On Your Birthday

On Your Birthday by Autumn_Froste & DrRJSB

Note: This piece is written in honor of Mark Ruffalo and Scarlett Johansson's mutual Birthday on November 22, 2018. It is both MCU and Special Needs compliant.

December 18, 2007

The weather was the aching kind of cold that got into most people's bones, especially if they weren't from the Great Lakes or other regions that held the potential for brutally cold weather. However, in this case, Bruce was the exception, he'd never really felt cold since the accident— it was one of the very few perks to his "chronic condition." After a week with snow in the forecast and yards, not merely inches, on the ground, the sky was finally clear and high and blindingly blue that morning after the sun came up. He'd spent a long day working at the downtown free clinic after volunteering to do an extra shift and staying even busier than usual with locals starting to dig out of the last waist-deep load of lake-effect snow. He straightened his back after the last shovel of snow was pitched that morning and looked at the sky, wondering if the day he was born it had been this blue.

In only two months, Bruce had worked his way up from an orderly and "fetch-it" person to minding the front desk to assisting the LPN when things got a little harried, like they had been today. Anywhere else but Detroit, he'd have likely been rejected over the vague and incomplete paperwork, but here he'd managed to step neck deep into a pit of wants and needs that—as long as no one asked too many questions—would take all the help he could offer. The thing was, he could have utilized his biology degree and medical skills a lot more and wanted to do just that, but he couldn't without giving himself away or raising suspicions after a certain point. That, unfortunately, was something he couldn't afford, not if he wanted to access the lab and equipment quietly for his own specific reasons. It made him feel more than a little guilty and uncomfortably deceitful, but he was pretty certain he was more than compensating the clinic by pitching in extra hours and supporting its mission of providing healthcare to the inner-city neighborhood.

Today, once he'd made it in early, talked sweetly to the finicky old boiler, and shoveled the walks, Bruce had given well over a dozen vaccinations, two foot treatments, and three hepatitis screenings; then, he diagnosed rashes, read an old man the riot act about his uncontrolled diabetes, treated a case of near frostbite, and checked out several varieties of coughs, aches, and pains before turning the serious cases over to one of the licensed medical doctors on staff. Oh, and there was the child who'd taken a tumble off a porch and banged her head—the one whom the attractive blonde woman had carried in and dropped off. The Good Samaritan hadn't stayed, but she'd apparently located the child's grandmother and delivered her to the clinic doorstep while he'd treated the little girl. The do-gooder was gone so quickly he'd not been able to thank her. Weirder things had happened, but not that day.

After the last patient was gone, Bruce had done the janitorial duties, watered the plants he'd brought in himself, and then helped close up the place with a coworker at around 8:00 pm. On the spur of the moment, he then decided to treat himself at the diner he normally just walked past or limited himself to a desert and a tea or coffee to save his money. He'd signed his patents over to his cousin Jennifer Walters who saw that his Aunt Susan and others he felt he owed were compensated, so Bruce was pretty much on his own financially if he wanted to avoid being found. Luckily, the local gray economy was alive and well and so was gambling if he needed some extra income, but entering a casino with its extra security carried its own risks. Despite staying busy, he currently wasn't a particularly gregarious person for a number of reasons, but on this dark evening he wanted a little company. Althea, the matronly waitress, was a welcome and familiar face though she looked like her day had been as long as his.

Bruce knocked the slush and snow of his boots before he ordered hot tea and settled into his usual seat at the counter, debating whether he wanted a burger and fries or straight-up comfort food. He took off his gloves and unfastened his coat, but kept it on. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes sounded kind of good because it reminded him of happier times before he'd been on the run or hunkered down hiding while trying to further his very focused research agenda covertly on the side.