thecapitol | [Closed] Here today, forgot tomorrow

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[Closed] Here today, forgot tomorrow

WHO| Albert and Steve, Albert and Bruce
WHAT| Albert and Steve converse in a blind spot about the Arenas and later Albert approaches Bruce about "the Other Guy"
WHEN| Post Arena, pre-crowning
WHERE| A blind spot, District 3
WARNINGS| Talk of death, as par for the norm.

Steve Rogers

Meaning to talk to someone doesn't necessarily mean you'll get the chance to do so, especially not here with death matches hanging over their heads. Albert had wanted to pull Steve aside since the children's arena and several conversations he'd had with several people, but there simply hadn't been the chance until now, an entire Arena come and gone later. But with Carlos gone, possibly Thor, Marius, and Punchy too and Albert with an inkling of where they've potentially gone, what he wants to discuss is more pertinent than ever.

Which is why he sends his friend a text in the late evening - perfect time for more clandestine discussions considering the general Capitol citizenry is off basking in their drunken revelry and whining over when the next Game will start - to meet him under the blue awning of the barber's shop a little ways down across from the Tribute tower 'for a smoke'. He's very pointed about the blue awning; not the red or white ones that line the front, but specifically the blue. That's where the cameras and microphones are turned away, after all.

A few minutes before the time he'd specified has Albert waiting there, leaning against the wall in a heavy jacket that frankly looks like a carpet to Albert, but it's warm and considering the snow starting to slowly pile on the awning above, he'll take it. He lights a cigarette, takes a long inhale, and waits.

Bruce Banner

Curfew may have been lifted but it occurs to Albert that he hasn't seen Bruce since the Arena. It's not really a surprising revelation, considering. When Bruce had mentioned a 'condition', Albert had never dreamed it really meant turning into a giant green vehicle of rage and destruction. In another life, he might have made some comment about everyone feeling that way sometimes and Bruce being the mirror up to nature, but in the context of his own head being bashed in by the Hulk, it doesn't seem appropriate.

It's now been a few weeks though and he feels he has to say something to Bruce, some form of reassurance that he bears the man no ill will, that he thinks of him no differently. He doesn't, though there is some deep animal instinct of fear as an undercurrent now, but Albert is a rational human being and while fear of the Hulk may be a healthy thing should he ever make a reappearance, fear of Bruce is something the German will not allow room for. Moreover, that fear comes partially from lack of knowledge and understanding, something that can be fixed.

If Bruce would ever come out of his room, that is.

Well, if he won't come out then Albert will make the first move towards reconciliation, knocking on his district mate's door one ordinary evening. "Bruce? I made too much fried rice. I'd like to share it."

It's a thin excuse, though he does have two bowls of the rice dish to back it up. Chang wouldn't be proud, per se, considering Albert couldn't find all the right seasonings and vegetables, but it's filing and hot and doesn't taste bad at least.

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Bruce had made sure that Albert was alive and well, and then avoided the hell out of the man. It's childish and selfish, but he doesn't want to face a person he murdered. He doesn't want to see him and feel the judgment.

It's a surprise that the man comes to him. Bruce isn't so childish as to reject an attempt to reach out to him, especially considering that Albert was the one wronged, but a part of him wishes he could disappear like he usually does. It's easier to handle the Hulk when he can run away from the faces he's hurt (although he never outruns them, never, they stick to him like glue).

He goes to his door, doing his best to not shrink too much when he opens it up, but he still looks surprised. "Uh, sure. Thanks, that sounds good."

His own guilt eats at his gut. He remembers. He remembers killing the man. It makes him feel sick.

"Should I bring it in there, or would you like to share with me out here?" And if neither option allows Bruce to take the bowl and shut the door, it's because the invitation was designed that way.

Even so, he's not exactly certain how to broach the subject. 'I don't blame you for killing me' is quite a bit too strong and abrupt despite it being what Albert wants to say. It'd be easier if he could be as blunt as his husband, just speak his mind with straightforward abandon and no anxiety over whether he'll eat his own foot in the process, but Albert's only ever that way when he stops caring about himself or what happens to him entirely and that is a very dark headspace he's glad not to be in at the moment.

So instead he'll wait for Bruce's response, standing awkwardly with two bowls in the doorway to the scientist's room.

"I should probably get out of my room." He doesn't think there's any way of wiggling out of this one short of jumping down the stairwell, and he's not quite that desperate.

He steps out of his room, taking off his glasses and starting to fidget nervously with them without even noticing he had done so. "I've been antisocial for these past few weeks." And if he is saying he's been antisocial, he's been really antisocial.

"You have. It's understandable, but it's probably not healthy." Albert offers the bowl to Bruce and moves towards the common area to sit, taking the couch in order to leave Bruce the bastion of one of the recliners. They feel a bit more secure, at least to Albert, and he'd like Bruce to feel as comfortable as is possible given the circumstances. He's coaxed him out but it doesn't mean he wants to jump to attack or anything.

"I do think we should talk, if you're feeling up to it." That, though, is a platitude. Bruce is out here to talk, if there were any illusions about the meaning behind Albert's invitation. He knows Bruce will get the nuance.

Bruce notices and appreciates the way Albert gives him a seat that allows him a little more distance and insulation. He sits down in the recliner that allows him a view of the most exits. It's instinctive, especially when he's nervous about something.

Bruce avoids eye contact more than usual, picking at his food with a pensive expression on his face.
"I should have warned you about it. I knew that they might take their leash off at some point, but I didn't want to spread it around more than I had to. I'm sorry for what I did, and I'm sorry for not warning you."

"I appreciate the apology, but I also understand not wanting to talk about it," from the look on his face, Albert understand more than most. A 'condition' that's harmful to others, that would isolate you from the rest of humanity by its very nature, and one you can do little about? It's something he understands on a very intimate level.

"I hold no grudges. In fact, I don't hold you responsible. We're made to do things in the Arena, whether through the Gamemakers trying to break us or other means. I think most things with very few exceptions should be forgiven in that space." He takes a moment to eat some of his rice, patient for any response from his friend.

"It's not about the Games. It probably would have done the exact same thing to you no matter where we were."

Because it's dangerous. It's uncontrollable. It doesn't care who will hurt it and who won't. And worse...

"It's not something that was done to me. There's no one else to blame, no cruel trick of fate, nothing. I did it to myself. I was arrogant and decided to experiment on myself without fully researching possible side effects. Everything the other guy does, I'm fully responsible for."

And there it is. Bruce avoids eye contact, staring at his food instead, picking at it more than actually eating it. "So I appreciate that you don't hold me responsible, but I do."

Albert's silent for a long moment. He can't absolve Bruce of that guilt, or the responsibility he feels towards whatever the Hulk does, but he can at least show he isn't going to change the nature of their relationship based on 'the other guy'.

"How does it work?" he finally asks. "I don't mean the science of it, I doubt I would understand, but if you'll forgive my asking, how does it feel when you're... in that form? You speak about it like it's another person entirely."

Bruce keeps picking at his food, but now he frowns thoughtfully. Not very many people ask him questions about it. Frankly, despite his own scientific curiosity, he avoids asking questions himself. The other guy is difficult to face.

"It... is and it isn't a different person." He likes to just refer to it as a different person because it's really hard to say things like 'I just massacred that town,' and 'I just put my girlfriend into the ICU.' "It feels like..." He closes his eyes. "It's hard to remember, sometimes. It feels like all the anger and fear I've ever felt rushes into my head, and it's blinding. So when the other guy is there, he's lost any sense of self-control. All he knows is that he's scared and angry, and he wants to make it stop. So he tries to run if he can. If he can't do that, he breaks anything he thinks might be causing his pain. It doesn't matter if it's a building or a man with a gun or a small child--it just breaks everything. Think of it as a colicky toddler with enough strength to flatten a tank."

He really should be saying 'I'. The Hulk is him with a compromised memory and no awareness to control himself. But he doesn't, because he can't.

"He - you, when you're like that, try to run first?" He doesn't sound surprised, just making sure he's got that right. "I think that's telling, honestly."

Albert's not sure if he's crossing bounds he shouldn't be here, but he thinks maybe he might at least be able to help with some insight. He has no idea what Bruce has tried, how long he's been living with his 'Mr. Hyde' so to speak, but at the very least Albert knows fear, and he knows what it's like to have that fear be all consuming. Maybe not to the extent that Bruce does, he doesn't pretend to know what that's like, but the very basic emotion underlying it can't be too dissimilar.

"You're afraid of hurting those you care for, or even people you've never met." His voice is softer, knowing. "You're afraid you can't control yourself and moreover angry if you fail, and that same fear causes failure."

His bowl set aside, Albert leans back in his chair. "When I was originally remodeled, they gave me an arm that housed a machine gun, legs to hold micro missiles, and a knife in my other hand so sharp it could cut through solid steel. They turned the entirety of me into a weapon and for the longest time I was afraid to touch anyone. I was afraid the gun would go off or the knife would pop out and it would end bloody for all involved. I let that fear feed into a belief that I wasn't fit for human contact. That I was too dangerous to be among 'normal' people."

There's a pause for a moment while Albert collects his thoughts, finding it all too easy to dwell on what's past. "It's not exactly the same. I know it's not, and I'm not trying to diminish your troubles in the slightest, but... Being away from people makes creatures like us more dangerous."

It's not exactly how he wanted to put it but it's out of his mouth now and he sighs quietly at himself for his phrasing. "What I mean is we get worse without contact. It's terrifying, true, but human beings weren't meant to be alone, even ones as worked over as we are, and that fear that we feel, I think sometimes so much deeper than others who haven't seen or known what we have, it can't stand in the way of meaningful connections or else we truly are lost. Or else I'm nothing but a robot and you're a monster.

And we are neither of us wholly those things."

Bruce's hands tighten on his bowl. His lips thin in a narrow, grim line. His eyes flick up to Albert, and for a moment, there's nothing but black rage there, a peek at an explosive temper that gave birth to the monster inside of him a long time ago.

Then he looks down again. He breathes. It's his instinct to bristle and divert attention from him whenever someone prodded something a little too personal, but that was less of a prod and more of a stab. Had it been anyone else, anyone who couldn't even begin to understand what it was like to be afraid of yourself, he would have punched them. Only through years of temper management practice does he not lash out regardless.

He loosens his grip on his bowl again. "You're right," he says, just a hint of tightness in his voice. "I am afraid. Even here in the Capitol, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of hurting people and I'm afraid of losing control."

Deep breath. He begins picking at his food again, as if pretending to be calm will make it so. "There's a reason why I still live in densely populated areas back home. I learned a long time ago that no one wins if I live in isolation. But I've been able to live without significant connections for a long time." Pick at the food, avoid eye contact. "Back home, the US government is hunting me. They want to weaponize that thing. I've been running for nearly a decade to keep that from happening. I can't let people know who I am or what I am. Getting too close to them just leads to pain when I have to leave again, or worse, they turn out to be a spy who sells me out. I know how to balance having human needs met without closeness." That's a lie. Sure, he may not be talking to volleyballs from the isolation, but his mental health is in a terrible state and he can barely stand even touching other people anymore. He's a mess.

"Don't insult me by lying to me, Bruce," Albert's voice is low and soft but there's an edge to it, the kind that an old teacher might have in dealing with a student that has talent but behavioral problems. "I understand about governments, believe me. My family and I were quite literally weaponized, as I already told you, so I understand necessity. But I don't for a moment believe that any one person, living or dead, has had their needs met without closeness."

He looks hard at Bruce, gaze unwavering. "And maybe it's not the anger of 'the other guy' you should be worried about. I don't think it's him you're really afraid of, Bruce. It's people."

Mouth set in a thin line, Albert takes a mangled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and takes the last one from the cardboard. Normally, he doesn't smoke in the common area. He goes to the roof or across the street, but this conversation is not just stressful for the subject of it, no matter how emotionless Albert seems on the topic.

"I'm not going to ask where that comes from, but anger that deep and strong? My guess is it's been in you since well before that thing." He's overstepping his bounds, he knows he is, but Bruce having killed him in this past Arena gives him a least a little dispensation to be candid, or so he feels.

Albert lights his cigarette.

Bruce wants to run from this conversation. Wants to take all his thoughts and feelings and run away to lock them even tighter in the safe he keeps them. He just takes another deep breath and keeps his face as even as possible. Be an adult, Bruce. You killed the man. He gets this.

"You're right," he says, his voice stiff despite his even expression. "It's not ideal. I'm not good with people, and I've only gotten worse over the years." He's not good with friends. He's lonely, and he's been lonely for years now. But like hell will he ever say it so bluntly. "But I'm alive. I understand my own anger. When I'm not in barbaric gladiator games, I can control it. My methods have worked for me so far." After, you know, years of regular attacks that would come around every few months. These things have learning curves. Horrible learning curves that still haunt him at night.

He avoids eye contact. He doesn't even pretend to keep eating, but he keeps the bowl in his hands because he likes having something to do with them. "Only an idiot doesn't have some fear of other people. People can be great, but they can be horrible, too. We all learn that at some point." It's dodging the question. He's afraid of everything, really. He's afraid of what other people can do to him. He's afraid of what he can do to other people. He's afraid of what he is, what he has been created to be.

He notices how Albert is smoking inside for once. He doesn't mind, but it's worth noting the obvious indication of stress. Well, at least he isn't the only one upset by this conversation.

Bruce's hands involuntary clench at the mention of where the anger might have come from. For a split second, there's another flicker of rage in his eyes, and he feels inclined to throw the bowl. Breathe. The anger is veiled again. "It's good you don't ask." He hasn't spoken of his family and what had occurred in his house growing up in many, many years. Even Betty, the woman he had intended on marrying one day, had only been told the barest details. He didn't talk about it, didn't even acknowledge it anymore.

"I don't need to ask, even if it is in large a consideration for your privacy" he looks at Bruce with an infuriatingly bland expression. He cares, and he cares too deeply about the subject to show emotion, and so it comes off as uncaring because he can't show just how close to home men making monsters of themselves hits. "Understanding your anger and accepting your anger are two vastly different things."

He puffs at his cigarette, the effect calming and making his shoulders less tense, though there's no other real indication that it's having an effect. "I'm not a psychologist or a psychiatrist, but I've read enough and experienced enough to know when something isn't working. You're alive, but you're not living. You withdraw because you're afraid of what might happen, whether it's what you'll do to people or what people will do to you because of the things you feel you should be able to control."

It's a subtle change in tone, but Albert's not just putting this on Bruce. It's himself too, the things he'd learned through years so similar to what Bruce described. Not good with people, but it's for the best. People can be horrible and the unspoken desire to detach from that for self preservation even more than the protection of those who would seek to get close. But Bruce wasn't as lucky as Albert, insofar as anyone in situations like theirs can be lucky. Bruce didn't have a Jet to talk him down, a GB to show him how to adapt, a Doctor Gilmore to give him a greater purpose that utilized his so hated condition as a gift, to show him it can do good as well as evil if used in a different way. Bruce didn't have a similar band of likewise misfits to bolster him, not realizing until it was too late and he'd already learning a better way to live.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he just isn't as far down that path yet as Albert is.

"You should find someone to talk to, Bruce. Really talk to."

Bruce knows the song and dance. Pretending you don't care because if you show how much you actually do, you won't be able to deal with it. He's not used to being on the other side of it, but he can recognize it nonetheless. It doesn't make this any easier to deal with.

He can hear it in Albert's voice. He's talking about both of them now. Bruce simultaneously wants to lash out and curl up in a ball. What had happened to Albert was horrible, but he had control of his body. He ultimately could have alterations made to what had been done to him--if he chose, he could find a mechanic he trusted and have the weaponry removed. Not perfect, but enough.

Bruce can't do that. No amount of cutting into himself will get the Hulk out. Friendship won't make it calm or easy to control. It's a monster, and it's inside of him, and at night he has to wonder if there had been no mistake, if he had gotten the serum exactly right and the Hulk is just what he has always been inside.

Albert's body modifications don't force him to ask questions like that.

"What, like a therapist?" Bruce pretends to pick at his food and lets out a bitter laugh. "Not an abundance of people I'm ready to spill my guts to. There are even less people who deserve to deal with all that." Because he has issues. He knows he does. It would be a burden to put on someone else. "What I do isn't perfect, but it's not meant to make me healthy or happy. It's meant to make the people around me as safe as they can be. In that respect, it's working as well as can be expected." Which is pretty well. Outside of the Capitol and murder arenas and alien invasions, he hasn't had an incident in years.

For all that Steve is an impressive man who seems like he could take the cold, he bundles up in a fur-lined jacket and a thick scarf, seeming more ready to fight it off than endure it. Not that he gets cold easy, just the opposite, but it's more that he isn't willing to risk a chill settling into his skin from staying out in the winter air. At least, not for what it does to him mentally.

Making his way to the meeting point, he sees a puff of smoke and the burning end of the cigarette before he catches sight of Albert. Right on time it seems, which suits him just fine. Being fashionably late wasn't really his thing.

Hands shoved in his pockets, Steve comes to settle by the man under the awning, giving just a nod in greeting. The lingering wisps of smoke on the air as he inhales brings back vivid memories of days past. "That smell never fails to reminds me of-" home? No, not anymore, "-the old days."

"I feel the same, but younger days than yours, I think. The Reich was against it, but afterwards..." He shrugs. "I picked it up after the Soviets took over and even in the modern days when everyone knew them to be bad for you, I still found comfort in it. Still do now."

Another shrug and he pulls out the carton and offers one to Steve, knowing how all military men of their time enjoyed a good smoke. It was calming and camaraderic. He'd even smoked with a soldier or two of the Red Army in his day, during Berlin's occupation. He'd been loathe to do it at first, but all people are miserable in the dead of winter, soldier or trucker or whatever walk of life, and you find warmth where you can.

"They're menthols. I prefer the numbing effect."

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[Closed] Here today, forgot tomorrow

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