thisavrou_log | ( closed ) my body is a cage

( closed ) my body is a cage

Who: Bruce Banner and Miles Vorkosigan
When: After the Ploiatus event, some day when Miles is on duty
Where: The kitchen
What: Bruce goes in search of some tea, gets more than what he wanted.
Warnings: Probably some angst and drama, depends on how Miles reacts to finally meeting Bruce face to face. Will update if necessary!

There's precious little on the ship that Bruce appreciates right now, but he clings to those things as much as he can, especially now. Recovery is a very slow process, more so when every day he's crossing paths with people who constantly remind him of what happened in Caducus. The memories are there, in his head, things seen through his eyes even though they weren't his own, and they're not something he manages to forget.

Sometimes flashes of those memories match the faces he sees, even when he hasn't spoken to those people before. He's been confronted, asked why he did it, had to explain the whole thing time and again, but he doesn't complain. It's the least he can do, all things considered. If anything, he's lucky that people haven't decided to throw him back into that cage and locked him up there for however long he happens to remain on board.

Or that they even let him stay on board to begin with.

The more recent events have drawn attention away from him a little, at least. Not that he's happy for it, knowing what's been happening to so many people on the ship, nor does it mean he's gotten much of a break himself, considering he got touched by that creature, and is currently sporting those black veins going up his left arm, drawing up the side of his neck and poking out of his shirt's collar. He tries to ignore them the best as he can, even if his hand sometimes reaches up to cup the side of his neck, where he knows the mark shows.

That's what he's doing as he steps into the kitchen, looking around for someone on duty at the time. He sees the man there, but his face isn't one of those that spark his memory, so he's not quite so tense or hesitant when he speaks up, addressing him.

"Sorry, is there any tea here? Ran out of bags on the mess hall." One of the things he dearly appreciates, and usually there's some in hand next to a boiler, but he does know there's usually more stocked up in the kitchen. He hopes so, at least.

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Miles has not been avoiding Bruce Banner. To avoid someone by necessity means you've got to take an interest in them, and Miles is firmly against taking an interest in Bruce. He knows damn well who the man is by now, even if he was on a week's delay due to his death and cryorevival. He's heard it wasn't really Bruce's fault, that the man's ability to turn into a terrifying monster was uncontrolled -- well, at the very least Miles believes it wasn't his intent to destroy an entire planet. That had obviously gotten far out of the realm of anyone's control. But intent or not, Miles had wound up collateral damage with a belly full of glass, left dying spasmodically and desperate at Clark's side. He's decided he knows enough of Bruce to last him a lifetime.

Miles figured he'd run into Bruce eventually. It's unavoidable with such a small crew. But there are enough people around that he sure as hell doesn't need to get cozy with him, either. It's just bad luck, of a sort, that Bruce picks him of all people to talk to. No doubt he must recognize Miles by sight, if not by name. He's impossible to miss, even among this crew full of aliens and all. That short, deformed little body that only ever achieved a height of 4'9 thanks to a lifetime of brittle bones, the too-large head on the too-short neck, the prematurely lined face -- if Bruce hasn't seen him around by now, he probably just hasn't looked down.

Miles tenses when he looks up from his dutiful vegetable chopping to see Bruce and gives him a thin, strained smile by way of greeting and sets the knife down, wiping his hands on the front of the too-large apron he's had to fold over at the waist several times just to keep himself from tripping over it. If he's lucky, Bruce doesn't know the names or faces of the ship's casualties from last month. If he's lucky, this will be a brief, terminable interaction. Miles doesn't believe in luck.

"Don't think so. Loki said we were running low." Miles' voice is clipped, his gray eyes flicking up to Bruce's face only once before he averts his gaze, his expression flat. "You're shit out of luck, sorry."

The man happens to be rather good at hiding his thoughts and emotions there, but Bruce is too used to seeing past the masks one often wears. His mind doesn't make the connection immediately when he looks at him, not even with how unusually short he is, but he can tell almost right away that there's something off there.

His eyes follow the man, eyebrows knit just slightly, trying to put the pieces back together in his head. Miles isn't lucky - while there was no way for him to know the names and faces of all the natives who died on the planet, he does know the names of those on the ship that got injured and, most especially, killed. Of course, those who suffered directly at the Hulk's hands he has no problems making the association, but everyone else, it takes him a moment.

But it's just a moment. A brief one too, and when the man's talking to him again, something clicks into place in Bruce's mind. Miles. Miles Vorkosigan. From what he's figured so far, related to the man who wrote the book everyone on the ship has gotten recently. But more importantly, the only other fatality from Caducus Primary, one he hasn't mulled quite so painfully over. The fact he hadn't met him up until now did help keeping those thoughts at bay.

Not anymore, though.

He almost thinks about turning and leaving with that. The man doesn't seem to want to talk to him anyway, but... part of Bruce wants to be sure. Wants to face what he's done, even if neither intentional nor directly, and regardless of how unpleasant it might be, or how little resolution it might bring either of them.

"Are you... Miles?"

Son of a bitch. There's a tentativeness in Bruce's voice that Miles is pretty sure he can chalk up to the awkwardness of talking to a dead man. A dead man whose death Bruce is at least partially responsible for. Miles' eyes flick back up to Bruce's face, his own expression closing off entirely. If Bruce is winding up for some kind of apology, Miles is clocking out and bolting for the door. Loki can take it out of his nonexistent paycheck.

"Yes," Miles says shortly. He crosses his arms and stares back up at Bruce, expectantly as if to say so what do you want?

It's a biting remark, but nothing that Bruce wasn't expecting or ready for. It makes it abundantly clear that he doesn't want to talk to him, though, not about what happened or anything else at all, and regardless of what Bruce might think is best or not, he's definitely not the kind to push in a situation like this. And yes, he was definitely gearing for an apology there, but somehow he figures that won't do him much good. Not that kind of apology, at least.

"Sorry. I can tell you don't want to..." He trails off, shakes his head, his words a little rushed as he draws his shoulders and hunches, looking away. "I'll get out of your way. Sorry for bothering you."

Miles has steered clear away from any anger or resentment toward Bruce -- he doesn't even know the guy, doesn't want to, and the further he can distance himself from his own death the better. He was all geared up to bolt, to tell the guy to get stuffed, but something in him sparks at that incipient retreat, the way the man draws himself inward, away from Miles. A hot little flame of anger flickers to life in his chest. Coward. An accusation that isn't really fair -- it isn't that Miles has never been responsible for someone else's death, someone else's life-changing injury under his command -- no. No, when Elli Quinn's face had all been burned off by plasma fire, a casualty of his own unintentional doing, he'd looked her in the face, at the hastily applied plastic skin they'd slapped over her face to hold her over, and then Miles had made it as right as he could. He'd used a considerable chunk of Dendarii funds for her reconstructive surgery, to buy her a beautiful new face. He couldn't give Elli back what she had lost, but he gave her something to replace it, at least. Coward. You finish what you started.

"No," Miles says quietly, his voice edged, pinning his gaze on Bruce. "What were you going to say?"

Bruce is a coward, yes, in many ways, even if a few of the people closer to him would probably try to tell him otherwise. Years of running and hiding have made it easy for that to be his response when something horrible happens. Horrible in the magnitude of entire cities leveled by the Hulk - because a whole planet torn apart and obliterated from the sky is a whole new level of bad, even for him. He'd come back to New York, sure. He could've run then, left and found some corner in a forest while the rest of the team dealt with the invasion, made his way to some small town in a third world country and resumed his life as he'd known for so long; but he didn't. He went back there and he helped however he could.

This is something else entirely. Had he had that option, he's almost sure he would've run away. He'd be hiding instead of standing in front of the man who died as a consequence of his actions. So yes, he is a coward. He wouldn't be facing him right now if he had any other option.

"Just that... I know it's not worth anything, it doesn't change what happened, but I am sorry." His voice is slow but not exactly hesitant, as he keeps going before Miles interrupts him or decides to walk away. "I'm sorry you got hurt because of me. I'm sorry I couldn't stop it. I'm not asking for forgiveness, by the way, only stating a fact."

Miles watches him with an unchanging expression, looking impressively stony for someone usually so animated and quick. No less intense, though. He doesn't even move to cross his arms over his chest. No, he's managing to project a considerable air of intimidation for an extraordinarily short man standing on a stepstool just to reach the countertop, standing next to a small pile of chopped vegetables. A trick he learned from his father -- although Miles has to put a lot more effort into it.

Miles' eyes flick over Bruce, then back up to his face.

"Have you ever died before?"

A genuine question -- no sarcasm, though maybe a little cynicism. Around here, you just can't tell who's been through what before they became part of the crew.

At this point, Bruce has prepared himself to any sort of reaction. He's been hoping no one will lash out physically, but then after what happened on the planet, he doesn't imagine anyone would willingly do something like that. He's honestly grateful for that. Cold looks, stares that could burn a hole through him, silences that could eat him whole, that he can handle. Getting triggered again while aboard the ship, not so much.

"I can't," he speaks before he thinks better of it. He's shared that bit of information with one or two people here so far, especially after the planet, so it comes almost too quickly, too thoughtlessly. He regrets it immediately. He doesn't want Miles to think he's fishing for pity, because he isn't. But anyway, he can still play it up like he's just been through a lot of fights and dangerous situations (he has) and he's never gotten seriously injured (he hasn't).

If only, if only. Again after so many years, he now wishes again that bullet had done its job.

Clearing his throat and crossing his arms tightly, he shakes his head. It would be a weird question in any other situation, but in this place, not so much anymore. "No."

Miles' eyes go flinty. "How nice for you," he says tonelessly, his expression still unwavering. But no, probably not. No one wants to live forever. But Miles is having a hard time seeing it from the other side right now. No one wants to live forever, but some of us want to live to see thirty, dammit. But it wasn't an answer he was counting n. 'Yes,' maybe, but not 'I can't'. Miles shifts his weight slightly, his gaze not flickering from Bruce's face.

"Well, I don't recommend it anyhow. It was very painful," Miles says airily with a jerk of his chin up at Bruce. That's right. I remember every last second.

He doesn't even how to feel. Should he be angry with Bruce? He wants to be. Can he be angry about only being collateral damage? Well, why the hell not? Are you just angry because your death was just that -- only collateral? Are you so arrogant as to think you deserved to die better than the rest?

Miles jerks his chin up at Bruce again in that old tic, a new unreadable look in his eyes, intent on the other man's face. "Can I ask you something else?"

It really isn't nice for him, not in the least. Maybe some people might want to live forever, or at least to not die by anything other than age - Bruce doesn't even know how far his power extends, in that regard. His hair and nails grow, his skin peels if he catches too much sun, so it stands to reason that his body ages. Whether or not it would die once it got to a certain point, or the Hulk would just stop that from happening indefinitely (or worse yet, he'd take over while Bruce withered and died), that much he's not entirely sure.

But no, it's not a nice thing. Bruce doesn't want to live forever, especially not with the monster inside him. At least it's a step up from when he didn't want to live at all.

"I imagine it was." He didn't see Miles die, but he saw someone else. A friend who died right at the hands of the Hulk, while he stood powerless and watched through the same green maddened eyes, and he yelled but it seemed to not make a sound when he was screaming into the void that surrounded him. He could see the pain in Eggsy's features, and then the moment it stopped hurting and it was just fear and horror at the realization, the numbness and then nothing more.

Bruce bites the inside of his cheek, pushes those thoughs aside - again, for the nth time in these past weeks, shoulders drawing closer together as his tense arms cross tighter in front of his chest. He nods, his gaze reluctant but fixed on Miles's face. "Ask anything you want."

Miles watches him tense, gaze flicking over his body in another once-over. At least he's got the decency to feel guilty, Miles thinks viciously, still trying to get a grasp on what it is he's feeling, what kind of anger this is. It doesn't feel entirely directed at Bruce, the more he looks at it.

"What happened? Back there, on Caducus Primary -- how did that happen?"

Bruce honestly hopes he won't ever stop feeling guilty when he does lose control, no matter how rarely it might happen these days. That would mean he's not only turned into the monster, but he's become one too, and that's a thought more than capable of terrifying him all on its own.

"We were attacked," he starts, before he goes on to explain. "I don't usually lose control. The transformation happens when there's a higher surge of adrenaline in me. I can actually trigger a voluntary transformation, during which I have him - the monster - under control. But it's not flawless. I can still get triggered by some things. An explosion, or getting shot at, for instance."

Both things that happened to him and that made him lose control, at one point or another.

"I was with someone else from the ship. We were trying to get back, but we were ambushed by a group of natives. Things escalated into physical violence, and I didn't-- I couldn't get away. Not in time."

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( closed ) my body is a cage

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