Avengers: 1,001 Ways to Say Good-Bye

1,001 Ways to Say Good-Bye

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"He hadn't suffered the eternity of the ring about to be picked up, didn't know the heart rush of hearing that incomparable voice suddenly linked with his own, the sense it gave of being too close to even see her, of being actually inside her ear."

― Jeffrey Eugenides, The Virgin Suicides

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It's not supposed to be this hard. He's just supposed to pick up the phone, dial her number and let things go from there.

You're really not supposed to say good-bye unless you plan on never seeing one another again because saying good-bye is too final.

It's the only fully coherent thought that comes to mind as Bruce Banner stands alone (surrounded by unwitting pedestrians) on a cool sidewalk and presses the receiver of a lonely payphone to his itching ear while a hundred (an exaggeration; it's more like twelve) different scenarios flash through his mind. Knuckles crack and flex around the cheap plastic as he tries to just calm his mind and think about the things that he has to say. He has all of eighty-five cents in his pocket and another hundred-seventy-two carefully folded and tucked away in his satchel and absolutely no idea what to say.

It's still not supposed to be this hard.

What do you say to someone with whom there are no words that can be expressed?

His fingers dig around for the briefest of times for his wallet even though the number is practically seared into his memory and he pauses long enough to debate which line he's supposed to call. They are all too much of a risk, whether it be the university (Willowdale, Virginia and the sources of all this madness), her land-line or her cell phone. It bothers him to a certain degree, really, how much he is risking just to hear the sound of her voice.

It's all he wants, really. (Because God knows he's gone too longer without just hearing it.)

This is really hard.

Bruce weighs the change in his hand and tries to think about all the things he can't say, needs to say and everything in between. He needs to remind her of all the things that she has to know (I love you, but you knew that already), the things she needs to know (can we really do this I don't know), and the things she already does (Betty, Betty, God I missed you).

He hesitates just long enough to pull the phone from his ear and consider slamming it back before he find himself deftly flipping open a worn leather wallet with initials carved onto the side (happy birthday, Bruce) and he stares at the wrinkled edge of paper peeking out at him.

Betty smiles back at him once he finally works it free, smoothing out the creases and a running a thumb over her cheek in a manner similar to the way he had last time he saw her.

(Last time he saw her: three months ago. He has been running ever since.)

He doesn't give himself the opportunity to chicken out and shoves a quarter into the coin slot with almost too much force.

There is just enough pause between that and the next for the sound of it slamming around in its new metal home to echo around him the quiet street (disregarding the monotonous hustle and bustle that he forces himself to ignore least it sets him on edge).

What is he supposed to say?

Hi Betty. I know it's probably not a good idea to call you and all, but I just. . .Thought I'd say 'hi,' you know?

(He hopes she got her mother's necklace back.)

Hey, Betty. It's Bruce. But you probably knew that—I mean maybe you didn't, but now you know. I mean it's me and I. . .This is probably a really bad time to call you, I'm sorry.

(He wonders what she thinks of that Harlem incident.)

It's Bruce. Um. . .bye.

But that's just the problem. He doesn't want to say good-bye, doesn't want to give the satisfaction and finality that this—whatever this is between he and her and them—is over and done with. How can he possibly say good-bye if he doesn't even mean it?

His fingers slid over the (grimy and probably diseased) keys almost too quickly because he wants to savor the moment that comes with Bruce you're about to call Betty.

It rings once and his palm is so sweaty he almost drops the phone.

(Get it together, Bruce. It's okay, you've got this.)

It's strange, like he almost didn't expect the phone to actually work. Now he actually has to think of something to say because God forbid she actually answers her phone.

It rings again and he is once again reminded of how much danger he is putting her into. Because he really should cut his losses and leave her be, extracting himself from the equation as much as he can and pretending that he doesn't care about her as much as he does. To the same effect, Betty cares about him more than she should or is safe for her (for the both of them) and in all honesty all he wants is for her to be happy, with or without him.

Screw that, he wants her to be happy with him.

Even if he doesn't always get what he wants.

Ross isn't so desperate that he'd trace payphones, is he?

Yeah, probably.

But it's almost okay, though. Because Bruce doesn't really plan on sticking around all that long. The extent of his plan is to dial her number, maybe talk to her for all of two seconds (he'll probably get two words in edgewise before he starts stuttering and clams up and hangs up or she starts talking a mile-a-minute and are you okay Bruce?, and where are you, Bruce? and come stay with me, Bruce.), and then. . .bolt.

He's so lost in his own thoughts that he almost misses the third ring.

His mind wanders briefly and conjures up an image of purple stretch pants. (The ones she gave him are tucked away in the bottom of his bag, if only as part of that joke between them.)

He'll probably never wear them.

It rings again and he's shaking so badly he almost drops the phone.

The woman walking passed him barely gives him a second glance and chalks the man in a dirty sweatshirt and baseball cap pulled over his ears up to being just another druggie trying to make a phone call.

That's almost true, actually. If he's the addict and Betty's the drug.

Okay, so it's not that funny.

At this rate she's probably not going to answer the phone.

(She'd just gotten in the shower and is mildly annoyed that her phone is ringing.)

His fingers flex and Bruce briefly tries to come up with at least one full sentence to say to her.

In two days time he'll be in Calcutta, India. He just doesn't know it yet. Neither does she.

The machine picks up and his breathing hitches as the recorded sound of her voice greets him.

Hey, you've reached Betty! I'm not here right now so just leave your name and number and I'll get right back to you!

(By the time she finds her towel she's already in a huff and she can't grasp the door handle.)

It's so short and simple and to the point but it's honestly all he needs.

(We're not here right now so just leave a message! You're supposed to give our names, silly! Am I? I figured they knew who they were calling so our names were kind of a given. Really, Bruce? Well, yeah, I mean. . .if I'm calling Bruce and Betty then I should expect Bruce and Betty's machine. Just saying. Oh my god, Bruce, just let me do it then. Is my message not good enough for you? No it's not that it's just. . .Bruce, you're not doing it right. Wow, okay, wow. That hurts. Aw, Bruce, come on! Haha I just—click.)

He forces himself through a quick breathing exercise just before—leave your message at the tone.

Betty is all of five seconds too late and his words brand a unique taste on his tongue. She stumbles over herself and presses the handset to her damp ear.

"Hey. . .it's me."