appreciate it."
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Humming in concentration and firing up Google Maps, he doesn't much notice Steve's tone at first. "Uh, hmm. Well. If you keep going until, like. You see some kind of intersection or any kind of address, then I can just use the computer and get you a way back." He chews on the inside of his cheek, he shrugs with his free shoulder. "Or I c- There's probably someone still up, uh, an agent. They probably have the tech to go and triangulate off the cell phone or the communicator, whichever you have on you and then send one of their SUVs. If you really want to get back now, that's probably the fastest way."
It's only about then that he realizes that oh, yeah, Steve asked him something else didn't he? Right. "Oh, that's. No, it's nothing. I'm kind of a night owl anyway, or at least. Some of the time. Ju- It's not important, obviously. Nothing that can't wait a bit longer." He's already waited on an answer for this mess for the better part of a decade now - a small postponement can be made to talk with Captain America.
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He hasn't had as much chance to talk to Bruce as he'd like. The man keeps himself separate from the rest of the Avengers most of the time, not that Steve can blame him. "I'd as soon not bother anyone to come and get me. Wander around enough and I'm bound to get familiar with things again, right?" He injects good cheer into his tone, reminding himself that being a stranger to the city he was born in isn't all bad. He gets to discover the place, like so many come here to do. There's something worthwhile in that.
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Rubbing the back of his neck (and only offhandedly noticing the crick that's developed there), Bruce isn't sure what else to say in the face of that 'again'. There's nothing a person can say to fix what Steve's gone through, and apology's just ring hollo- "Sorry."
...Darn it, he was just thinking how lame that would sound, why did he go and do that. Way to go, Banner. Great job.
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Bruce leans back in his chair, more than a little surprised that his absence has been noticed at all, and by the captain of all people.. "It's not really private, not th-" Not that his privacy's much of an issue these days - surveillance details and tranq guns and just being here in the first place put a nix on that. Especially on top of Stark being-- Well. Himself. "It's just. Time-consuming stuff, so between that and sleeping things off after... Whenever It's needed just kind of, uh. Puts me out for a while." A small, self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips and a quiet huff of not-laughter escapes him. "Besides, I've, you know. Not that good at the whole, er. People. Thing. Never have been. So."
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"Excuse me for one second," he says, and braces himself. His face brightens and he vaults one-handed over the top of the brick fence around the park. When he comes down on the other side he leaves a broken dent in the concrete, the impact jolting up his legs.
...Oops.
"Sorry about that," Steve says to the phone. He wanders down the path alongside the wall, breathing in the mix of city and fresh dirt and growing plants. "I was kind of the same way. I only really- well, there weren't many people I was close to before the War."
The War. It'll always be capitalized in his mind. The War, the whole world on both sides united in chaos, no matter what they fought for or for whom.
"The Commandos weren't exactly the kind to let you stay a wallflower." He grins at that, remembering the bar in London where the barmen started calling them all the Guzzling Gunmen.
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He calms down just a touch when there's no immediate yelling or screaming or more crashing or any kind of response that would indicate something's horribly wrong.
As for everything else... Well. Bruce doesn't much comment on that because he can't really imagine it as true. Not that Steve lies, oh god, no, Bruce doesn't think he even can, but. It's kind of hard to believe that Steve Rogers, big and blond and blue-eyed and just having that ineffable quality that makes Captain America larger than life in his mind as on the same level as himself. It's like all-American dream team jock versus pimply A/V treasurer who plays D&D on the weekends.
...Not that Bruce was a Dungeons and Dragons guy. You needed other players for that sort of thing.
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He beams at a pair of mounted police, who straighten and salute as he walks by. It's weird, still is and always has been, but it gives him a burst of pride in this place and its people and makes him think yes, this is good, it's right, it's where he should be. Different, maybe, but still his country and his home. "Clint is picking this week, so it'll probably have a lot of things exploding. ...Kind of like a day at the office I guess."
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His mouth puckers into a frown at the mention of Stark and he almost says what he really thinks the multibillionaire can stick that philosophy. But he doesn't because that's not what he does so it's just pushed down in an attempt to ignore that kind of negativity. A calming breath and he's fine. Right. Raking a hand through his hair, he shrugs again.
"Uh, actually, t-to be perfectly honest, I. Not really the biggest fan of, er, explosions or things like that. It's j-" He stills the trembling in his hand as he puts the computer back into hibernation and sits on the bed. It's hard to explain that he'd rather not ruin anyone's evening by having a flashback and spend the whole night shivering in a post-traumatic ball of stress. "I don't react well." A beat passes. "Uh, thank you for offering though."
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He can also see the mansion between the trees.
"You know there's no dishonor in that, right?" He frames it as a question, but it comes out implacable. No room for argument; just the truth. "There's nothing to be ashamed of, not liking to fight. Not liking what happens when you do." He smiles, faintly, remembering Dr. Erskine's first test. "I never wanted to kill anyone. I live with it. I have to. But not wanting to fight doesn't make you less of a hero."
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"I'm no hero. I'm." He can't really finish that since these days he's not sure what he is anymore, but. He knows what he's not. 'Hero' is at the very top of that list. "I don't know, but. Definitely not that."
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He nods to the SHIELD agents guarding the door to the high-rise penthouse Stark built for them. They look at each other and hold the doors open until he's inside. Steve stops before he gets to the stairs, pretty sure he's going to have that problem where he loses the connection if he goes much farther. "I know you didn't get the same choices the others did, but..."
He shrugs, not able to wrap words around what he's trying to say. "You're an Avenger."
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Never mind if he was really as smart as all that he wouldn't be here in the first place. He'd have seen something was wrong before it was all blown to pieces, or he'd have figured out a cure by now.
Shaking his head and flopping against his pillow, Bruce stops himself from heading down that road again. It's one his feet know too well after all these years, and he doesn't need to revisit the scenery just yet. "What the team gets from me, that's. My being a kind of timeshare doesn't. It doesn't work that way."
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"Come downstairs?" he echoes in confusion. "Like. Down here downstairs?" There's a wince at how stupid that sounds as he hauls himself back into a sitting position. "Uh. Sure thing, I mean. If you wanted to. It's not l- You can go wherever you want, you don't really need my permission to."
...If Captain America is coming to his room, it would probably be a good idea to tidy up some.
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Steve tries for joking and isn't sure if it works. He's still not comfortable enough with anyone here to relax the way he could around Peggy, Bucky, the Commandos, Howard - even Colonel Philips. To them, he was at least half Steve Rogers. To the Avengers and SHIELD, he's Captain America, Emblematic Hero, around the clock. Even the way they say Cap is different somehow. "I understand if you'd rather get caught up with what you were doing."
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If he sounds harried, Steve, it's most likely because he is darting around his room in a mad attempt to stack up the various reports and texts and studies littering the place.
"The catching up is slow going anyway, I've missed more than a few things what w-" There's a superbly awkward silence then, followed by a resounding smack that Bruce wouldn't be surprised if it made the house shake as his palm connects with his forehead. "...Sorry."
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"It's all right," he says, automatically, sympathetically. It's not like slips like that don't happen almost every day. They still feel like knives corkscrewed into his chest, but people miss things. They talk about it. Just most of them don't miss seventy years all at once. He clears his throat silently and reaches the bottom of the stairs, where they open out again into a carpeted alcove and a narrow hall made of steel-reinforced concrete supposedly wired with several thousand volts behind the walls, just in case Hulk decides to try smashing its way out of the building.
Guilt and sorrow at the misuse of Erskine's work settle comfortably into the empty spot left by the reminder of Steve's own loss. "Well. I guess I should hang up, since I'm here."
It's really, really weird to talk to someone who's on the other side of a door just a short distance away with a tiny little phone that has no wires. Steve hooks a smile at nothing and makes his way to the end of the hall, still not putting the phone away. He doesn't like hanging up first.
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"Yeah, y- You're here already? Uh. Okay." He opens the door, phone still at his ear as he pokes his head out. Waving a greeting, he's almost forgotten the cell's there until it slips and falls. There's a panicked scramble to try and catch it before it hits the floor, with three near-misses before he finally gets a good hold of it. "Sorry," he apologizes again before ducking back into the room to make a way for Cap to come in, though whether he's saying it for the glorious display of reflexes just now or the faux pas he made moments ago is as up in the air as the phone was.
It's a small suite of rooms set up for him down here - a bedroom-slash-study in front, a small kitchenette separated by an open half-counter, and a door in the rear for the bathroom. It's all done in calm, medium colors - browns and yellows and grays, with a definite absence of green all around.
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"Oh, thanks, but. It's less that than... Well, I don't know New York all that well, and it's been a while since being in a city this big, and." It's slightly easier to forget that he's not stuck here when he doesn't have to wait on the S.O.P. escort of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents when he wants to go take a walk. "Just easier to stay in here, for everybody."
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"Well, if you're going to stay in. It's a nice place to do it." He smiles again, trying to be inviting and get the nervous man to calm down. "I could try showing you around some time. ...In Brooklyn at least. The orphanage where Bucky and I grew up is still there - they made it into a community center in the sixties, I guess."
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But after the moment of quiet fan appreciation, the reality sets back in. A frown flickers across his face before the smile returns, tired and the slightest bit forced. "No, that's. It's a really nice offer, and I appreciate it, I do, but. There's forms, and there's. Me going out at all means a whole to-do, and y-" His ears turn red and his eyes drop down to the carpet while his shoulders go up in a shrug. "You probably get enough attention walking around without a goon squad doing guard duty on me."
The fanboy in him is entirely bemoaning the loss of an opportunity that if he were twelve would have made him the envy of the Captain America Club.
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